PermanentBuffCaption.fmg None DarkSouls3 False Cheat death a single time Depleted until next contact with grace A natural whetstone of high quality with a fine grain. A precious sharpening stone mined in Limveld. The clash with Night has spanned eons. And yet now, precious little time remains. A kernel of life that straddles the living and inanimate. Also known as a Larval Tear. Once, in the Lands Between, it was said to have granted one a new form. Liquid plant extract that is highly effective at repairing armaments. Harvested in indeterminate locations across the Lands Between, but only by those who are aware of its useful properties. This viscous oil can be extracted by squeezing the flower, seeds and all. Some call the liquid golden dew, owing to its lustrous yellow hue. The dying words of the apprentice Weathervane, addressed to a former mate. "Cap'n, I've found a wind that carries me farther, faster." Weathervane's fascinations changed like the days of the week, to the chagrin of the single-minded crew. But not being one for regrets, the first mate was unperturbed by what others said. Going by the self-appointed title of "apprentice of a great pirate," Weathervane found that dreams could come true, even if they might take a lifetime. No wonder she so cherished the wind. Altus flowers flush with nutrients and grace. Before, such flowers were commonplace on the Altus Plateau. The vibrant hues suggest that the flowers received plenty of sunlight, and appear to shine in an ode to the resplendent Erdtree. A golden seed, found at the base of an illusory tree. When the Elden Ring was shattered, these seeds flew from the Erdtree, scattering across the various lands, as if life itself knew that its end had come. A golden seed harboring a warm blessing. This one was found on a steep and snowy peak. This seed sprouted despite the harshness of its environment, like youthful potential blossoming in the crucible of adversity. Or, what may be called a miracle. A crystallized form of the power of Night. Though translucent, there is shadow-like patterning. Seemingly the traces of something eating away at it. The reach of the Night is limitless; its potential, immeasurable. Its touch indiscriminate, affecting any and all things. Whether one fears the Night, or welcomes it, depends upon the manner of contact. The breath of the Night rises and falls within this shard, ready to answer that which seeks to touch it. A clear sign of the Nightlord's presence, in the form of a terribly tattered rag. Burned and worn down over a span of time untold, the hint of an impression once made by the engraving of an old sealing stone can be seen, but it is no longer legible. And yet a lingering magic recalls something familiar. As if the impressed seal is being held intact by someone in mortal fear of the light's annulment. A finely-crafted streamlined arrowhead. Used by sellswords of the Fellowship. Said to be the choice weapon of the Monster, an inhuman assassin. A single word is written on each arrow, and when an arrow deals a death blow, the word becomes the epitaph of the fallen. To this day, the Monster lurks somewhere, unseen and unknown. An invitation from the traitor, sealed with the stamp of an assassin's contract. Inside the envelope, a single folded page contains a short message. "When the Nightlord nears, meet at the Roundtable." The Monster was aware of a looming threat, and welcomed the assassin Ironeye. A fragment of the spear of Fulghor, Champion of Nightglow. Imbued with holy essence through battles in Limveld. Can briefly, and only with very limited potency, grant its power to other armaments. When Those Who Live in Death are felled by the Order, they will never rise again. A doll that appears to have been adored by a young child. The doll's rough cloth is stained with rotting flesh and blood. Worn thin, as if it were held tightly all too often. A stone stake that opens a sealed-away lock. Crafted by an ancient civilization and claimed from a Guardian Golem. Still imbued with an old yet fading magic. Can open locks sealed in a similar manner to the golem. Annals detailing the histories of certain cursed weapons speak of a conflict far to the west. An account mentions one such accursed weapon called an Ictarus. "The blades shared an identical engraving. A symbol of the sorcery of a distant land. A script put down in blood." A brooch imbued with potent magic, made from the blood magic crystal received from the Recluse. This brooch powered the accursed Ictarus weapons that once robbed the Pinionfolk of flight. At first, this magic brooch, with its aura of unknowable power, was intended as a ceremonial tool to calm violent winds. But the war, for better or worse, demanded that it be employed otherwise, as a magic artifact to bring a swift end to the conflict. A blade fragment imbued with the power of Night. Crystals have formed on the broken edge. The dark substance slowly spreads, as if to restore the lost portion of the blade, or to sharpen the existing blade beyond its natural properties. Power of Night that failed to acquire a host. Droplets that sought to intermingle, and gathered in anticipation of a fitting host's welcome, only to be abandoned. Desire finds its way through a back door, and longing reveals one's true nature. Little doll, how long can you continue to resist? With its pin repaired, this earring has been fully restored. Such ornaments were worn for generations by a distant tribe. They are delicately embellished to cast a pattern when held up to light. Closely resembles one owned by the Wylder. Iron coins of a faraway land received from the Wylder. A nomadic tribe used these coins in trades with settled tribes to purchase supplies to support their isolated lifestyle. These coins, produced from the Wylder's pocket, are icily cold. A hand-crafted charm that is somehow unsettling. A gift from the apparitional merchant. Crafted