Amateur stories just looking for criticism

(Oy thar reader! I have for you the next part in my short story series depicting a tarnished bred from what I thought while going through Elden Ring, specifically Blaidd and Ranni's questline. As usual hopefully you enjoy and feel free to comment any writing critiques or thoughts on the story itself.)

After a few unanswered questions followed by the agile knightly fellow trying to claw me to death, I figured that this fellow wasn’t going to be helpful in my search for Darriwil. Throughout the exchange I barely had enough time to think with the knight's massive, curved blade slashing at me with wide sweeping motions. He moved steadily and carefully before exerting such speed as to make his movements seem bestial. It could be that the thing beneath the armor was not even human, but maybe a creature assuming the armor of one. That could be the purpose of trapping it within this Evergaol, maybe it had gone mad.

Either way I didn’t see much use in asking any more questions, so I brought out my wooden club and engaged the creature. Despite the impending prospect of pain or death, our interaction was quite like a dance almost. With their speed and my careful movements, it was almost as if we had planned this moment in time. Although that would be silly to consider now as the creature slashed open my mid-section and I had bashed its helmet into its skull. Ill spare the gorier details of flesh and viscera, but if our conflict had actually been choreographed then perhaps, I was the cleverer as I was the one still standing afterwards.

  Drinking the crimson tears from a flask to seal up my wound, I began to wonder how I would rid myself of this imprisonment. Thankfully I didn’t have to think long as the surrounding area began changing. It seemed that the Evergaol was being unlocked. Progress! It was time now to find.......... oh, look Blaidd!

As the magicks of the prison dissipated, there standing in his stoic, large form was Blaidd. Before I could ask about our quarry, I was gifted a strange stone and it was explained to me where we were. Wouldn’t you know it seemed that fellow I had just fought was the very same Bloodhound Knight that Blaidd had been looking for in the first place. Blaidd still hadn’t spoken of his relationship with the Knight, but it seemed that death was the only true justice that could have been given to the beast-like Bloodhound Knight.

(Continuing these short excerpts, I’ve been writing about my first ttrpg character from a Dragon Age themed game, I decided it was about time to begin showcasing the peculiar instance of how even after death my character was able to continue adventuring with his companions. Unbeknownst to his companions the soul of my dwarven character had grown furious with the abominations they had found in the deep roads, and it was about time that fury manifested.)

Hurlocks are what become of humans turned by the blight and genlocks are what become of dwarves. Those lucky enough never see an ogre and the very few still alive that have witnessed a shriek, wish they hadn’t. I’ve had time to adjust to most of the grotesque ways the taint transforms different beings, but nothing could prepare me for what lie near the deep roads of my home.

  My companions would come to encounter creatures with the torso and head of a dwarf, but their arms enlarged and split into claws and pincers, while at the waste their bodies extended sprouting several chitinous legs. They crawled and skittered, snarled and slashed their way towards my companions and with each monstrosity defeated, pressure built within my thoughts.

  Or at least that’s what I believe! What else could this feeling be, my emotions have nowhere to go! No body to channel my anger, no voice to channel my rage, a lifetime of training now useless.

  I had become so caught up in my own predicament I lost track of what had been transpiring with my companions. The scenery before me was different, but still somewhat recognizable. Even though most would just see more rock and stone, we dwarves had a natural ability to determine where we were in deep roads. We were deeper, but still far from the roads connecting to Valdasine. Surveying the tunnels and nearby connecting roads a thought occurred. I realized that even though it was only manifested in memory, this was the first time since my passing that I had connected with the stone in some way.

  If I still had the ability to recognize my surroundings within the deep roads, then perhaps the stone had not completely abandoned me. Again, more emotions without an outlet, built up in this spaceless void of my existence. Quickly I began to piece in my mind where the vessel by which I resided was being carried and by whom. The sliver of hope I had felt was quickly snuffed out by more flooding rage as I looked upon my wielder.

  Thick grey skin stretched across unmatched and enlarged muscle. The creatures hunched back, and shoulders did not keep it from towering over most beings across Thedas. Crooked, cracked horns protruded from the tainted monstrosities forehead. Its teeth jagged and sharp, filled with rotted meat not completely swallowed.

