#messmer means a lot to me

[prismatic-starstuff]

actually i love the fire knights as a concept

those who, among everyone in the land of shadow, know messmer; not messmer the impaler, just messmer

those who know of everything that he is, serpentine and cursed and more than just a symbol of hatred and a target to direct ire towards

those who see the loyalty and the kindness and the vulnerability before they see the brutality and the ruthlessness and the hostility

those who see all these things and serve anyway

those who look at messmer, rather than messmer the impaler, and serve faithfully because he's earned their faith

[tsuchinokoroyale]

Was soooooo happy with this phase 1 which is what made it so much funnier that I was immediately clapped by his phase 2 😂

[baekuras]

I also need people to know that just today I learned of the 'first dlc boss' aka the Dancing Lion

yeah

I killed Rellana before going there and only learned about it due to a random twitter post

i never even turned into that directions

[nuadha-airgeadlamh]

godhood and the nature of the world

For me some of the most interesting dialogue delivered in the DLC comes from Ymir when you ask him about the nature of the world:

"I fear that you have borne witness to the whole of it. The conceits – the hypocrisy – of the world built upon the Erdtree. The follies of men. Their bitter suffering. Is there no hope for redemption? The answer, sadly, is clear. There never was any hope. They were each of them defective. Unhinged, from the start. Marika herself. And the fingers that guided her. And this is what troubles me. No matter our efforts, if the roots are rotten, …then we have little recourse."

Immediately upon hearing this dialogue I thought of the item description for the Mending Rune of Perfect Order:

"The current imperfection of the Golden Order, or instability of ideology, can be blamed upon the fickleness of the gods no better than men. That is the fly in the ointment."

I think Ymir and Goldmask are essentially stating the same fundamental ideas here, and that these ideas hit upon a key theme of the entire game: human beings should not become gods.

Marika's traumatic origins are laid bare at the Bonny and Shaman Villages. The extermination of her people through such disturbing means no doubt left her horribly scarred. The spirit in the Whipping Hut spells out how the Potentates treated the Shaman:

"For pity's sake, your place is in the jar. Nigh-sainthood itself awaits your within. For shamans like you, this is your lot. Life were you accorded for this alone."

And the Minor Erdtree incantation demonstrates her bereavement:

Marika bathed the village of her home in gold, knowing full well that there was no one to heal.

We know, too, from Ymir that the Fingers were just as broken as Marika, the children of an abandoned mother.

"Do you recall what I said? That Marika, and the fingers that guided her, were unsound from the start. Well, the truth lies deeper still. It is their mother who is damaged and unhinged. The fingers are but unripe children. Victims in their own right. We all need a mother, do we not? A new mother, a true mother, who will not give birth to further malady."

And the Staff of the Great Beyond gives us further context behind this:

The Mother received signs from the Greater Will from the beyond of the microcosm. Despite being broken and abandoned, she kept waiting for another message to come.

Marika's ascension to godhood placed a traumatized person in a position of ultimate power. Yes, the Hornsent did terrible, unspeakable things to the Shaman people and employed a truly brutal inquisition, but there is no excuse for what Marika did to them through her Crusade. There is no excuse for what she did to the Hornsent, or to the Fire Giants, or to any of the victims of the Golden Order's colonizing mission. The game makes this abundantly clear. Did Hornsent's wife and child deserve to die by Messmer's flames? Does the Hornsent Grandam deserve to remain alone and abandoned, her home crumbling around her? What about the Dried Bouquet, a talisman you find in Belurat:

A quaint bouquet of dried flowers, offered to a small grave.

Raises attack power when a spirit you have summoned dies.

The sorrow that flows from the untimely demise of a loved one is a tenderness shared by all, regardless of birthplace.

The game even draws parallels between the Hornsent Inquisition and the Golden Order's torture methods in the description of the Ash of War: Golden Crux on the Greatsword of Damnation:

Leap up and skewer foe from overhead. If successful, the weapon's barbs unfold to excruciate from within; else, additional input releases barbs in the area. There is something of the Golden Order in the sight of those fixed upon this crux.

After dark, does Limgrave not fill with the screams of the crucified? There is no perfect society— there is no society whose crimes warrant absolute extermination. By giving her the capacity for limitless violence, godhood has made Marika into the perpetrator of some of the greatest crimes in the Lands Between.

We see this effect happening in real time through Miquella's story. While his ideology may initially seem admirable — redemption for those oppressed by the Golden Order, redemption for the Hornsent — on his road to godhood, he abandons everything that matters. The path to godhood is an inherently dehumanizing process and requires of Miquella for him to cast aside everything that makes him him.