in an unrehearsed, imitative manner, judging by the frayed fabric and numerous loose strings. Yet a charm is a charm, no matter the appearance. A dubious ledger used by a merchant, filled to the margins with detailed records of transactions. A recent bold entry stands out. "Ancient annals - Conveyed to a demon" A torn magic-warding braided cord. Worn by warriors for good luck on the eve of battle. The distinctive stone clasp suggests that it belonged to glory-seeking pirates. The legends surrounding the competing seafaring factions, who divided the seas into east and west, have been spoken of for generations in places near and far. %null% A necklace made from a thick rugged claw, with a shining black luster that instils fear in any who gaze upon it. Long ago, the Raider fought the king of the archipelago forest. He grappled the hulking beast with his iron grip, and flung him away, proving his strength. He claimed the king's broken claw as a trophy and testament to his victory. For a time, the Raider devoted himself to exploits on the high seas, but he tired of the unending struggle that never seemed to determine a clear victor. And so, he delivered the claw to his arch nemesis as an invitation to duel to the death. A coin from a former age received from a burly man. Treasure chests, brimming with such coins, are the stuff of pirates' dreams. Originally minted with imprints on both sides, the ornamentation has long since vanished owing to the covetous rubbing of thick-knuckled fingers. The coin recalls the man's worldly wisdom. "It's your journey. Take all the paths you like." A medal adorning a doll resembling a young girl. An extra decoration for the Revenant's garb. The silver shines with a brilliance that is both ceremonial and dignified. It recalls the girl's words. "With strength comes the burden of duty." Flatbread with a rich aroma offered by the Wylder. The traditional food of a nomadic tribe from a distant, vast grassland, passed down from mother to son. "I know this. The gently sweet and salty flavor of this pita." Annals detailing the histories of certain cursed weapons speak of a conflict far to the west. An account mentions one such accursed weapon called an Ictarus. "The blade leaves a wound that can never heal, owing to an ancient curse with the power to twist life. A frightful weapon concocted by a master of curses, under contract to an army determined to achieve victory." %null% A scrap of paper with a note on the White Horn, part of a legend of the coastal waters, written by a certain first mate. "Two seafarers, one from the west and the other from the east, were once locked in a fierce competition for influence. The White Horn ruled the west waters, while the Black Claw presided over the eastern seas. Upon the shore did they contend for seven days and seven nights to see which was the stronger. While each fought bravely, a clear victor felt undeterminable." An iron coin imbued with a small blessing by the priestess. Emits a faint warmth. The blessing would surely become a beacon to guide its bearer to its former owner. That it might save the dear brother who would be facing death in the world outside. With that wish, so was it endowed. To one who could not be said to be truly alive, but all the same was surely called a friend. A cracked brooch, bereft of its former magic. A blood magic crystal received from the Recluse. This brooch powered the accursed Ictarus weapons that once robbed the Pinionfolk of flight. The Guardian smashed the jewel at the core of this magic implement. To think it was once a mere ceremonial tool to calm violent winds. A small key featuring fine ornamentation. A fine work of craft made by Gillian, the Duchess' steward and de facto patron. The Duchess once lived under the Viscount's roof, where she applied herself as a virtuous thief. She locked the tools of her trade inside a box of prized possessions, which she hid in a dim cellar. This practice has not changed since coming to the Roundtable Hold. She yet keeps her secrets safe from prying eyes, concealing them in darkened corners. A scrap of paper detailing the "New Night" written in the tongue of an ancient people. The passage, torn from its former binding, reads: "The Priestess is the very cornerstone of the Roundtable—indispensable. Should the Nightlord fall, the Roundtable too will crumble, as their fates are together bound. Yet should the Roundtable be remade, perhaps the Priestess may be emancipated from her bindings. This might be done upon the falling of the "New Night," should the Lord's power be lost. And if so..." A single earring belonging to the Wylder. Rusted and encrusted with grime. Such ornaments were worn for generations by a distant tribe. They are delicately embellished to cast a pattern when held up to light. This appears to be one of a pair. A disturbing stone with a distinct lifelessness. The bone of an outer god with the power to expunge divine essence, but that can also be destroyed by the same essence. The choice was left to the witch. As per the wishes of the one who bestowed it. A thing with the properties of a Great Rune harbored by the Primordial Nightlord. The cutting-gifted tribe anticipated the coming night, and spent many a moon planning its prevention, concluding that their only chance at success was to cheat a god. They had glimpsed what they should not; the very sin of the Erdtree. For their trespass, so were they punished. The qualities of the Nightlord, bearing the manifest potential to alter fate itself. The light dimly reveals the contours—of a greater being that lies beyond the Nightlord. The qualities of the Nightlord, bearing the manifest potential to alter fate itself. The light dimly reveals the contours—of a greater being that lies beyond the Nightlord. The qualities of the Nightlord, bearing the manifest potential to alter fate itself. 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