  Ogre was the name for Qunari transformed by the taint. The one carrying my vessel also held the unconscious form of the Maker's Champion. How could she be so careless? Where were the Warden's? As the questions collected and became backed up creating even more pressure within the vessels limitless space, another emotion entered the void, worry. Not only was there the bestial being carrying my vessel and my companion, but there were others marching behind it. More brutish, foul breathed, giants walked as if accompanying the leading figure somewhere. I couldn’t see any more of my companions, we must have become separated.

  Suddenly the blonde hair of the champion woman flipped up as her unconscious act ended. She kicked off of the stone wall towards the ogres opposite hand reaching for the nearest weapon, me. As she grasped the handle, I could feel the pressure within the void shift. It’s not as if I could feel her hands, but more her presence. She had always been devout in her faith towards the Maker and now I understood the strength of that faith. It was similar to that of how I used to consider, or rather still considered the stone.

  As the Maker's Champion grasped the axe that was my vessel, she twisted it within the ogres grasp and jerked, severing several tendons resulting in the fingers releasing me. The sudden pain was probably more shocking than harmful to the creature, but it served its purpose and also resulted in her form being dropped from the opposite grip as well.

  Standing within the cavernous confines of the deep roads now facing down half a dozen huffing beasts, the woman brandished the axe of my people and my current prison. Her own breath shallow, as her fighting stance became loose with the signs of previous skirmishes. I don’t know if these horrors have emotions, but I could swear their snarling lips stretched into vicious smiles. Their primal instincts knew she couldn’t fend them all off, as they began to march forward, causing her to step backwards. She did so slowly, hoping not to catch any loose rocks or gravel, praying that the road continued on, for she did not dare turn her gaze away.

  Fury filled a portion of the idle space and the pressure increased within my confines, now accompanied by other emotions and presences. Hope and worry, disgust, hate, and even faith. A realization came over me as I had been focusing on the aspects my current predicament. No arms or legs accompanied my current form, nor eyes or ears, but that did not mean I was helpless in my formless state. Even though the stone is tangible and there is a practical physicality to the belief in the stone, there is still an aspect of it that could be described as formless.

With this in mind I focused on my companion’s grip on the axe and the presence of her faith. Thoughts and emotions that collected into what was currently left of me began to expand creating more pressure. The pressure eventually became tangible, enough to the point where I began to move it. 

(Here is the next part in this series I’ve been writing to show my appreciation for Elden Ring, specifically the character Blaidd. It has been a while since I had written anything as I had come down with strep throat and stubbornly thought to fight it off for a week and a half without going to the doctor. Nonetheless I am better now and am need of catching up with my writing. As usual I hope you enjoy the somewhat clueless nature of the narrating tarnished. I’m trying to capture my own thoughts going through the game for the first time and what I had been thinking at the time. If you have any critiques or ways that could improve the quality of the writing, please feel free to comment.)

Blaidd had few things to say about who he is, and I was glad for it, as most of what he said eluded my memory. He mentioned being a shadow to the Lunar Princess Ranni, one of the three Empyreans. I’m not sure if shadow is a title or some sort of explanation for his relationship with this Princess. Either way I understood immediately that he cared greatly for this person and his sense of duty seemed to awaken feelings within myself, that I had yet to experience since awakening. This sense of duty could be a link to the grace that I wish to reconnect with.

  Speaking with Blaidd further he seemed to be in the Mistwood looking for someone named Darriwil. The half-wolf man suspected that Darriwil, one of the steadfast Bloodhound Knights, could be somewhere nearby. Not wanting this new feeling of purpose to escape me, I went on a trek to locate this person. As I traveled, I began to remember that the Bloodhound Knights are hunters and loyal trackers bound to masters that they themselves choose.

Why would Blaidd be after such a person, could it be that Darriwil's master had wronged Blaidd or his Princess in some way? Darriwil's title speaks volumes about his potential for strict morals, it would seem honorable to me to choose one’s master and to remain loyal to them. But perhaps Darriwil's master was not honorable. Can one who serves a dishonorable master still be honorable? With these thoughts floating around I found myself standing in the middle of a peculiar stone indention in the ground. Some sort of structure leading to a center point glowing with energy. It seemed too important not to investigate, after all things of this nature should be explored, I believe. Someone put the time to design something to meticulous and then put in the labor to build it, so why not at least appreciate it.

