That night, Elvas sat motionless before a smoldering pile of charred corpses, his body weary yet relaxed after a perilous battle against a towering golem. He occasionally inspected the bandages wrapped around his wounds, applied earlier by a servant sent by the Elder. "I assumed they'd ignore me and continue their tasks, but I'm relieved they harbor no ill will toward me," he murmured with a sigh, glancing to his side.
Beside him, silent as ever, sat the hulking humanoid with a metallic, pumpkin-shaped head, nearly as tall as Elvas. Its chest rose and fell rhythmically, dozing off after sustaining a minor injury when the golem had stomped on it. A marvel of resilience, far sturdier than Elvas's own frame, the creature inspired a hollow chuckle from the Misbegotten leader. "You'll be my companion beyond these walls," he declared softly. Silence settled once more, broken only by the distant howls of Misbegotten patrolling the ramparts and the castle's perimeter. Most human servants now slept, exhausted from the day's upheaval at Castle Morne.
The faint sound of flapping wings sharpened Elvas's enhanced hearing. He rose swiftly, his gaze piercing the darkness as a huge group of Misbegotten approached. Erak, gripping the armpits of the castellan's daughter, Irina, landed beside him. The other winged Misbegotten who had accompanied Erak scattered into the night sky above Castle Morne, seeking places to rest. Elvas noted their diminished numbers, a grim reminder of the cost of their mission.
Clutching the Grafted Blade Greatsword, Elvas observed Irina. Her head hung low, her fingers nervously twiddling below her waist. Erak stepped back with a grin. "Capturing her took far too long, Elvas. Hundreds of Godrick's soldiers were escorting her. We were fortunate, dozens of our brethren from the west ambushed them, allowing us to thin their ranks."
Pride swelled in Elvas's chest. His eyes glinted as he nodded approvingly. "Well done, Erak. Now rest. Tomorrow, you'll inspect our kin at the mines to ensure the iron supplies are accounted for."
"As you command," Erak replied, taking flight toward one of Morne's towers. Left alone, Irina twitched nervously, her senses overwhelmed by the musky scent of Elvas and his tone like an animal wanting to gnarl, the acrid stench of burnt flesh, and the loud, pig-like snores of the Pumpkin Head nearby.
Mustering her courage, Irina forced herself to speak. "Is it true that my father is dead?" Her voice trembled with dread.
"Yes, Lady Irina," Elvas replied honestly. "I killed him swiftly, a merciful death." He knew from her father's tales that Irina, though blind, was no stranger to the ways of war, only unaware of the cruel treatment inflicted upon his kind.
In his words, tears streamed from her sightless eyes and her eye fabrics moistened. She sank to her knees, clutching her chest, stifling a wail as grief consumed her. Elvas allowed her to weep, seating himself before her as he tore his eyes away not wanting to see the girl squirming mouth and tries to drown out the muffled cries. He drove the Grafted Blade into the ground as she cradled herself, muttering regrets to cope with her loss. It was a tragedy for a young girl like her, caught in a world where war and rebellion ensured blood and steel would clash until one side surrendered or none remained.
After several minutes, Irina wiped her tears with the back of her hand. "Did he die bravely, like the heroes of old?" she asked, her voice fragile yet resolute.
A faint smile touched Elvas's face, hidden by his fearsome visage, which he was grateful she could not see. "He died with the dignity of a renowned warrior, his steel clashing against the legendary blade of Castle Morne, steadfast and matching the strength of a dozen men, which I now wield, one of the finest blades."
His embellished words, meant to comfort, brought a melancholic smile to Irina's lips. It was bittersweet, but Elvas preferred honesty over deceit for this grieving girl. "It's strange to ask my father's killer for such details, but I'm relieved you didn't slay him dishonorably. May I know your name?"
A chuckle escaped Elvas. He admired her resilience, jesting amidst the grim courtyard. "I am Elvas. You've already met Erak, who brought you here."
Irina nodded earnestly. "Yes, he was gentle, constantly asking if I was comfortable during the flight."