Ymir says about Miquella that:

"Ever-young Miquella saw things for what they were. He knew that his bloodline was tainted. His roots mired in madness. A tragedy if ever there was one. That he would feel compelled to renounce everything. When the blame…lay squarely with the mother."

What I believe Ymir is articulating here is that Miquella seeks to atone for his mother's crimes and remove the corrupt order by usurping her position as god, even though he personally is not to blame for these deeds. Hornsent states similar ideas:

"Miquella has said as much himself – he wishes now to throw it all away. He says the act – though undoubtedly painful – will sear clean the Erdtree’s wanton sin. The truth of his claim can be found at each cross. Tis evidence enough to earn my belief."

"Uphold his covenant Miquella shall, and in godhood redeem our rueful clan. Then Marika, and vilest Erdtree both, will at last be from divinity wrench’d."

But in order to replace Marika, Miquella must also commit terrible crimes: he abandons his other half, he beguiles even those who would oppose him into being his very own blind followers. He charmed Mohg and violated his corpse, and Radahn's consent in this whole matter is dubious. In trying to make up for Marika's atrocities by becoming god of a new, kinder age, Miquella leaves behind a whole host of his own sins.

I believe that "the conceits – the hypocrisy – of the world built upon the Erdtree" and "the fickleness of the gods no better than men" are addressing this same idea. Miquella and Marika are no more special or inherently better than anyone else; they become fickle gods and establish hypocritical orders because no human being is perfect enough to wield absolute power with an even hand. Even Ymir himself falls prey to this thinking: he believes he can be a better mother than the ones before him, but he is just as broken as he rightfully points out they were.

This theme goes hand-in-hand with the story's emphasis on the Tarnished as the new inheritors of the Lands Between. From the very beginning, it establishes that it is the Tarnished who are chosen to succeed Radagon as Elden Lord, not the demigods. The intro cinematic announces this:

"Arise now, ye Tarnished. Ye dead, who yet live. The call of long-lost grace speaks to us all. Hoarah Loux, chieftan of the badlands. The ever-brilliant Goldmask. Fia, the Deathbed Companion. The loathsome Dung Eater. And Sir Gideon Ofnir, the All-knowing. And one other. Whom grace would again bless. A Tarnished of no renown. Cross the fog, to the Lands Between. To stand before the Elden Ring. And become the Elden Lord."

Enia translates for the Fingers that the Greater Will itself has abandoned the demigods:

"The Greater Will has long renounced the demigods. Tarnished, show no mercy. Have their heads. Take all they have left."

We the "Tarnished of no renown" enter the story at a major crossroads. The time of fickle Marika and her warring demigods is over: by the time we defeat Radagon and the Elden Beast, she is only an empty husk. We are ushering in a new age in which gods are no longer the primary overlords of the Lands Between, in which the power is vested in ordinary people.

I think the array of endings offered up to us further demonstrates this point. Every unique ending, save one, is based around the ideology of a Tarnished, whether it be Goldmask, Fia, Dungeater, or you as the Lord of Frenzied Flame. The only ending themed around a demigod is Ranni's. I've seen people complain before about how you can't side with the demigods and bring about the worlds they envision —Mohg's Age of Blood, Miquella's Age of Compassion, Rykard's destruction of the very gods themselves— but I think this goes against the primary themes of Elden Ring's story. The time of Marika and her demigods is over: now rises the age of the Tarnished. This is why Ranni succeeds where her siblings fail: she wants no power for herself because she, too, recognizes that nothing good can come of a human becoming a god. She explains as much:

"_Mine will be an order not of gold, but the stars and moon of the chill night. I would keep them far from the earth beneath our feet. As it is now, life, and souls, and order are bound tightly together, but I would have them at great remove. And have the certainties of sight, emotion, faith, and touch… All become impossibilities."

Ranni does not wish to become the god of the Greater Will and the worshipped figurehead of the Golden Order. She wishes to set herself apart so that she cannot interfere in the affairs of the Lands Between, unlike Marika and her regime. Ranni's ending reinforces the agency of the Tarnished, while Mohg and Miquella and Rykard's endings still focus around themselves.

Godhood is a dehumanizing force that turns individuals into the most corrupt versions of themselves; the main story sees us supplanting the old, rotten order of the gods as an exiled nobody.

And I think there's no better summation of these themes than Ansbach's dying words:

"Righteous Tarnished. Become our new lord. A lord not for gods, but for men."

