The Tides of Madness

Chapter 3: The Tides of Madness

The Tarnished stood at the edge of the Weeping Peninsula, their hand clenched around the Great Rune they had claimed from Castle Morne. The journey through the castle had been fraught with peril, each moment a reminder of the madness that plagued the Lands Between. The air here carried a foreboding silence, but it was the silence of a land long forgotten by the gods, a land filled with whispers of old tragedies and horrors that still roamed the world.

With each Great Rune they claimed, the Tarnished felt themselves changing—becoming something more than human, yet less than divine. The power surged through their veins, ancient and unyielding. It called to them, demanding that they continue their journey, that they seek out the remaining Shardbearers, each more formidable than the last. But with every victory, the Tarnished wondered if the cost was truly worth it. Would they find redemption, or would they fall victim to the same madness that had consumed those they sought to defeat?

They had heard whispers of a new realm, a region known as the Mountaintops of the Giants, a place where the gods had once waged war against the very forces of creation. It was said that one of the Shardbearers, a creature named Rykard, Lord of Blasphemy, held sway over this place. But Rykard was not like the others. He was a creature of madness, a being whose power was born not from the divine, but from something far darker—a curse that had twisted him into something more monstrous than even the gods themselves.

The Tarnished could feel the pull of the Mountaintops. It was a place where the very fabric of reality seemed to warp and bend, a land where the gods had once stood, only to fall into ruin. It was a land where Rykard’s madness had infected the earth, a place where death was not just inevitable, but a constant companion.

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As the Tarnished made their way toward the Mountaintops of the Giants, they encountered a lone figure—a woman draped in black robes, her face obscured by a veil. She was not like the others they had encountered in their journey. There was an air of melancholy about her, a deep sorrow that seemed to emanate from every pore.

“My name is Miquella, and I have been waiting for you,” the woman said, her voice soft and haunting. Her words were a whisper, carried on the wind. “You seek the Elden Ring, do you not? You seek to become the Elden Lord.”

The Tarnished regarded her with suspicion, but there was something in her eyes that spoke of an understanding far beyond what they had known. Her gaze was ancient, filled with knowledge of the Lands Between and the curses that had plagued it.

“I have seen the future, Tarnished,” she continued, her voice trembling with a sorrow too great to bear. “The Elden Ring is not a path of salvation. It is a path of destruction. The gods who once ruled this world, they are nothing more than broken echoes, their power scattered across the land. If you seek to restore the Elden Ring, you will only bring more ruin.”

Her words struck the Tarnished like a hammer, each syllable reverberating deep within their soul. They had come here seeking power, but now they began to question whether they were making the right choice. Was the restoration of the Elden Ring truly the key to salvation, or was it the final step in the unraveling of everything?

“You must understand,” Miquella whispered, her eyes filled with sorrow. “The Elden Ring was never meant to be restored. It was broken for a reason. The gods made a mistake when they bound the world together with their false order. Their reign was one of tyranny, and their fall is the only true hope for this world.”

Her words lingered in the air, heavy with meaning. The Tarnished was silent for a long moment, their mind swirling with doubt. Yet, despite the unease that her words brought, they knew that they had come too far to turn back. The Elden Ring had been shattered, but its pieces were still scattered across the Lands Between, and each shard brought with it the power to reshape the world. Whether that power would bring salvation or ruin, the Tarnished could not say. But they knew one thing: they would not rest until they had collected every last fragment, no matter the cost.

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The Tarnished continued their journey toward the Mountaintops of the Giants, their resolve hardened by Miquella’s words. The mountain range loomed ahead, a towering expanse of jagged cliffs and icy peaks. The air grew colder as they climbed, the wind howling through the valleys, carrying with it the scent of death and decay.

The Tarnished pressed on, their footsteps echoing through the frozen landscape. Along the way, they encountered strange, twisted creatures—beasts that had once been noble, now corrupted by the power of the Great Runes. Their eyes burned with an unnatural fury, and their flesh had been contorted into grotesque forms. It was as though the land itself had been corrupted by the madness that had taken root here, a reflection of the insanity that had overtaken Rykard.

Despite the danger, the Tarnished fought on, each battle pushing them further into the heart of the Mountaintops. The terrain grew more hostile with every step, the cold seeping into their bones. But they were undeterred. The path ahead was clear: they would find Rykard, confront his madness, and claim his Great Rune.

As the Tarnished neared the summit, they came across an ancient temple—a place where the gods had once communed with the spirits of the earth. The temple was in ruins, its once-great pillars now crumbling beneath the weight of time. Yet, within its depths, the Tarnished could sense something powerful—something that resonated with the very essence of the Elden Ring.

Inside the temple, they found a Shackled Beast, a creature chained to the ground by ancient, rusted chains. It was a massive, feral thing, its body twisted and scarred, its eyes filled with a primal hunger. Yet, there was something else in its gaze—a recognition, a knowing of the Tarnished’s presence.

“You have come for the Lord of Blasphemy, have you not?” the beast growled, its voice a low rumble. “Rykard awaits you. But know this: you will not leave this place unchanged. To face him is to confront the madness of the world itself. Do you truly think you can survive?”

The Tarnished did not answer. They could not afford to hesitate. They had come this far, and there was no turning back. The beast snarled in recognition and retreated into the shadows, leaving the Tarnished to confront their destiny.

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Rykard, Lord of Blasphemy, was not like the other Shardbearers the Tarnished had faced. He was a creature of divine corruption, his power derived not from the Elden Ring, but from the dark forces that had consumed him. His body was a grotesque mass of writhing serpents, each one twisting and shifting beneath his skin. His eyes glowed with an unholy light, and his voice was a sickening blend of laughter and sorrow.

“Tarnished,” he hissed, his voice reverberating through the temple. “You seek the power of the Elden Ring, but it is not yours to take. I am the blasphemy that the gods fear. I am the truth that they have hidden from you. The Elden Ring is a lie, and I will be its end.”

The battle that followed was unlike any the Tarnished had fought before. Rykard wielded the power of the serpents that crawled beneath his skin, each strike a deadly coil of divine energy. The Tarnished fought with all their might, but they could feel the weight of his madness pressing down on them, as if the very world itself was conspiring against them.

In the end, the Tarnished triumphed. Rykard’s serpentine form fell, his body writhing in the death throes of a creature who had been consumed by his own power. The Great Rune was theirs, but the victory felt hollow. Each conquest, each piece of the Elden Ring they claimed, was a step further into madness—a madness that threatened to consume them as well.

As the Tarnished stood over the fallen Rykard, the weight of their journey bore down upon them. They had come to reshape the world, but in the process, they were beginning to realize that the world itself had already been reshaped by the gods and their broken power. The Elden Ring was a symbol of a past age, a past that was destined to fall, no matter how hard they fought to hold it together.

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