Chapter Text
In the southern-west region, where the red sedimentary rocks are some of the brightest in all of Caelid, there lies a nearly forsaken fortress which many have so easily forgotten to recall. And yet its defenses remain intact, with shaved wood barricades and dominating cliffs for its undead guards to wage war for all eternity. Upon its high stone arches await its sorcerers and flaming chariots, with its archers tightening their bows to launch great arrows, and its sole entrance sealed by a reinforced metal gate blocked by piles of stone.
This fortress, Fort Gael, accepts no one these days. Yet, in spite of that, its knights and soldiers preserve their loyalty by continuing to uphold their commitment to protecting the bygone glory of its walls as if nothing has changed in the years since their Lord and General assigned them to this permanent task. However, beyond the reach of its guardians and the lingering defenses they maintain, the rest of the fortress is nothing more than a crumbling heap destined to fall to ruin a little more each day. The greystone walls are barely standing after so much damage from cannonfire, and the scourge of far too many sieges has withered away its decorative banners and flags to nothing more than mere threads with traces of cinder and ash.
Even its pigeonholes and guard-posts are doomed to collapse soon or later, as seen by the numerous cracks and trenches blown into the once unyielding structure, in addition to the numerous drop-holes disrupting paths and requiring wood planks to temporarily mend them. The main core, where leagues of soldiers used to stand to train swords or prepare to rush out the gate, has also been gutted and made useless after the smoking iron balls broke through the towering stones resting above the metallic bars. And now the area is sealed as nothing more than a sizable pit suitable for corpses, with the exception of one particularly ravenous beast which no one has been able to chain up or successfully tame into a sense of obedience.
The whole fortress is a mess but, to those who linger behind without ever abandoning their posts, such details are cherished because that's exactly what makes it home.
-
Fort Gael, which stands atop an elevation of cliffs beneath the sweltering Caelid sun, is where the Tarnished one finds himself after meandering about the vast dry lands one afternoon while enjoying some senseless exploring on the back of his favorite steed. He is seeking treasure again, something beyond the usual spelunking and scouring of untrodden depths bathed in the unknown, but he isn't hard-pressed about it since today is just like a vacation to him. He simply wants to relax in whatever he does, whether there be spoils or not, in spite of all the dangers existing in the terrain he has chosen.
These past months he has exhausted himself with all the serious business of staking his life on defeating demigods abound whilst also offering a hand to those in need of a quest to be fulfilled. After achieving far too much, he thought it best to get away for a time and his fellows at the Hold had actually joined in to encourage him to take a break by going out for a horseback ride to locate a hidden gem tucked away in one of Caelid's more secluded crags. His fellows had told him about a bubbling pool embedded in a mountainous range, where he could immerse himself in the steaming waters to alleviate the aches and pains in his muscles while banishing any fatigue he might be feeling after countless days of strenuous fighting. Those good knights had even circled the location and plotted out a splendid course for him to follow, but the Tarnished one had barely paid attention to their scribbles upon leaving the Hold. He sought to go his own way instead, to blaze his own trail, and to disregard the idea of the warm spring as only an afterthought to consider if he just so happened to stumble upon the designated area in passing.
He didn't want to be bound by anything, but—of course—he didn't reveal any of this to the knights or make a show of crumbling up the map they had marked for him while standing in front of them. He had simply left them with smiles and gracious thanks, before spiriting away to a location not far from the border of Caelid to summon Torrent and begin an aimless journey across lands he has not fully explored. Fort Gael is one of his most recent discoveries, a place he had spotted on a passing glimpse of the horizon. Normally he would have ignored such a heavily guarded place with no guarantee of treasure, but today fate has already decided things for him. Because, despite what he would normally do, he couldn't stay away because Torrent chose this time to get spooked by the soldiers tossing their firebombs before galloping directly into danger by going up the path of broken barricades to alert the monstrous beasts lurking ahead to begin roaring and charging straight towards them.