Elvas's eyes widened briefly. "That son of a bitch," he thought, delighted. "For all his hissing and growling, Erak was kind to her. Perhaps he sensed her innocence. There's hope for my kind yet. Their rage could be catastrophic, rivaling the cruelty of humans before them." In this bleak world, such compassion from a Misbegotten was a rarity he hadn't expected.
"I'm glad he was gentle," Elvas said, rising to his full height, towering over Irina by four feet. "Shall I escort you to a room for rest? A lady like you shouldn't linger in this courtyard."
Irina remained seated, her blind gaze fixed on him, as if sensing his presence. "My father and the servants told me your kind served Castle Morne willingly, grateful for Lord Godrick's mercy. It seems that was a lie…"
Elvas's tone grew heavy. "Had your father, the nobles, or Lord Godrick granted us dignity and treated us as more than beasts, we might have served willingly. Instead, they abused us for years, even after the Shattering, driven by their greed."
Irina's head bowed, her mind grappling with the truth. "I see. The fault lies with my father and the nobles. I wish things had been different, Elvas. I… I want my father back his caring touch and warm voice," she stammered, her voice breaking as tears threatened to spill again. A massive hand gently rested on her shoulder. She flinched but relaxed when it didn't tighten.
"I understand your pain, and it's agonizing," Elvas said softly as possible that came from his hideous wide mouth. "You're right to feel anger, but changing your father's ways or those of the nobles would be a monumental task. My brethren's fury surpasses even mine, a boiling rage from years of torment that cannot easily be soothed. But it's late now, and you need a rest for the day ahead."
Irina sighed, nodding. "My apologies, Elvas. Please, escort me to my room, if you know where it is."
"I'd be glad to," he replied, gently taking her hand and guiding her toward the inner halls of the castle. As they walked, the weight of the day's events lingered, but Elvas felt a flicker of hope. Irina's compassion, however small, hinted at the possibility of bridging the chasm between their kinds, even in a world steeped in blood and betrayal.
Later that night, Irina's room
Irina stepped into her childhood room, her sigh echoing softly in the familiar space. The faint, dusty scent of long-untouched corners greeted her nostrils as she moved with careful pace, her feet tracing a path she had memorized since her earliest years. She sank onto the soft, worn bed, her trembling hands clutching her chest, where the ache of her heart pulsed with a deep, yearning sorrow for her late father's comforting touch. The pain lingered like a cruel specter, a constant reminder that the battle was lost, and the rebellious slaves had triumphed. The weight of defeat pressed heavily upon her, as though the very walls of the room whispered of their failure.
The grim reality settled in her chest, and she let out a heavy, shuddering breath. Yet, amid the despair, she could still feel the resonance of a voice that had spoken to her earlier that day. Elvas's presence had been overwhelming, a blend of gentleness and unyielding resolve. Elvas, the slave leader who led the revolt, carried a firmness in his demeanor, a commitment to his cause that mirrored her late father's own sense of purpose. Like the people of the lands between, Elvas was driven by a singular goal, his will as unshakable as the ancient stones of Castle Morne itself.
It had been an exhausting and disorienting day for Irina. The death of her father, a wound still raw and bleeding in her heart, was compounded by the betrayal of her trusted helpers. They had fed her lies, assuring her that the misbegotten were content in their servitude to the nobles. "I wish it had been different," she thought, her lips trembling as tears threatened to spill once more. "The misbegotten deserved fair treatment as servants, but their suffering has festered into a hatred so deep, a thirst for vengeance I can scarcely comprehend." She fought to steady her emotions, drawing on the strength her father had instilled in her during their final moments together, before she was escorted from the besieged Castle Morne. His words echoed in her mind, urging her to remain resolute in the face of despair.
After a long stretch of sitting in stillness on her bed, lost in her thoughts, a soft knock at the door jolted her back to the present. Her head turned instinctively toward the sound, her blindness sharpening her other senses. The absence of sight had honed her hearing to a razor's edge, making even the faintest creak or whisper vivid in her perception.
"Come in," she called softly, her voice steady.
The door creaked open, and a young servant girl stepped inside, her footsteps hesitant. She wore a tattered dress, the fabric worn thin by time and toil. "Greetings, your ladyship," the girl said, her voice tinged with nervous respect. "I'm Berta, your maid from now on." She bowed her head low, as though unsure of her place in the presence of nobility.
