Elden Ring: Putrefaction of Gold

Marika's Opus

Hewg didn't remember the last time he was allowed outside. Months perhaps when a group consisting of himself and other Misbegotten were marched from their homes towards the mines in the south. The long march through the rain and mud may have been days ago, years ago, or even decades ago.

It was hard to say. In the darkness and isolation of Morne tunnel, time all ran together.

All Hewg knew was that every day afterward was the same day as before. He stood at his anvil with his hammer in one hand and forged the very chains, link by link and yard by yard, that bound both him and his kind; the gray scaley misbegotten who were neither men nor beasts. Instead, they were more like a mismatched of parts; legs like goats that had feet with talons. Some with wings and others with scales. Their mouths were even misshaped into a hideous grin.

"There was a time we were blessed," said the Old Scaley Misbegotten.

These were the typical ramblings of the Old Scaely One. Each night, all gathered around her by the small fire and listened as she told of times before the Erdtree. Her capacity for detail captivated the younger ones, but it didn't mean she told the truth.

It was hard to remember that time. Everything that might have reminded Hewg of what it was like back then, was gone. Marika's reign as goddess meant that all signs of the crucible be gone. Villages were burned and rebuilt. Effigies were toppled. Every statue was replaced. Books were rewritten. Even the Great Tree itself was guilded in gold to show that Marika's reign was absolute. There was not one place in the whole Lands-Between where it was visible. Now even Hewg's memory was something he couldn't recall.

"Even as Marika spins new life, we are born. We are as much her children as the demigods," the Old Scaley One continued.

"Ha!" laughed Hewg. He had a fit of coughing after he burst out laughing. "Y'all think we are offspring of Queen Marika? Oh my dear, her beauty is unsurpassed. What would she have to breed with to make some stitched-together slags like us? Maybe a bird? Or perhaps a reptile of some kind? Maybe we were the ones last in line and all she had was spare parts?"

"You are cruel, Hewg," said the Old Scaley One and she slinked away.

"Aww, don't be mad. Wherever we come from, this is where we ended up," said Hewg as he began to pound his hammer again. "There ain't no going backward."

These stories had the power to spark a flicker of hope in the younger ones, but those sparks were all too often snuffed out by the Golden Order as though they never existed. To war against Marika, was to war against a goddess. As much as they wished to believe such a task was trivial, but if there was one thing Hewg recalled in his dimming memory it was this: a god was not so easily felled.

The guards' horns echoed down the tunnels to signal the end of the work day. Each Misbegotten lined up so to be counted and their finds checked to see if they met their quota. If anyone was too slow, whips made them go faster. Speaking was punishable by a beating. Blasphemy against Queen Marika was met with far worse.

When that was done, they were herded into the cramped steel cages where they would sleep.

Hewg lay on the hard dirt while he listened to the cries of his fellows as the guards disciplined them. He had grown too used to such noises of despair. The cries, moans, sighs and screams all were as normal to him as a birdsong might be for anyone else. And it reminded Hewg to continue to keep his head low and his hopes faint. If they were focused on those who failed to meet expectations or follow rules, then they would not focus on Hewg. He was free to have his private thoughts and his prayers.

He reached under and pulled out a pink handkerchief. The master's daughter, Irena, dropped it. A beautiful little child. When Hewg picked it up, he thought time and time again how he might best return it to her, as he was certain she must have missed it.