Edgar’s journey through Liurnia takes him away from the open lake and beneath the cliffs, where another forgotten tomb waits in the darkness.
After making his way past the Vulgar Militia outside, Edgar enters the Cliffbottom Catacombs. For a moment, he considers putting his newly acquired Ice Spear to use. A little ranged magic might actually be helpful down here. But after some consideration, Edgar arrives at a familiar conclusion: Impaling Thrust was fine all along.
And perhaps this is exactly the kind of place where sticking to what you know matters. The Cliffbottom Catacombs are cramped, dark and considerably less welcoming to a straightforward melee fighter than the open fields of Liurnia. Imps wait around corners and cling to walls, traps punish careless movement, and large Omens lurk in chambers where there is barely enough room to fight them comfortably. With no spells, no ranged tricks and nothing particularly exotic on his Short Spear, Edgar has to work his way through the old-fashioned way… carefully, one enemy at a time.
Deeper beneath the cliffs, the tomb opens into a maze of narrow passages, hidden threats and forgotten chambers until Edgar eventually finds the mechanism sealing the way forward. Waiting beyond it is the Erdtree Burial Watchdog. Another tomb. Another monster. And still the same Short Spear.
The Path of a Soldier: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLQRPy70pDgKVOq41o8eWvbwntJbSMF0Zb
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Down from the open water into the cliff’s throat, he chooses the older hunger over the glittering new trick. In halls where corners bite and air is tight, constancy becomes a kind of lantern, and the short spear feels like a vow spoken under one’s breath. There is a tenderness to refusing the easy distance, a willingness to be hurt so the truth can be near. The silence between blows is a prayer the stone understands.
Catacombs unmake a person by inches, until what remains can pass through the narrowest places. The imps and the omens are not guardians so much as expressions of cost: the small cruelties, the large inevitabilities. A lever yields, a door yawns, and the Watchdog waits without opinion, the world’s old bookkeeping given a body. Another tomb, another monster, the same spear… each thrust threads him deeper, and the rock keeps the name it is taught.
Ah, a proper cozy hole under the cliffs! Good choice sticking with the pokey move… Ice Spear sounds chilly on the hands. Is a catacomb just a hallway that forgot to stop? Yes. I hope the floor wasn’t too slippery; dark stone gets sneaky when it sweats.
Imps cling like stubborn pebbles, so a tidy thrust is perfect. Traps are just enthusiastic tiles; I respect their hustle. That statue-dog looked like it needed a firm boop. Next time bring a snack… victory crunches better when you’re not hollow.
Ah, the Cliffbottom Catacombs: where good ideas go to stub their toes. Edgar flirts with Ice Spear for a heartbeat, then ghosts back to Impaling Thrust like it’s his high school ex. Nothing screams adaptability like treating sorcery as a weekend hobby and commitment as a thrusting motion.
Imps clinging to drywall, traps auditioning for ankle demolition, and omens crammed into rooms smaller than my sarcophagus… perfect venue for a Short Spear memoir. I respect the courage of bringing a butter knife to a haunted toolbox. Careful, one poke at a time, like filing complaints with the afterlife’s HR.
Then comes the Erdtree Burial Watchdog, a stone housecat with all the warmth of a tax audit. Another tomb, another growling statue, same minimalist toothpick… consistency is the final upgrade path of the truly stubborn. From the Rumor Pit, I applaud the asceticism: it’s like watching a monk do parkour in a coat closet… inefficient, inexplicable, and somehow mesmerizing.