Irina's acute hearing picked up the youthful timbre in Berta's voice, guessing her to be around fifteen—five years her junior. "My maid?" Irina replied, confusion threading through her tone. She had been kept in the dark about much of the castle's affairs, shielded by lies, but she was no fool. She understood her precarious position. "I'm afraid I'm at a loss. Respectful as Elvas may be, I'm his hostage, am I not? Please, tell me what's happening."
Berta fidgeted, her fingers twisting together nervously. She knew of Irina's reputation as the gentle daughter of the castellan, a lady of kindness despite her family's fall. "Master Elvas spoke to the Elder," she explained, her voice soft but clear. "He insisted you're to be treated as a guest, not a hostage. The Elder assigned me to serve you, to assist with anything you might need." She kept her head bowed, her words earnest but cautious.
Irina let out a weary sigh, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her dress. "Elvas, the misbegotten who led the conquest of Castle Morne, my father's killers…" Her voice wavered, but she steadied it, forcing a warm smile to her lips. "Very well, Berta. Thank you for accepting this role. I'll ensure your tasks are not too burdensome." A soft giggle escaped her, a small attempt to ease the tension, and Berta's cheeks flushed at the kindness radiating from the noblewoman.
Castle Morne, left tower
Deep into the night, long past midnight, the acrid smell of burning corpses still filled the air, their pyres smoldering in the courtyard below. In the left tower, Elvas and Coran stood over a looted table, a weathered map of the Weeping Peninsula spread before them. The flickering light of a single torch illuminated the parchment as they strategized, plotting how to solidify their fragile hold on the region before Godrick's forces could retaliate.
"Elvas, we should negotiate with the demi-humans in the northern forest," Coran suggested, his face bathed in the pale glow of moonlight streaming through a narrow window. "They could help us wipe out the remaining enemy forces holding the bridge."
Elvas didn't look up from the map, his eyes tracing the inked lines of the peninsula's terrain. He hummed thoughtfully, processing the suggestion. Erak and the scouts had provided critical intelligence before the revolt, but the sheer scale of the peninsula had surprised him. A trek to the bridge would take three hours on foot, a detail he hadn't fully anticipated. "I agree," he said at last, his voice measured. "But first, we must deal with the Ailing Village and Callu Church. Those areas are festering with madness, as are the corpses near the sword monuments. They need to be eradicated before we can secure the bridge."
Coran's face twisted in unease, his jaw tightening at the mention of the village. The memory of hollowed corpses with glowing yellow eyes, their bodies twisted by madness, sent a shiver down his spine. "That's a dangerous task, Elvas," he said, his voice heavy with concern. "The madness in that village… it's enough to make even the bravest falter."
"You're right," Elvas replied, his tone resolute. "But I'll go to the village myself and exterminate them all. Alone."
Coran's eyes widened, shock overtaking his features. He slammed his hands on the table, the impact rattling the wood. "Are you out of your mind?" he shouted. "That madness will corrupt you! You can't face it alone!"
A low, grim chuckle escaped Elvas as he shook his head, his expression unreadable. "No need to worry about me, Coran. It will be handled," he said, his words vague but carrying an unshakable confidence as his red mane.
Coran leaned back, his hands falling from the table as he sighed in frustration. He couldn't fathom why his leader insisted on such a reckless plan. "What about Erak?" he pressed. "Have him seek reinforcements from the Morne mine. Tress and her forces could make a difference."
Elvas shook his head again. "Tress is tied up guarding the mine. Pulling half her forces would leave it vulnerable. We can't afford that.
Coran threw up his hands, exasperated. "Fine, but don't come crying to me when you're overwhelmed out there!"
Elvas let out a hearty chuckle, amused by his comrade's worry. "While I'm handling the village, take charge here. Clear out the undead near Castle Morne, burn their bodies to ashes, then spread it to the seas and see that the castle is cleaned and secured before I return."
Coran muttered under his breath, still uneasy but knowing better than to argue further with Elvas's ironclad resolve. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the map, mirroring the uncertainty that hung over their plans.