[ghostofashina]

In the absence of guidance of golden grace, there's guidance in death.

There's a lot of death symbolism around Messmer that, in a first moment, didn't get my attention, until I saw the skull on his own armor, hidden inside his cloak and, even in the second phase, hidden by a snake, as if it was some sort of a remind he keeps to himself. It is a detail made for him to guard, not for us to see. And despite it being a sad reminder, it can bring comfort.

The Tibia Mariner's boats is everywhere to be seen at Shadow Keep. They all burn with a golden flame to evoke the Grace they've lost once Marika abandoned them.

And it's easy to deduce why they are there: it's a funeral homage, a rite of passage for those who perished fighting the Crusades. All the soldiers that died fighting that holy war and their only reward was death.

Once the Lands of Shadow was sealed, they knew they would never return home. It's said even the nobles knights that sworn loyalty to Messmer were abandoned by their own houses. A spirit, once we kill the golden hyppo, refuses to believe the undeniable truth: they were abandoned both by Grace and Marika. They were left to die alone and death is all they can expect in those lands.

But there's guidance in Death. Now it does.

The Tibia Mariner's summons says: "The dead have long been left to wander. What they need is leadership." For ages, the dead lacked the leadership and, therefore, the guidance of said leader. Until now. They have a Prince to call their own.

And it's Messmer's brother. And he knows it. Because he buried the brothers-in-arms he cared the most, despite their rebellion against him, within the same catacombs where his brother's corpse grew.

Because Messmer knew the Prince of Death would guide his men in death. They would no longer be left to wander as they were in Lands of Shadows, forsaken and alone. They would have someone to watch over them, to guide them. And it's his very brother.

Which makes me think that even the flooded part of Shadow Keep holds a similar meaning. Death is strictly connected to water. We have the boats seeking a path to cross. We have the Prince with fish features residing in water. Death resides in water. And we, as player, must drain the water to explore the structure. We find a Marika statue submerged. They flooded the castle not only because its safer, but to keep death close.

As a reminder, as a guidance.

And that's why Messmer has a skull hidden in his clothes. To remind himself that his only path is death. There's nothing more waiting for him but death, that comes with us, the tarnished. But, at least, in death there's a comfort. In death, he wouldn't be alone or forsaken. There is somone he knows. There's family. There's comfort in death. His brother is there.

[thewisecheerio]

Messmer's Insignia

This is Messmer's insignia, stamped all over his Keep, as well as his soldiers' shields and tents. This post is going to be a canon-compliant lore analysis, meaning that not all of this will be explicitly mentioned in canon but will attempt to be compliant with what we do know explicitly.

There are a few important elements coming together to make the insignia: 1. The left-hand flame 2. The right-hand woven ring 3. The outer ring 4. The overlaid, central spear

I'd like to pick these apart in the same way you might pick apart a heraldic coat of arms to look at what each piece might mean individually, as well as what the placement of some elements relative to others might symbolize.

The Left-Hand Flame

Along with the horizontal panel of flames, this is obviously symbolic of Messmer's flame. However, I do want to note that you can absolutely see a cute little winged serpent shape hidden in the flame's design with its head on the right, its tail on the left, and the central portion of the flame forming a wing. (Or maybe it's a dragon. Or maybe I need to seek help for my advanced brainrot, which is causing me to see things. You decide!) Given that Messmer's Phase 1 design—and his public persona—is a mixture of flame and specifically winged serpents, this seems an apt way to capture both ideas in one. A bit on the nose maybe, but hey, his day job is genocide, not graphic design (insert obligatory gRaPhIc dEsIgN iS mY pAsSiOn here).

The Right-Hand Ring

Many people have connected this to Marika's circlet, which I'm not sure I see. Her circlet is a lot more angularly braided, rather than the smooth coil shown here. Plus, I think that Marika's circlet is supposed to be similar to Miquella's Circlet of Light, in that it signifies a (fully) divine aspect of the wearer—something Messmer assuredly is not, since he is a demigod without grace (or, at least, with only the artificial grace bestowed by Marika's seal alone). But either way, none of what I'm about to say contradicts this interpretation, and you can have both be true at the same time.

Rather, I think a different interpretation might be that this is intertwined serpents, similar to the shape his own winged serpents make as they coil around his body. The winged serpent is typically a symbol of Caduceus in alchemical lore, of which Elden Ring is rife. The Caduceus is explicitly two intertwined snakes topped with wings. So that seems like the most straightforward interpretation for what this might be a nod to.