(Thinking back to when I had played this character at the time, I hadn’t really considered what it meant for my character to die and not go to the stone. As I pondered this I began to write. My character having been a very wild carefree rage filled hype guy, I began to think about how livid he would be at not even being able to release his anger and considered the frustration he might have endured being trapped for whatever reason in this gem. Again, these series of short tales are just a reminder to myself of my very first ttrpg character. Kind of like paying homage to all those hours and years spent working on and playing him. Hopefully you enjoy reading the frustrations of this dwarf and there should be more to come soon. If you have any Dragon Age canon criticisms or writing advice or critiques, Im more than open to them. No worries I’ve got tough skin.)

Valdasine. One of the mighty dwarven Thaigs amongst the deep roads and my home. While those on the surface toiled with their politics and meaningless conflicts, we knew the truth. The fight against darkspawn has always been present to a dwarf. We held the line against the beasts since the first blight, never growing stagnant in our caution of the threat they posed. It was unfortunate that when they finally began to emerge in mass, Valdasine was the first to be swarmed.

I fought alongside my father, brothers, and kinsmen against the roiling tide of endless monsters. The Paragon Prisimus gained his station from his unique breed of mabari against the darkspawn. We lost many packs during the darkspawn incursion. Companions to us, they died alongside us in battle.

Dasroc began to think that he was rejected by the stone. He watched and listened from within the axe, although he did so without ears or eyes. He began to think it was a curse of the axe. It was a family heirloom that until he took it topside, had never been away from the stone. Perhaps his ancestors had shunned him, so his spirit was trapped within the only nearby remnant of the stone.

The fist sized red ruby at the center of the axe head would be his punishment for not making it to the end and aiding his companions against the monsters that took Valdasine.

It became all the more aggravating to him that his thoughts on his city, his family, and his predicament were pointless. He could not share his family's history without scribes to record the tales, or people to listen and share the stories themselves, so what was the point. Rage filled him, but he had not a body to release it with, nor a voice to scream his hatred of his suffering!

The grey wardens had made it to Fort Daphlin before their allies and they still had to locate the whereabouts of any dwarven survivors within the deep roads, as well as learn the location of the Archdemon. It was decided to go on ahead of their allies, in order to provide accurate status reports for the forces being brought together. Information was key to a well-executed plan against the blight.

(Oy thar reader. This is our third piece in the series about some of my experiences when first playing Elden Ring. Recently I completed my first playthrough of Elden Ring, which I enjoyed very much. In this portion of the story our curious tarnished reflects on a few things, while also coming into contact with something new. I’ve tried to keep the details as canon as possible, but I may get things wrong from time to time. If I do please feel free to correct me. Or let me know what you thought of this short tale. Don’t worry I’ve got thick skin, so I can take criticism. Hope you enjoy!)

Funny thing to lose one's memory after having lived so long. After all isn't it the wisdom we gain through age that many covet? Having been ripped, crushed and utterly obliterated by the massive rune bear, only to return to face them again and again, I was reminded of my immortality. The curse wrought upon we Tarnished banished so long ago.

We had lost our connection to grace you see and thus were thrust from the lands between. There is still much I don't remember however and thought it best to wait for it to come to me in time. In the meantime I had a goal. After dispatching the massive bestial foe I trudged to the ruins within the Mistwood, practicing my finger snapping all the while.

Eventually I made it to the ruins where the howl had originated. As I made my way through I heard the baleful call of the source to my curiosity. It was here that I initiated the gesture taught to me by Kale.

It wasn't the man's large stature, or his intriguing wolf head, or even the massive broadsword at his back that stole the very air from my chest. No, it was the sudden eruption of stones from one of the already destroyed walls of whatever must have stood here so long ago.

Stones flew in our direction as another large rune bear had apparently become agitated at not having been invited to our meeting. Pondering my rudeness for assuming the walls of this run down structure was vacant, got me a swift bear paw to my midsection. Forced backwards into a tree trunk I had just enough wherewithal to see the wolf man take up arms.

He moved the giant blade as if it were as light as my small club. The steel repeatedly bit into the thick hide of the angry mass of muscle and fur giving me enough time to recover and move into aid in the conflict.

Well I say the words conflict and aid with a modicum of uncertainty. Conflict requires two opposing sides to occur, and their didn't seem to be any opposition when the final stroke of the sword cleaved the bear from neck to shoulder. Aid because it was not available for me to give, as our uninvited third party was dispatched rather suddenly. So I guess it was more of a jaunt back to my original position.

