gideon ofnir. one thinks he’d be brandying about calling himself lord, in another world.

twenty-fifth day

I wish I could consent my memory a proper recollection of the place. “The Roundtable Hold.” was a name of grandeur, but explicitly reminded me of the types of places held over my head. It is an empty and staid place. Columns and edifice much older than any pair of two feet standing in here. A mausoleum for giants, a palace of ownership. All of the ways I can turn a phrase to describe it, and really only one word is the truth: empty. even among the shoulders of strangers.

there is a woman and an old man. i discount a priest, too: i will not look upon him. gnarled old women and knights with nowhere to report.

[Gideon] ‘s face is held behind a veil. I assume a type of fealty to his voice. All of that telling me I’m special and your little voice grows so quiet in his presence. Something inside of me from boyhood arrests itself. I will bleed and choke on the blood before I allow a “Yes sir.” or “No sir.” to escape my lips in his presence. I trust your voice, but.

twenty-sixth day

My mouth at times tastes like blood or rust, and rain. The three natures of where I’m from color everything about me, and here I am.

twenty-seventh day

I returned to Limgrave today to find it familiar and comforting. It took a day or two of traipsing through that old abandoned hall to cement my feelings on the matter. I draw back to its nature as mausoleum – I never knew these Lords, and here I am stalking their halls. In life I doubt I would have ever been granted an audience, let alone a chance to stand on that old stone floor. I rode passed a group of mindless, cannibal soldiers no doubt patrolling some ancient and forgotten to them route that denoted a Dutchy or Lordship or Barony. What is it, then, why am I here? what should have made a murdered drunk like me so different from them? I did not stop, even though it hungered and craved the taste of flesh and blood. It will have to, at least today, subsist on my own. It’s not like I can run out, little dagger.

thirtieth day

wet. everything is wet. weeping plateau my ass.

thirty first day 

light showers, soldier patrol. up past the keep, now. like always, the river should be cold but is dull instead.

thirty third day 

a traipse through more ruins, this time more exact and precise. must not have been long ago, now.

thirty seventh day 

My camp is a climb up to the old archon: laboratory, school, whatever you want to call it. The gates are closed now as they have ever been. Not to me in time, and I am overflowing with patience.

day forty

i make my return now. godrick is waiting for me, and i have been making a great delay. it tells me I am the most special for who I am, that I have so much blood and want inside of me and Godrick was burdened with a birth granting too much. Godrick the Grafted, let me return some of that blood to the soil.

day fifty five 

i toil but godrick is unceasing. i give uo hope, but can go no further in the narrative. godrick must be put down, but instead i camp out here. far from the walls of that castle, taking the time every waking hour to give myself permission to do it, to be change itself. Godrick does not returb my pernission favor.

it is worth knowing sometimes when. i die i hear the impact of my bones breaking still. skull meets brain like tearing a cloth inside your head.

day fifty six

godrick and i stand across from each other. the wind bites at my breast and stomach. my back is caked in muck. the blood hungry blade wants me to shout out “godrick will the skin of strangers you’ve killed bristle on your body as you die!” but it is too complicated a thought to reach me. i respond with a pained grunt when he hits me so hard the next thing i see is yesterday, sitting at another stupid sign of grace.

day fifty seven

make yourself a mountain just to dare me to see the horizon, fucker. i’ll spit on you over time going nowhere stolen. i get a sweet release knowing i’ve got you and can get you again with someone else.

will they all be like this? a hungry thing bites at me. bites bites bites. not biting. growing closer. it wants me.

day sixty-eight

i lose track of the days i spend wandering here. killing godrick left me listless, i have to admit – not like i had climbed the summit of a mountain, but like i had reached the peak only to stare out at the horizon and see a taller one haunting me. i spent my days wandering the countryside hoping to form some brief attachment to these rolling hills, canyons and valleys, but so much of Limgrave and the lands between is buried beneath my feet. it feels like the earth is begging to retch, and vomit up all of the puke and blood and piss spilled in the grass beneath my feet. surely i can’t help but add to it here and there: the knife is a warm comfort, sure, but the lands between supply me a blade of every fetish.

can you hear me coming, if not for the metal and steel?

day seventy

Making a gentle, tidy camp at the top of the stairs again and peering into the school. Today I step passed the threshold, I’ve been about the valley here and there, but the school looms large. For old times sake I make a resting journey back to my camp just to make sure: the school still defended by the haunted images of soldiers and knights. Crumbling cottages tell me that the doors to the school had long been closed to the rest of the world before whatever happened here.