To learn more about Caduceus's role in alchemy, I highly recommend the two videos linked below by Max Derrat and Smoughtown. But the short of it is that the binding ritual that produces a rebis—a divine, single (merged) soul of masculine and feminine energies (e.g. Marika/Radagon)—requires some sort of binding material to happen properly. In alchemical lore, this binding material is the "prima materia", or the formless base of all matter in the universe associated with chaos and the void. The material is often referred to as Mercurius, named for the god Mercury who carries a Caduceus staff. Thus, we end up with binding/prima materia = Mercurius = Caduceus = 2 intertwined serpents.

(Side note: This is also an EXCELLENT reason to believe that Messmer is the son of Marika and Radagon. The White Queen and Red King of alchemy are often shown with the Caduceus between them, which would seem to fit well with the idea of Marika and Radagon having a child between them that is associated with dual serpents.)

I also think there is a connection to the (singular) base serpent by way of the alchemical Caduceus, however. Besides the prima materia/uniting matter, Caduceus is also often used as a symbol of duality. Namely, it is a symbol of the tension between "higher" and "base" desires, with the former being associated with wisdom and the latter being associated with chaos. We absolutely see this in Messmer's lore, as we learn from the Winged Serpent Helm that his winged serpents act as wise friends that keep his base serpent in check. As such, the duality of the Caduceus may also represent the duality of the winged and base serpents. So this coiled symbol involving two snakes might also represent the singular base serpent indirectly, making it function like an image-based palimpsest. When we peel back the layers of one, we find evidence of the other.

The Outer Ring

I mostly think this is just meant to be a uniting graphical element. However, it is cute that it kind of evokes the imagery of a Great Rune, all of which are rings. Messmer does not have a Great Rune, as he did not participate in the shattering. So instead of an actual Great Rune, he ends up with this imitation insignia instead. Adorable. Maybe this is why his otherwise heraldic-looking insignia was designed as a circle instead of the more classical forms that heraldic coats-of-arms tend to take.

The Central Spear

In the center of the insignia, we get a spear wrapped with a singular(?) serpent. The question mark is there because we do not actually see the serpent tail, so you would be reasonable to question whether this is truly a singular serpent, or something like an unending ouroboros. (Or, you know, both.) I'm going to go forward with the assumption that this is a singular serpent. Cutely, the head of the spear forms the serpent's head.

Obviously, the most straightforward part is that the spear is Messmer's spear, the Spear of the Impaler. I find it highly apt that the spear *overlays* the other elements of the insignia, almost dominating them. War is definitely the thing Messmer is most publicly known for, as a myriad of NPCs—both spirit and corporeal—curse him for the honorless war that he has wrought without mentioning much else about him. Meanwhile, his internal relationship with his flame and serpentine nature is something really only known privately. After all, the Fire Knight set tells us that it was only those few knights under his personal command that knew the truth of how he felt regarding his flame and his serpentine nature.

Armor of the Fire Knights under Messmer the Impaler's personal command. Distinguished by its red cape and twin golden snakes which adorn the neck, enhancing incantations of Messmer's flame. These were the only ones who truly knew Messmer. His flames, like serpents. The painful fate that accompanied his accursed form.

Building on this, the dominating nature of this graphical element is important in another way. The flame and other serpent imagery seems to be something intrinsic to Messmer: he was born with a serpentine nature, and was either born with or cursed with flame very early in his existence, too. Meanwhile, war is something that was *imposed upon him* as a request by his mother, as we learn from his armor set. He doesn't do genocide just because he enjoys fighting like Godfrey or Radahn; rather, he does it on behalf of Marika and ends up pretty sad, tired, and self-hating because of it. In this way, warfare ends up as an intrusive element in his life, similar to the way the spear almost seems to be a dominating, nearly intrusive element in the insignia's design.

The serpent coiled around the spear is also really interesting, because it appears to be a singular serpent in contrast to the dual coil on the right. The most straightforward interpretation is that this is a nod to his hidden inner nature as the (singular) base serpent.

Given what we learned above about the Caduceus itself symbolizing a tension between higher and base desires—and repeated in Messmer's story as tension between the wise winged serpents and base serpent—I find it apt that the snake more associated with base desires is the one wrapped around the tool of war. I enjoy the link between warfare and base desires, as it ties into Elden Ring's overall themes around cycles of violence, explicitly characterizing the desire for violence and war as base.

