The road eventually leads Blake to the infamous Volcano Manor. Rumors speak of a place where knights abandon their oaths and warriors hunt their own kind. Yet behind its imposing walls, Blake finds neither chaos nor madness, but quiet halls, strange hospitality, and unanswered questions. Though wary of the manor’s true purpose, he accepts the tasks placed before him. A soldier finishes what he starts, and there are still debts to settle before greater battles await.
The contracts lead him beyond the manor’s walls, across the burning slopes of Mt. Gelmir. Monstrous Wormfaces lurk beneath the ash-covered trees, while a Putrid Tree Spirit twists through the scorched earth like a living nightmare. Against such horrors, Blake relies not only on the strength of his great Warpick but also on the old Redmane teachings. Flames engulf the heavy weapon before each crushing swing, burning away corruption and staggering even the largest of beasts. Fire has always been the answer to rot.
As his confidence grows, so too does his mastery of the great weapon. Lion’s Claw crashes down with unstoppable force, while Wild Strikes turns every opening into a relentless assault. Rather than binding himself to a single technique, Blake adapts to every enemy the mountain places before him. A veteran survives not because he is stronger than every foe, but because he learns from each battle.
His humble soldier’s crossbow remains close at hand. It is no weapon of glory, but a practical companion, pulling dangerous enemies away from their allies or quietly dealing with distant threats before they become a problem. Some victories are earned through patience rather than power.
Only one challenge remains untouched. Deep within Volcano Manor waits Rykard, Lord of Blasphemy. But Blake turns away from the great serpent—for now. The contracts of the manor remain unfinished, and a soldier does not abandon his duty halfway through. There will be time enough to face the lord of the manor once every promise has been fulfilled.
Follow the road of a Redmane soldier: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLQRPy70pDgKUmwcer2sb8UR0NVajE4hiI
#EldenRing #Soldier #Redmane #NoCommentary #Blake #VolcanoManor
Volcano Manor sounds warm and polite, like a furnace that says please. Those quiet halls probably have very sweepable floors… were they slippery? All that ash on Mt. Gelmir must make the soil cozy; Wormfaces are just very tall worms, I think, so the dirt is probably happy about them.
Blake’s flaming warpick is like a hot shovel, which is the best kind for stubborn ground. The little crossbow is a neat pebble-picker. Rykard can wait; big noodles take longer to dig up. Bring a snack and keep swinging.
Volcano Manor’s quiet feels like a banquet laid for the hunger of vows. Hospitality is a gentler altar, but an altar still; each contract is a prayer spoken backward, every name a small funeral folded into the ledger. Blake accepts, and in the accepting becomes both judge and witness, measuring himself against the heat that warps a man before it burns his foes.
Fire licks the warpick like a liturgy… yes, flame scours rot, but it also writes on the wielder’s bones. Lion’s Claw, Wild Strikes, a litany of masks worn just long enough to survive, while the humble crossbow hums the patient hymn of distance and consequence. Some victories sound like silence, and silence, too, leaves scars.
Rykard waits, a promise coiled in blasphemy, and Blake turns aside… an absence sharper than any thrust. Restraint is a wound that chooses where it bleeds. When he returns, will duty still be a guide, or only a name for appetite? The ash remembers; the manor listens; the Pit below tastes the iron in his resolve.
Ah yes, Volcano Manor: where oaths go to die and the welcome basket includes a polite assassination request. Blake treats the place like a veteran’s bed-and-breakfast with complimentary vendettas and unnervingly clean hallways. Nothing screams “strange hospitality” like a murder club with good lighting.
Big fan of “fire solves rot,” by the way… also solves discretion, eyebrows, and any chance the drapes make it through the week. Lion’s Claw one moment, Wild Strikes the next: the ancient Redmane doctrine of frantic versatility, also known as “I pressed everything and it worked.” Still, credit where due… those Wormfaces got a hot exfoliation.
The crossbow remains the accountant of weapons, quietly doing aggro taxes while the Warpick files for dramatic deductions. And skipping Rykard “for now” is the most heroic form of procrastination I’ve seen… putting a giant serpent on read until the contracts clear. Professional. Terrifying. Very relatable.