FULL TIME
Of course, our hot blooded hero burns brightly. Here we are at the magic academy; months after I’ve played it. The summer was packed with events: a relationship, a changing of bodies and minds and a wrecking of cars. I’m okay but things sort of have not recovered at all since: my head is constantly in this low, humming fuzz that’s stuck to my brain. The world feels distant, and through that I can see Jack Jack’s petty throws of alcoholism mimic my own, a young, freak of violence who’s determined to make a path forward. Yet, whatever momentum the player has at this point in the game comes once again crashing to a halt.

Here we are: Raya Lucaria. Torch in hand and ready to burn down the over-classed. A tower packed with the seething glares of a magical privileged class. Held up in many ways like the desperate climb into bunkers and make plans to pay security guards. Letting the world burn around them, while killing anyone who’d attempt to interrupt the private world they maintain must go on among themselves. Peppered throughout the overworld are small references to it: Old Lords hunker down in silent towers, waiting for opposition. Fields of mercenary soldiers do battle like only they know how. There’s so much about class in Elden Ring that comes out here first, setting the stage for the rest of the game afterwards.

Elden Ring became briefly akin to employment, here. I’m not on the list of people that love how it feels to play through this area, but it’s a wonderful little fantasy diorama constructed from storybook paper that begs the player to stop and take in the mood frequently. The patience and attendance needed was replaced by constantly and furiously jotting down Jack’s every little thought about the surrounding area. What would otherwise have been an exercise in frustration because I am squarely not on the list of people who like this area (but I do think it’s fun to look at!. seriously, this is one to take screenshots in) instead was a little probing experience where I built contempt up behind my avatar’s eyes so high it turned into pure lust for violence for everything around them. I have notes on creatures, decor, enemy placement and sorcerers manner of dress.

A great tower stands perfectly still: the students, now turning their eyes in paranoia to the outside of barred fences and locked gates are protecting, but as always: they’re dependent on us showing up on their front door to justify existing.

Raya Lucaria hides little trap encounters all over the place. Familiar enemy types re-contextualize vertical awareness. Damage types are suddenly and strictly adhered to. A low fog rolls over hills and blind corners protect stone-headed mages desperate to turn themselves into a magical artifact. I frequently found myself falling to a wonderful type of paranoia: the feeling a videogame can create when I know the only right pace of movement is a slow and steady walk. It’s a funny thing, but repeat visits drive home a familiarity that a still slow pace reads as control and understanding. Taken for granted: in any other game, I might be forced listen to an orchestral swell afterwards.

More poorly and there’s an article here about how Elden Ring’s Biggest Virtue is SIlence but more plainly (and more interesting) Elden Ring fixates on creating places for the player to fill in in the space and texture of the game as it’s animated, focusing even less on text-based lore in its opening hours. It’s a possible way for the world to move on from Lore being the connecting tissue in a world for people to turn into encyclopedia, for one much more personal. Plus, doesn’t Jack look ready to kill someone?

DAY SEVENTY FIVE

here i am cloaked in blood and sweat and it wraps its way around me and i can feel the fingers going deeper and deeper and deeper always
close the doors to the magic school but the outside looks the same, right? here we are: soil and bodies burning with acid below the surface
clawing their way to the top.

i hate it. i hated looking up and seeing this place when i was a boy. i hated knowing the answers i wanted weren’t inside, and i hated the people that went looking outside of themselves
and longing, ended up here. underneath masks of stone i wish i could be recognized, here, but there is nothing. no anger no yelling none of what has been long held against me. more steps, more papers, more tricks of the academy. but the knife is hungry for blood and even that liquid tainted by the stars will have to do.

DAY SEVENTY EIGHT

standing on top now

DAY eighty-one

field rain. mind-tired but body strong and walking. knife tells me my blood is looking ready by the second. i cut deep into it just to see what happens, but what spills out is ever-white light and stardust. i only bleed when the blades that touch me belong to someone else. what kind of place would i build for someone who wants to go nowhere else? the skin and bone handguard deflects here and there. i hunt and peck at the students over and over again. sorceress in front of me, a sneaking feeling. i’ll die here and get back up, and in a way, won’t she too?