The Central Spear: An Alternative Interpretation

This next bit is unhinged brainrot territory and what I think is a weaker interpretation of the spear symbolism than the above, so be warned. But I also think something interesting can be said if you look at this as a nod to the Rod of Asclepius. Asclepius is the god of healing and medicine, and the Rod of Asclepius (containing a single serpent wrapped around it) is often used as a symbol of medicine both in real life hospitals as well as in alchemical lore. Messmer's most obvious connection to medicine is Marika, as the Blessing of Marika and Remembrance of the Impaler items tell us that she attempted to heal him before finally gouging out his eye to seal the base serpent away instead.

So if this is a nod to his mother's attempts to heal him, two things are true. First, this is an adorable nod to mom from Elden Ring's biggest momma's boy. Second, one might also read into it that these attempts to heal him of something he was naturally born with—and isn't intrinsically evil in and of itself, as far as I can tell—were actually intrusive.

Certainly from Marika's perspective, she worried that others would judge Messmer for his serpentine nature. In some sense, she was right, as Messmer's followers (like Black Knight Andreas) specifically rebelled against him after learning of it. But if your child is disabled or otherwise different in some way and people will judge them for it, is that actually a reason to seek a cure rather than an accommodation, especially if the cure comes with other costs? The answer is complex and varies by individual, of course. But in Messmer's case, we see signs of self-hatred and even neglect as a result of being taught that the base serpent is intrinsically evil. For evidence of this, see the linked post about how there are bits of shed skin on the base serpent, which is a symptom of neglect for snakes!

If Marika's cure resulted in self-hatred and neglect of a critical aspect of his being, can it really be said to be medicinal? Or is it just as intrusive an element in his life as warfare seems to be? I think if you believe the latter, this could be another reason to read this part of the design as intrusive and dominating over the other elements in the insignia that represent his natural self. That said, I think the base serpent interpretation is the more lore-accurate one, but it's fun to think about what it might mean as a symbol of Marika's attempted healing, anyway!

To Sum Up...

So overall while the design is maybe a slightly messy conglomeration of ideas and images, I think this insignia gives us so much. We get fire imagery, winged serpent imagery, base serpent symbolism, a graphic palimpsest of the winged and base serpents and the duality of man, warfare, warfare as a base desire, maybe a cute nod to Great Runes, and maybe even a cute nod to Momma and her attempts to heal. In this way, I think it functions in the same way as coats of arms do in heraldic design: they can also be pretty graphically messy, but it's on purpose to fit a lot of symbolism into a small space.

[freyito]

Hi! Not a fic request but I’m just interested in what you think messmers love languages are? Since Elden ring isn’t really commonplace for romance how do you think he’d fare in that department?

✧ a/n: (evil grin) its gonna be treated like a request anyways cause ive thought abt this a lot. a lot a lot a LOT thank you for enabling me anon

✭ pairing: messmer x gn reader

🗒 cw: gn reader, just fluff, not proofread

✎ wc: 447 (short n sweet)

I think he’s a pretty quaint mix of all of the love languages, but three stand out to me the most. Physical Touch, Words of Affirmation, and Quality Time. Acts of Service is a big one for him as well, but doesn’t match up to those three.

Let’s talk Physical Touch first. Messmer tends to shy away from it, yet crave it heavily. In a land scarred with war, it is hard to accept a kind hand when all you’ve known are those that dig daggers into your flesh. With you, however, it’s different. He doesn’t fear your hands, scarred as they may be.

When he’s comfortable, he seeks out your touch every time he gets the chance to. He’s quite fond of holding your hands whenever, especially when your hands are cold. He takes great pride in being able to use his flame for something other than burning. He also quite loves to cuddle, as funny as it sounds. He rests easier when he’s with you, although he’s still a very, very light sleeper (which is common in the Lands Between as a whole).

With Words of Affirmation, I believe he genuinely quite likes to be praised and at least told that he’s doing a good job, since the very praise he had been looking for was kept from him for years upon years. To hear such validation practically makes him putty in your hands. But everything with him stands on equal ground, and he will praise you right back.

How brave you are, battling in the Lands Between, an admirable soul. In fact, he almost showers you in praise, sometimes it’s a little uncanny. He isn’t the most vocal, and yet when it comes to you, he’s quite the poet. He finds it easier to love you through words rather than touch, as much as he seeks it out.

Messmer is more than happy to spend his free time with you, actually. When he fails with his words and his hands, he is content to simply share the same space with you. Often times he will be content to be in the same room, either reading together, or even napping together. Something he felt he could never afford then.