To avoid those dangerous things, Torrent maneuvers by leaps and bounds to dash towards a haven of shining grace radiating underneath the looming shade of some surviving trees on the outskirts of the fortress. In this temporary hiding place, the stallion neighs accusations at him while giving him the predictable side-eye which he has come to know the meaning of quite well by now. Torrent, and his authoritarian self, wishes for him to ‘get off’ and so he does while ruffling the grumpy stallion's mane before appeasing him with a handful of berries procured from one of his pouches. Torrent huffs, whilst blowing air into his face and being moody, but obediently eats what he is given as he casually flicks his tail from time to time.
Seeing the stallion act this way makes him want to laugh, but the Tarnished one swallows down the humor and grins instead to avoid agitating the spectral steed into another one of his usual pranks of nipping at his rear or simply kicking him onto the ground. The ethereal beast can be a real bastard sometimes, especially when in one of his moods, so the Tarnished one merely attends to him with considerate affection while gazing around curiously at the landscape and this new guarded mystery in the distance beckoning him to uncover its secrets.
Usually the Tarnished one prefers ruins over caves, since anything underground reminds him of his weak and ignorant self that rose from the dirt to brave against the darkness and undead assailants to reach towards the radiance of sunlight. He has never forgotten the beginning hours of fear towards death and the confusion of not knowing why his soul kept constantly screaming to go somewhere he has never been. Scattered ruins and fortresses above ground are different though. He didn't mind deciphering the abandoned languages and enchanted runes found within, or seeking out the locked doors hidden behind formidable foes worth challenging for the sake of that adrenaline rush he immensely enjoys.
He feels safer, more at peace, on the surface.
Especially now that he doesn't have to face things completely alone anymore, and because there is Torrent a mere whistle away when he really needs the escape.
Which is why, as he stares at the fortress not far—a few hills or more—from his position, the Tarnished one becomes less cautious and rather energized at the prospect of another adventure awaiting for him within those uncharted walls. He bids farewell to his steed, after sharing another handful of berries and watching his stallion gobble them down with a snarky expression etched on his long face. He leaves the site of grace to leap across barricades and dance around lurking adversaries, while conjuring bolts of condensed energy into magical projectiles of radiant light to defend himself against those clever enough to see through his acts of stealth.
He uses sacred techniques that are explosive, with each one as ruthless as a weaponized prayer sent to slay a devil. He fights in freeform, sometimes calling forth lightning and other times shaping his attacks into condensed forms like a glaive crashing down from the heavens to devastate his enemies in a wide-area assault. But more than that, his battle prowess overall is unlike most Faith-users famous for the art of Incantations. His utility of scriptures is more like a brawler, with him staying mid to close range throughout combat, while reciting spells focused on maximum ability and gut-wrenching impact through staggering bursts. He also camouflages the presence of divine weapons within the shroud of his incantations to slice and dice through his enemies at an unbelievable expense to his stamina, though he always saves a little for an immediate dodge.
He maneuvers like lightning, quick and agile, despite being nothing more than a mutter of Incantations with his only saving grace being that he didn't skip any of his endurance training while working out with the other knights at the Hold. His bloody confidence is his only other strength besides his magic. That brawn, amidst the hordes shouting and clamoring to slaughter him, is why the Tarnished one can smile as a true bastard while throwing himself into the array of their attacks like a stalwart shield unable to break. If dodging fails, he can always soak through the assault with HP and simply bait for a distraction or wait for an opening to gain the upper hand to launch his specialized voltaic counter. It is easy to deal with these enemies in this way, and soon the Tarnished one is alone with no others to chase after him as he progresses forward with a flask of Cerulean Tears chugging down his throat.
Beyond the corpses he has left behind, the mechanical gate to get inside is locked and the Tarnished one must investigate the surrounding area and scope out an alternate route to succeed in obtaining entry. After searching for some time, he finds a makeshift path of fallen rocks on the right side capable of allowing him to venture along the outer rim of the fortress to scale the side towards a conjoined sector with a rather conveniently placed ladder. He questions little as he sees it, and simply climbs quickly to ascend towards the crest of the fortress’ high walls before heaving himself over onto one of its numerous precarious landings.
