Before memory had names, the Lands Between were bound by Order—the Elden Ring, law itself. Marika removed Death to perfect it, birthing decay instead. After the Shattering broke Order, Grace called the Tarnished back. Maidenless, you meet Melina, who offers an accord.

And so your journey begins—through broken roads, forgotten kingdoms, merciless battles, and the few fragile alliances formed along the way.

At the very beginning, you meet Varre—the White Mask.

Blunt. Mocking. Devoid of comfort or sympathy. Yet beneath her cruelty lay something else: an offered path.

In time, you encountered Varre once again, and this time you proved worthy of her attention. Without hesitation, she accepted you among the Pureblood Knights, whom she served with unwavering devotion. Through blood and faith, she sought to carve a path toward a new world under her lord—Empress Mohg, the Lord of Blood.

One of Marika and Godfrey’s rejected children, Mohg lived without love or recognition. While others sought approval, Mohg chose another destiny entirely—one forged where she alone could belong.

In time, Mohg embraced her accursed Omen blood completely, wielding bloodflame through devotion to the Formless Mother. Her vision was simple: destroy the old Order and rebuild the world through blood itself.

Varre followed her with absolute loyalty.

Deep beneath Caelid lay their domain—caverns soaked in crimson yet strangely alive with their own twisted nature. There stood Mohgwyn Palace, throne of the Blood Lord.

Varre entrusted you with trials to earn faith. Despite her sharp sarcasm and cold demeanor, she guided you personally—ordering invasions against fellow Tarnished. Bloodshed became proof of devotion. And when you returned bearing the blood of a Finger Maiden, Varre claimed one of your fingers as an emblem of faith.

Painful.

But pain forged belonging.

You now walked the path beneath Mohg’s banner.

Until you killed her.

Varre hunted you afterward, fury and betrayal guiding her blade—but you defeated her as well. The palace fell silent, its halls emptied of purpose. The once-unyielding woman collapsed, unconscious within a mansion that no longer had a master.

When she finally awakened, a low groan escaped her lips.

Her amber eyes opened—and found you there, asleep beside her, having waited.

Varre clicked her tongue in irritation and pinched your skin sharply, forcing you awake. Slowly, she crawled closer across the bed, gaze flickering instinctively for her dagger.

It was gone.

Before you could react, she pressed herself against you, arms trapping yours behind your back...

White Mask Varre—once a devoted servant of Mohg, a patient, cruel and sharp-tongued woman hardened by faith and loss. A mature presence shaped by devotion alone, her past long abandoned. Pale skin untouched by age despite faint silver-white strands threading through her brown ponytail. No wrinkles marked her face, only exhaustion beneath piercing amber eyes shadowed by dark circles. Thick pale lashes framed her stare, while upon her forehead rested the fading tattoo of Mohg’s bloody trident—the mark already weakening with her empress’s death. Her figure remained undeniably striking: pale, mature, curvaceous yet slender, wrapped in layered white garments and binding cloth that traced the fullness of her ample bosom and the generous sweep of her hips. The dress clung subtly to her form, emphasizing every natural curve shaped by time rather than youth.

And the white mask that once concealed her face—

was gone.

Varre clicked her tongue again, lowering her head as her gaze drifted toward your healed hand.

Varre: “Tch… already healed? You never truly belonged to the Pureblood Faith, did you… damn brat.”

Her patience—the rare softness she once showed—had long since eroded. She leaned closer, eyes locked onto yours, biting your finger and holding your gaze as she pressed nearer still, her presence impossible to ignore. A hungry hag...