(Sorry for the past two posts not having explanations, I usually get random inspiration for this story since it is pertaining to my first ttrpg I played several years ago. Obviously I understand our game wasn’t exactly cannon and was also lacking the knowledge that folks in the present have. Back then Dragon Age II was the most recent game, so our Game Master decided to run the game in the age of the Second Blight. It was a long three year endeavor that hooked me onto ttrpgs and eventually led me to D&D and now into writing, which I’ve found much comfort and joy in the past couple of years. If you see any misinformation please feel free to point it out, as well as any obvious mistakes in narrative.)

The rage and fury that I once used to my advantage became not but an irrelevant tantrum. There was a time before my death where my brothers would praise my hot headed attitude. Conflicts between families were settled by it, disagreements with organizations were quelled, fortunes ranging from minuscuel to grand won through bets on my wrath. I was the champion of the Prisimus family.

  It was easy then. Before the flood of gnashing fangs and ripping claws. A time when Valdasine was only second in prestige and size to the great Orzammar. No worries clouded my mind then. I know now it was my lack of responsibility. The only life that was dependent on my deeds back then was my own. Now however things've become complicated. Even now in evident death my essence or soul, or whatever the stone I am right now, burns with the purpose that I would have had in life. Is it the passion of responsibility that keeps me from rest, or perhaps I am disconnected from the stone because of some fade trickery?

Dasroc spent some time seething in his comfortably maddened state before turning his attention to what his companions where doing. It was strange as much time had seemed to pass by since he had last looked in on them. He was happy to see them now back on track. They were traveling, but to where the dwarf could not fathom at the moment. Rune seemed more focused on his training. He had spent so many nights relaxing and enjoying the comforts of our adventures, but now he seemed purposeful. As the prince of Valdasine pondered, Dasroc could not understand what had his once carefree companion so pointed.

(Oy thar folks! The plan was to start another play through and take some screenshots as my character goes through Blaidd's and subsequently Ranni's questline. Unfortunately I’m currently stuck on the last boss on my first playthrough. Either way I thought it important to continue on with this series, just to keep my own momentum going.)

Strange foes awaited me in Kenneth Haight's fort. I think the most disturbing was the knight who would cut his very own flesh before sending an arc of what seemed to be solidified blood to lacerate me. How strange this tactic was, however I must admit it may behoove me to learn it sometime.

  I had enough runes to trade to visit an acquaintance I had made shortly after having came to the lands between. Kale is a merchant or a nomad? We spoke about it a bit, but he made it sound as if there are others like him out in these lands. It seemed I was a welcome sight for the brightly colored merchant. Many things almost seem fixated on a singular purpose here in Limgrave, but we as tarnished seem less crazed or maddened. At least that’s what Kale seemed to think. I cant speak for the wildlife or the soldiers as I’m unsure what they wish to accomplish, but its a pity that they seem so hostile towards tarnished like myself.

  As I bought a few things from his wares I mentioned my most recent foray into the Mistwood and the dangers I avoided. He seemed most piqued by the howls I had heard around the strange runes. It was honestly the least exciting part of the adventure, so I was curious why he was so interested. He showed me a hand gesture and said if I was interested I should use it to meet the source of the strange sound. Skeptically I took note of the information, but was wary as I didn’t want another situation like before. Thank goodness Patches isn’t much of a fighter otherwise he would have gotten the best of me.

  I finished our exchange and decided that for the time being I hadn’t much to fill my time. So off to the Mistwood ruins I headed, practicing the hand gesture all the way. It was difficult as my fingers did not have the strength to cause the friction needed for the sound, which I assumed was the important part of the signal. As I practiced and practiced I became too enthralled to remember my surroundings. I drifted deep into the Mistwood continuing my seemingly futile efforts until finally. Snap!