On that platform, the Tarnished one balances his way across connected walkways accessible by wooden planks while also jumping over substantial gaps to sneak around in search of anything interesting. He locates Warming Stones and tons of Mushrooms, yet none of this is worth the effort of infiltrating such a heavily guarded sanctum filled with abandoned warriors. So he goes further, searching for more lucrative things, as he navigates from one area to the next while skulking about unnoticed. However, like before, he finds nothing here nor there to sate his incessant greed for valuable treasures.
In the end, the Tarnished one becomes rather depressed as the spoils he can find continue to diminish in value instead of providing him with a one-of-a-kind discovery. He considers giving up but, unfortunately before he can, he is caught off-guard near a set of stone stairs ascending towards a place he has never been by an unexpected tapping on his shoulder and the sudden presence of someone behind him which he had completely failed to sense. He turns immediately in surprise but, in the act of doing so, he finds himself instantly struck by an armor-clad fist to his sensitive face. He howls in agony, and stumbles backwards from the bone-crushing ruthlessness of the attack. A crunching sound, like bone fracturing, rings in his ears as the overwhelming pain intensifies until he can handle no more of it before unceremoniously falling unconscious. His blacked-out body hits the cobblestone paving beneath him with a lifeless thunk, colliding quite painfully enough to create additional bruising, without even allowing him to see the assailant responsible.
His attacker, however, is a Redmane Archer assigned to security in the fortress. The entire time the Tarnished one had thought he was being stealthy, the sentryman had been observing him from one of the pigeonholes and had finally come down when his back was turned at a place closest to the location of the tower. Now, with the Tarnished one vulnerable and unaware, the Redmane Archer takes advantage of his sorry state to have a good laugh at him before reaching down to grip the ivory collar peeking out from underneath his leathers to drag him along the stone tiles. The Redmane Archer treats the Tarnished one like a sack of potatoes, letting the dead weight of his unconscious body bump along the stairs, while ascending towards the captain's peak where a Redmane Straight-Sword Soldier stands in the midst of making gestures at a formidable looking Redmane Knight who silently listens with his gauntlets crossed over his chest while carrying a Partisan weapon strapped to a holster on his back.
In deeper observation, this Redmane Straight-Sword Soldier holds a bird and a coconut in hand with a piece of string connecting them whilst wearing a determined expression on his face as he rambles quite passionately about the most preposterous things. For some reason, the Redmane Knight acknowledges him with hummed replies of intrigue but knowingly glances over his shoulder when his subordinate arrives with the unconscious Tarnished one to throw on the ground at his feet. The conversation about weight ratios and fowl migrations are put on hold as the three chevaliers gaze down in unison at the comatose figure of the captured trespasser in their midsts.
“Sir, another one climbed the back wall,” the Redmane Archer reports.
“Another Tarnished? How do they keep dodging our enhanced sorceries and great arrows? Are all of these fools such seasoned athletes?” The curious Redmane Straight-Sword interjects in clear exasperation.
“It's no matter. Let them come, at least we'll have plenty of fodder.” The Redmane Knight in charge says with a humorous chuckle.
“Another one for the pit then, Sir?” The Redmane Archer asks.
“Indeed,” the Redmane Knight replies with a nod of his helmet before adding, “But who among our good men will have the honor of kicking him into the depths?”
“Sir, why not leave it to the archery team? Perhaps this time they might be able to actually hit their mark,” the Redmane Straight-Sword suggests.
“To the archers?” The Redmane Knight responds curiously.
“Yes, Sir. String him up, and let the archers shoot him down. Let's make a game of it before casting him away to his final resting place.” The Redmane Straight-Sword explains, while wrapping the string around his bird and dangling it upside-down from the coconut held in his hands.
“Sir, must we indulge another one of his lunatic ideas…or waste by squandering precious supplies for mere fanfare?” the Redmane Archer protests whilst giving an exaggerated roll of his eyes.
