Chapter Text
Ever since his time as a Dreamer, Djura had been aware that the world wasn't as simple as a spread-out map or spinning globe. It was more like... several spinning globes, all intersecting at different parts. Or a whirling gyroscope. Many parts, not always touching, sometimes brushing past each other, connected here and there... far bigger and stranger than he cared to think on for too long.
It had been... a shock, to be pulled abruptly back into the Dream. The young hunter who'd visited on and off all night had greeted him, sat in Gehrman's chair and pleading forgiveness. The lad had done something— what, Djura couldn't be sure. He'd caught something about ‘trying to fix everything,’ and ‘fucking up,’ and ‘it's all my fault.’ Before Djura could try to calm the lad, though, the sky above the Dream had stained itself red. The young hunter had howled desperately, like a beast in a trap, and lunged to catch Djura's hands.
That was the last thing he remembered before coming to in the tomb.
He sighed, adjusting his cap and looking around. It was equal parts tomb and cave, quite honestly. Djura had woken in the far back, and had gone through several living corpses to get to what he was hoping was the exit. Additionally, there was... the light.
Everyone knew the stories of Ludwig's guiding moonlight. The motes of light that swirled around his sword and him, like a glowing guardian leading him through the hunt. Djura wouldn't call this moonlight. But there were threads and beads of gold, drifting through the air, seeming to almost play with his fingers or brush against his coat now and then. Coaxing. He wasn't so blindly trusting to just follow the light wherever it went— but so far it had yet to lead him anywhere bad. The corpses had been easy to evade— the ones that weren't crumpled under a single bullet to the skull. And now he stood at a large door, the strange light seemingly pointing out.
“I'm trusting you.” Djura said warningly, his voice swallowed by the mausoleum. The trails of light didn't reply. Taking a deep breath, Djura knelt down and slipped his fingers into the gaps he could see on the door. It took a bit of hefting, but after some initial resistance where it shed dust and dirt everywhere, the door slid open.
Stepping outside, Djura couldn't help but sigh, shaking his head.
He was getting too old for this, he thought as he looked up at the massive, distant tree. It glowed an almost spectral gold, much like the light Djura had followed through the tomb. It was bright enough— or perhaps simply large enough— to just about outshine the sun. Not that it did anything for the grey sky and drab, empty landscape littered with crumbling ruins. The place even smelled dead— moreso even than Old Yharnam. What manner of place had that lad gone and sent him to?
His eye was drawn to the glowing trails of light, still swirling and drifting about him. Following their direction with his gaze, Djura saw a small spindle of glowing gold, seeming to jut out of the ground. Raising his eyebrow, he wandered over. As he drew close, Djura felt... calmer. More at ease. Almost like he was standing by one of the Dream's lanterns. On that hunch, he knelt down and brushed his fingers against the little light. For a brief moment, it flared brightly, and he felt some of the tension from the hunt leave him. It was... soothing. Like sitting in a rocker by the hearth on a particularly nippy night.
“... You're no church hunter's moonlight,” Djura informed the spindle, “But I imagine you'll do.”
Rather predictably, it didn't respond.
Instead, there was a cleared throat.
Picking his head up, Djura found someone clad in blood-spattered blue and white, face hidden behind a ceramic mask, standing none too far away. They made a come-hither gesture with their head, and for a moment, Djura just stayed put and studied them. Some of the blood stains looked relatively fresh. Smelled it, too, now that he was looking for it. As a whole, the stranger smelled like an open wound, even though as far as Djura could tell, they were uninjured. He still had his blunderbuss, stake-driver, and a few molotovs on him, so if it came to a fight, Djura was... relatively confident he could take them. Even if he'd rather not.
When the stranger began to fidget, Djura got slowly to his feet and came cautiously closer, stopping just outside of arm's reach. However, that seemed to be close enough, because they nodded, declaring, “Ah, yes, as I thought— Tarnished, aren't you?”
“That's one way to put it.” Djura grunted. He'd been called much worse in his time, and goodness knew his hands weren't clean. ‘Tarnished’ was probably one of the nicer things he'd been called, honestly.
“Oh come now,” the man said in admonishing tone, “There's no shame in it!”
Djura shrugged.
“But I imagine that now you'll be off in search of the Elden Ring, no?” the stranger continued. Without giving Djura the chance to reply, he continued, “Unfortunately for you, however, you appear to be Maidenless. Without guidance, without the power to turn runes to strength— indeed, without an invitation to the Roundtable Hold— you are fated, it seems, to die in obscurity.”
“Is that such a bad thing?” Djura quipped as the stranger paused to take a breath.
That seemed to punch all the wind from the man's sails, resulting in a bewildered, “Pardon?”
Shrugging with one shoulder, Djura didn't elaborate, merely gesturing for him to continue. For a moment, the man just stared at him. Then he began to wring his hands together as if anxious, resuming, “Luckily for you, there is one shining ray of hope for even the Maidenless— me. Varré. Are you familiar with Grace?”
“That the little light back there?” Djura replied, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
The stranger— Varré, apparently— seemed to brighten, nodding. “The golden light gives life— gives meaning to you Tarnished. It’s rays will guide you to where you are meant to go— even if it leads you to your grave.”
Holding up a hand to stop the man, Djura asked, “What're you trying to sell me, Varré?”
“... Pardon?”
“Look,” he sighed, pushing his cap back a bit, “When you get to be my age, you've spun around the mulberry bush a few times. I know most folks don't wander up to lost strangers all helpful-like the way you have— not without something to gain. So why don't we cut to the chase, eh? Tell me what you're thinking you'll get outta me.”
Varré's hands squeezed together so tightly Djura heard his gloves squeak against each other. After a moment, the man straightened up and declared, “I wish to test your mettle, and see if you might be worthy of recruiting to my cause.”
“That cause being?” Djura asked patiently.
Another squeak. He got the distinct impression that Varré was grinding his teeth, as well. “Perhaps, if you prove worthy, I shall tell you.”
“Pity,” Djura hummed, turning away, “I've little interest in swearing away what little life's left in these bones to someone unable to be upfront and honest.”
Varré didn't say anything as Djura left, studying the little motes of golden light. ‘Grace,’ Varré had called it. Lacking any other name at the moment, Djura figured it would do. It seemed to be pointing him off sort of northwest. He'd explore that later. First, he wanted to get the lay of the land.