Of course by some grand forsaken design I can still witness my companions. Still attached to their physical forms they enter the material world from the fade without issue. Dasroc watches as the young champion of the Maker takes the weapon the dwarf once wielded and presents it as the last piece of Dasroc the Grey Wardens have left after passing through the veil. The young champion with her shoulder length blonde hair in braids, does little to hide her tears. None of them knew that the dwarf was watching them from within the weapon at that moment. Something tied his essence to the axe, but left it impossible for him to communicate with his group. He could only watch in judgement and curse their emotions for giving them pause towards the goal he knows they must complete. To the hells with one dwarf, there are thousands losing their lives in the deep roads now. Thaigs that if not succumbed completely now, are just on the brink of collapse. There will be plenty of time to grieve when we.......or....... you've sent those accursed darkspawn bastards into oblivion. Within this aethereal space of consciousness, the once proud prince of Valdasine believes himself to pace back and forth as he watches the Grey Wardens he once fought beside take precious time performing a burial and saying goodbye. The Maker's champion, the mage Rune, the siblings, the Lady Thayet, Sane of the Twin Blades, he who is the last of the Star Elves, and the once slave no longer bound by a fate chosen for him. 

(Here is a piece I was thinking of while going through the questline in Elden Ring involving Blaidd the Half-Wolf. Perhaps I can turn it into a series of writings as I progress through the story, but we shall see. Hopefully you enjoy.)

As I approached the debris of a fallen structure atop stood a man in a dark blue set of noblemans clothes. He shouted for me to rescue him although he did not seem in danger at the moment. 

Kenneth Haight was his name and he spoke of himself in high regard. Being only a lowly tarnished only having been....... well honestly I’m not sure where or when I was, but it couldn’t have been long nor far as I have very little memory of being revived, from death? Or awoken from slumber? It seems difficult for my mind to wrap around, so I usually don’t think on it too much. 

Ah back to Lord Haight, he is supposedly next in line to rule Limgrave. I wonder how far it stretches. However for now it seems that his fort has been taken from him and he needs it cleared out. This seems just the thing I could do and if he is as important as he says, perhaps I can garner some favor. Perhaps this is what I was brought back to do. Help others in this shattered world of ours, if no one else is I might as well try. 

So after speaking with Lord Haight I trudged off into the Mistwood. I had to move carefully and use the sound of the rushing wind to my advantage as it seemed this beautiful forest was littered with bears. Albeit just a simple swing with my club could render them dead, but I didn’t know their relationship to the much larger ones with rune markings in their fur. I wasn’t keen on finding out either, or at least not right now. It was here that I heard a startling, but strange sound. A wolf howl. It sounded as if amongst some ruins within the Mistwood forest, but I was already on a mission for Lord Haight and I didn’t want to disappoint. How curious though, a single wolf sounding off its position in a forest full of these great beasts, bold indeed. 

There are many types of beasts and critters that enjoy the overgrown fields of flora. Some beasts enjoy the hallucinatory pollen that secretes during heavy movement of the plants. Some predators use the shadows and eight foot high stalks to hunt for critters discombobulated by the flora's pollen.

Take for example the large fungal headed being that just attacked our caravan of half drugged nomads. It seemed interesting enough as we watched a large white mushroom rise into the air. We were all quite inthralled, in-fact so much so we didn't realize it was sitting atop and attached to a humanoid shaped body made from a system of other toadstools and roots. Around its midsection seemed to be a transparent stomach, from which fluids and chunks of debris sloshed around inside, contained by the many roots wrapping its abdominal area.

Only once the strange toadstool behemoth wrapped up one of our fellows in a vine made grip and proceeded to, well for lack of better descriptive terms, devour and digest them did we realized we were in danger.

“So this is it. Lost in some magical dream.” 

The dwarf spits at this thought, or at least believes he does. He is stuck in the fade, the metaphysical realm that is separated from the physical realm by the veil. How he came about this predicament is not important at the time, but what he discovers here is.

This is Dasroc Prisimus, fourth (or used to be fourth) in line for the throne of Valdasine, one of the proud Thaigs in the deeproads that is run by the dwarves. Dasroc is part (or was) of a group of Grey Wardens, heroes whose purpose is to rid the world of The Blight. The Blight currently taking place is only the second one the world has ever seen, and so long ago was the 1st Blight that eventually it just became mere folk lore or myth.

While Dasroc is stuck in the Fade, linked only by a gem that is fastened to his great war axe “Legacy of Cerberus” which resides in the physical realm, he finds himself pondering a grand question. What am I to do now?

While before his sole purpose was to gather forces and march back on to Valdasine, in order to reclaim it from the dark spawn scum that now ravage his once beautiful city. Now he can do nothing but wait.