“Be kind to your brother. You know his brain is that way because of what those bastards did to him. Just go ready your bow and empty your precious reserve of arrows. If you bear grievances, then simply don't miss this time. And, in the future, hit these Tarnished folks like you're supposed to before they succeed in scaling over the wall.” The Redmane Knight admonishes, before stalking off in the direction the Archer had originally come while expecting his chivalrous company to follow him.
“...understood, Sir,” the Redmane Archer grumbles before reaching for the Tarnished one's collar to yank his unconscious body along again.
“I'll get your bow since your hands are full!” The Redmane Straight-Sword exclaims helpfully, before sprinting to one of the adjacent towers to retrieve his comrade's primary weapon which is so easily forgotten whenever he rushes around to use his blunt fists instead.
Down the stairs, the unconscious Tarnished one is heaved across the cobblestone flooring all over again until his body is brought back to those precarious wooden beams providing passage to the crumbling ledges connecting different sectors of the stronghold walls. He is moved to the centremost area where a larger plank balances over a sizable pit capable of ensuring a few broken limbs or an immediate death if a person were to be dropped in. It is here that the Redmane Sentries join together to bind both his hands and wrists in a length of sturdy rope before tethering him to an overhanging device with a ghastly fishing hook attachment.
By the crank of a lever, the Tarnished one is hoisted a few inches above the plank until his feet are left dangling in the air. The Redmane Knight gestures to the Redmane Straight-Sword, commanding and instructing him until a metal bucket is procured and filled with a foul-smelling mixture of lard and chunks of severed meat soaked in gallons of harvested blood. At the wave of a hand, the rancid concoction is splashed all over the Tarnished one and super effective in waking him up as some portions of meat slap him in the forehead and cheeks.
Disorientated and aching, the Tarnished one releases a series of feeble groans as his depth of awareness returns a bit too slowly despite the sudden abuse. His jaw itches at first, throbbing from the formation of bruises and protesting bones, until finally the Tarnished one notices other discomforts like his inability to move his hands and the sticky sensation of feeling positively drenched. All of this makes him open his eyes to peer around at the circumstances outside of his immediate understanding and control.
In front of him are the leering Redmane Compatriots, one with a bucket behind his back whistling and another rolling his eyes with an annoyed expression carrying various accusations. A couple paces behind them is a Redmane Knight observing but not speaking as his subordinates mess around underneath his watchful gaze. Their attention makes him squirm and swallow nervously, suffocating him in a way most difficult to voice into coherent description, before the Redmane Knight takes a step forward to gesture another order with his uplifted hand.
“Raise him up. Now that this thieving rogue is awake we can commence the hanging,” the Redmane Knight in charge says while offering an unusually good-natured smile through the visor of his helmet for the sake of their first meeting.
The Tarnished one is caught off-guard by these words, scandalized by this accusation, even if the implication remains completely true. Of course he had snuck in to loot but, since he had not considered being ambushed or imprisoned, he felt wronged by them in some way after only managing to trespass without even touching a single glorious chest worth any of the effort. So, despite his crimes, he didn't feel that he should be badmouthed by these scheming men or held accountable for anything. Which is why, he ends up kicking and screaming complaints.
“Gentlemen, what is this about?! What is this talk about a ‘hanging’? I haven't committed any crime worthy of execution! Let me down, you bloody cocksuckers! How dare you falsely accuse me and convene to take my life! Unbind me at once!!” The Tarnished one wails in newfound outrage, using a foreign tongue dripping with insults, as he regains more and more of his senses.
He becomes a different man, shifting away from the easy-going wanderer who casually spelunks for leisure and the kindred soul who blissfully feeds exotic berries to his spectral steed with eyes of affection. His tone and demeanor becomes nothing more than spitfire and dynamism, with a degree of impertinence beyond the limit of what chivalrous man in control will ever take seriously. For this reason, the demands of the Tarnished one are ignored by these men who have clearly heard wilder things from others they've captured in the past. The Redmane Sentries grin and sneer to tease him, but most of their focus still remains devoted to the Redmane Knight commanding their attention with the same uplifted hand.
Their captain's initial order is carried out, with the lever of the crank device being firmly pulled to hoist the Tarnished one further and further away from the cobblestone ledge until the anchor of the hook is turned to carry him closer to the middle of the pit below. The Tarnished one is brought to dangle high above an arena of bones and corpses lying amidst an array of scattered banners and stronghold wreckage. Below is what remains of an internal battlefield, the remnants of sieges unending, and this crater of death is what the Tarnished one finds himself staring down at as he drips from the blood and meat pieces he wears.
A dreadful fear begins to creep in on him as he glances downward, festering into an infection, as the tightness of the ropes binding his wrists begins to limit the circulation whilst leaving his digits feeling rather numb. And yet, in spite of it all, the Tarnished one keeps fighting and shouting curses for freedom and a fair trial. He calls for justice, for fellowship among men who simply enjoy climbing and basking in the fine sculpture of ruins, while swearing that he has done nothing wrong in wanting to view what cannot be perceived from beyond the wall. Of course the Tarnished one knows that ‘this is what walls are for’ but, in his hysteria for a way out of his bindings, even the nonsense he speaks seems convincing and intelligent.
The Redmane Sentries think a few screws have come loose from his brain, and the Redmane Knight is simply unimpressed as his armored hand motions for the forever scowling Redmane Archer to retrieve his great arrows and bow from his brother's hands. The first shot is as embarrassing as all the previous ones the Tarnished one had dodged to venture around and get inside from the very beginning. Missing again makes the Redmane Archer livid to the point of grinding his teeth as he goes for another arrow without glancing at his snickering brother. It is good he doesn't, because the Redmane Straight-Sword is amused and obvious about it; he even mocks the other by mimicking the posture of shooting from a bow and then spinning around as if searching for its whereabouts.
The Tarnished one is shocked to silence by their antics, and too self-aware of his own predicament to even consider making jokes or snide comments as another poorly aimed arrow zooms straight between his legs at an angle far too close to his precious jewels. He has no idea if the arrows are meant to pierce him or the rope, but he is nearly 100% sure that the Redmane Archer shooting at him is missing the target on purpose to mentally torment him. Because, if he had not flailed and found strength in pulling at his ropes, then he would have been castrated without mercy. He is sobered by this narrow escape, handling the blow like a proverbial slap to the face instead of a meaty one, while switching his demeanor from cursing up a storm to begging like a mere pansy with too much to lose.
“Sir, sires, how about we consider second chances? Yeah? Just have a listen, on the Red Lion's honorable name, I haven't entered these hallowed walls for the sake of pillaging spoils or murdering a few souls. Devoted watchdogs of Caelid, please have mercy, I am just a maundering Tarnished seeking purpose who found my path unexpectedly led here to…to become a-a collaborator of those who serve the ever-heralded General Radahn! Consider it, we could be Redmane bros for life if you'd only agree to lower me to safety and not go through with this wretched business of making an innocent man swing without knowing all the facts!” Like this, the Tarnished one wags his silver tongue without a shred of decency. He fabricates excuses as if the act of lying and sniveling were second nature to him, despite only having learnt the basics from a generous grifter forever leaving him notes beyond the guidance of some twinkling stones.
He pours it on thick, kissing proverbial ass, whilst groveling like Patches the Untethered does when his adversary is greater and when prostrating oneself is better than biting the dust at the end of an enemy's sword. Even in midair, the Tarnished one sinks into himself and inclines his head in a submissive manner, while begging for pardonance and a swift release from being grafted by arrows or made into a splattered heap on the grounds below. He even cries a little for the effect, while beseeching these chivalrous men to consider jolly cooperation over acts of excruciating violence.
But these Redmane men are as unfeeling as stone. They pay him no heed as he strings together lies and whines, and seem completely invested in nothing else but each other. When the next arrow comes, the Redmane Soldiers are firing in unison. One with an authentic bow, taut and ready to hit its mark, and the other built upon imagination as the Redmane Straight-Sword mimics his comrade's stance from start to finish as if being the one responsible for teaching him proper archery. The arrow soars through the air like a falcon in flight, breaking barriers of speed until catching fire and burning straight through the rope keeping the Tarnished one tethered to the hook.
Time slows rather comically as gravity takes him, giving him time to glimpse an armored high-five and a helmeted head-shake, before everything accelerates as he begins to fall faster and faster towards the awaiting pit underneath him. The impact comes in the blind of an eye, with the Tarnished one hearing a resounding ‘crunch’ as he lands on his side and instantly breaks his arm while dislocating his leg. The whole right side of his body is damaged after suffering the unceremonious abuse, and he stays there trembling in anguish as each unfortunate breath agitates these new wounds.
Now he is crying for real, and heaving on dirt and sand as those Redmane Soldiers howl in their laughter while looking down at him from their ledge. There is something dark in their cackling as if, instead of simply finding mirth in his broken humiliation, there is something they know that he does not. The Tarnished one is forced to listen to them as he heaves before puking more bloody fluid to add to the heaps already drenched all over him. He finally notices the rancid stench as he lingers disjointedly on the ground; he smells like a carcass worn down by the sun and feels like one the more he struggles to muster the willpower to move even a finger when every nerve in his body is singing the same dreadful tune of absolute pain.
In the midst of agony and all their rancorous jeering, the Tarnished one becomes aware of what they're saying through the haze of his muddled consciousness.
“It comes, it comes! Wakey-wakey! It's nom-nom time, you untamable beast!!” The Redmane Archer bellows, before pursing his lips to whistle haughtily.
“It's here! The fallen Aslan makes his way! Go on, go on, sink your teeth into some Tarnished meat instead of the usual Redmane for once! We've even larded him up just for you! Enjoy the feast, king!” The Redmane Straight-Sword beckons and shouts between two hands curved near both corners of his mouth.
Behind them the Redmane Knight is quiet, but there is a sense of agreement in his apathetic gaze. His unspoken approval incites their enthusiastic cruelty, and soon the hyperactive soldiers are casting Rainbow Stones and Ruin Fragments into the pit as if lighting up the path for the entity they keep calling. Their pelleted items clatter against the ground below, but also become weaponized projectiles beating into crumpled form of the Tarnished one as he whimpers from more of their abuse while cursing them with every bit of his soul. He wishes he could pay back his grievances and watch them suffer, but there is anxiety sending fresh dread throughout his system as he becomes frighteningly aware of animalistic snarling and the slap of padded feet stalking across the ground.
Something is approaching, and the Tarnished one swallows pain and gulps of fear to shift his head up to glimpse whatever comes for him. Across from where he lays is a shaded place, a makeshift den of sorts built from damaged scaffolding and frayed blankets, where the bones are piled the highest and the blood seeps the thickest into the dry earth. Out of the darkness comes a ferocious beast with eyes of gleaming gold, with elongated fangs protruding its muzzle and an ashen mane of withered overflowing hairs. Its head bears uneven broken horns, its stature husky and thick with superior muscle, and from its oversized paws the weight of bronze bangles and shackles can be seen with a wide shotel-style blade bound to the adornments on its right paw.
The mammoth-sized beast stands more than twice the height of his stature, with a regal sort of carnivorous intensity as it advances forward like the true predator in charge of this fortress instead of being another captive held inside. The Tarnished one has never seen such a king amongst creatures in person, but he knows what it's called from the books at the Hold. What lies within the pit with him is a Lion Guardian, an endangered species which few masters can tame. But if one can earn their respect, then the creatures will gnash and claw until death if it means protecting their sworn companion. They are the most loyal of creatures in all of the Lands Between, yet this same devotion is why their numbers are so few. Too many of their masters betrayed them, and sacrificed them again and again for the sake of saving their own sorry hides.
The remaining Lion Guardians are not much wiser than their forebears, but taming them has nearly become impossible. Their hatred towards mankind has grown, and the few who remain of their numbers require so much to be swayed towards even listening to the easily spoken promises of those seeking to subdue and shackle them. This is why the Redmane army could not domesticate it or stop its ravenous maw from tearing into its own countrymen after attempting all sorts of things to garner its favor and gain another ruthless weapon in battle. The Lion Guardian will not accept them but, at least for them, the beast is so bloody volatile that it consumes whatever prey they throw into the pit.
The Redmane survivors have made a game of it, like spectators at a Colosseum watching the gladiators fight. And now the Tarnished one is the new challenger, bruised and battered as he may be, and barely able to move as he stares into the beastly sight of his oncoming demise. He thinks of dying as he stares into its auric gaze, of his fellows at the Hold who encouraged him to take a vacation and how he mucked everything up by going his own way instead of following the path they had so graciously drawn up for him. If he had listened, then maybe he would not have acted so foolishly or blazed a trail straight into this danger as if he were some untouchable force to be reckoned with in an absence of fear. He just wanted to explore and fondle a treasure chest or two, so how had things gotten so out of control? This isn't even his first fortress raid! But!
Here he is, eating dust on his day off and being humiliated by cannon fodder soldiers he has slain nearly a thousand times before. Was he really so worn out despite how much energy he thought he still had, or is this merely the bane of his overconfidence kicking him severely in the arse? The Tarnished one laments his woes in glistening tears of sorrow but, in the midst of it all, a touch of grace finds him as he musters some unfounded resolve to maneuver his working arm towards his pouches to grasp his flask of Crimson Tears in hand.
He gurgles down half a swig, favoring the rejuvenative fluid even as his heart thunders with unshakeable fear, and groans as his damaged parts pop and shift back into place as the magical properties gradually knit and mend his fractured skin and bones back together again. The enchanted serum works painlessly, but doesn't alleviate the initial trauma or burn of continuous pain coursing through his veins at all. Drinking Crimson Tears is like a temporary band-aid fix, a few sips of its mystical powers heighten the adrenaline and poise to keep fighting and stay alive after restoring the physical damage yet no matter how many droplets a person drinks the body always remembers what happened to it. Damaged and broken parts may move as if they have never been harmed, but the body's neurotransmitters never stop sending signals to the brain or lessen the agony into a duller ache.
For the Tarnished one, the miraculous effort is all pins and needles with a reoccurring stab of discomfort in the mended areas despite the full reconstruction of his torn ligaments and bones. The residual aftermath leaves him profusely gasping and sweating from the constant strain on his nervous system but, at the very least, he is now able to move and stand if he so wishes to. He can fight in a state like this, and endure a few more devastating blows as long as his resolve is strong and he is able to withstand the mental strain of feeling crippled and bruised despite being physically healed. He regains a bit of confidence like this after putting away the remaining gulps of his Crimson Tears, and boldly stares into those advancing golden eyes while reaching down to grab for his Sacred Seal to defend himself.
However, his searching hand catches air, and where his blessed instrument should be there is nothing to grasp. His panic returns in full force, causing him to nearly glare up in frustration, as the obvious explanation leaves him stunned and fuming beyond belief as he temporarily grits his teeth in another round of crushing mental defeat. They left him with his remedies and pouches but had taken away his armaments and scriptures?! He can't believe it, and yet it's true. And worse, the great lion has noticed his vulnerability and despair like a scent of fresh meat in the air as if he were waiting to be devoured no differently than any other prey thrown into this den. He has to flee, but the second he tries to move again the massive beast is already bounding towards him with the explicit intention to pounce.
He is caught immediately, with an oversized monstrosity pinning him down and his mind going haywire wondering if he can even escape from the impending clawing. He bellows for mercy, begging for his life, but the strangest series of events happen in tandem until he is rather confused by a sudden chill in the air and the pressure of something growing larger against his backside. He becomes disturbed for a whole different reason, while the threat of being eaten falls shy of gold in comparison to the sensation of the most unbelievable thing happening to him now.