Quality Time just means a lot to him, to have someone that doesn’t mind being around him, that isn’t afraid of him, that could be devoted to him in a way his Fire Knights aren’t, it’s a blessed thing, really. He will show you the same devotion, perhaps even tenfold, when he is confident that this love is true. To have someone show him that love does exist, it’s a beauty he never even thought of.

© freyito, 2024 | masterlist | queue | kofi | star header by roseschoices

DO NOT REPOST AS YOUR OWN OR USE FOR AI/AI CHATBOTS.

[drenched-in-sunlight]

I contemplated a lot whether to reblog that post because i think most of it was wrong, but the addition is so great and refute pretty much everything while raising some amazing points so if i could reblog only the addition without the original posts i would.

It’s just funny to me how every time i see ppl “here are Marika’s crimes” they list like 50% is what she actually did, and the other 50% are things that either was during Radagon time (when Marika couldn’t even have a proper statue that depict her as being the one in control), done by some other guys, or after she got strung up inside the Erdtree. Y’know, literally impaled and knocked out cold ?

The ritual sword and shield talisman (which depict sword and shield of Crucible Knights too btw) pointed at Radagon’s face to say by his time, all ritual combats in honour of the Erdtree had died out, but in LoS it was maintained and Messmer even had a talisman of Godfrey in his castle. A talisman depicting Godfrey accepting the duty to be his Mother’s Lord. Without wavering.

The ritual combat is just another thing that will remind people of the first Elden Lord’s devotion to his Goddess, which would do Radagon no good. so that, along with the Crucible Knights, gotta go.

All this just show how by Radagon’s time, the Golden Order’s ideal no longer reflects the Erdtree’s - another testament at how far from each other his and Marika’s will have diverged.

Also, i really like the fact that the Zamor and Ice Dragons allied with Marika to fight the Fire Giants who had chased them from their home, because to me that means at the start of her age, Marika was extending her help to people who needed it (with ulterior motives, yes).

Her age wasn’t built in a vacuum. She was a healer Godling with no offensive spells, Messmer’s health just got a bit better, Godfrey with all the implications in SoTe, was probably just a simple bear hunter? What on earth those 3 could even do in a land where the Hornsent royalty reigned supreme?

Go somewhere else, recruit as many people and make as many alliances as they could. I have no doubt the world under the Hornsent was a violent one (hell, it still is now, every time i went into a Gaol i want to go back and smack the Hornsent inquisitors a few more times). And for a new God to appear, and instead of stuffing people into jars, delivering Death, entrapping their followers into watching over some flame for eternity, running away and leaving their Lord to get backstabbed by a tyrant, this new God… healed people? Big shock!

So of course people would flock to Godfrey’s banner, believing in a Goddess that could barely fight, but soothed away all of their pain and sorrow. Sounds fucking familiar isn’t it.

Btw, why do people like to invent a bunch of authority and power for Marika then at the same breath will say whatever her kids do is to… spite her and show kindness to the oppressed?

So she is an all-powerful tyrant that could kill whoever she dislikes, and by some ppl’s standards she dislikes literally everyone in Lands Between (💀), but Godwyn could just befriend a dragon and spread a cult about them within the Capital, Messmer could have an albinauric as his Commander (to command an army that she paid wads of cash to and bless them with her hammer’s power???), Miquella and Malenia could go their merry way and build a whole ass tree castle (where is the fund. Where is the fund) and she couldn’t do anything to stop them? Even though those actions directly affect the strength of her army? What?

I swear i can’t even see other people’s Marika as Marika. Because their Marika sounds dumb as hell and a doormat too. Like what is this???? 💀 do you think i sacrificed my back and wrist to draw Elden Ring characters as beautiful as possible, so they could go be devote to someone like the Marika some of y’all envision? The bar was on the floor for you but not for me.

[butterbabyflapjack]

ＣＨＡＯＳ ＨＥＡＲＴＳ

[ PAIRING ] Messmer the Impaler x hornsent princess!reader

[ SUMMARY ] Messmer is feared throughout the land. Your world, his flame has razed; your family gone, yourself his prisoner. He’s given you every reason to hate him. So why does heat flood your veins at his touch? Doth your wretched heart crave his to come and claim you?

[ RATING ] explicit, 18+

[ WARNINGS ] enemies to lovers as an extreme sport, mutual pining, snake bites, light bondage, monsterfucker, inhuman anatomy, size difference, hurt and comfort, passionate sex, hate sex, dark romance, slow burn, minor character death, attempted rape (not by Messmer), canon typical violence and warfare, more tags to come

✧˖° read here or ao3

CHAPTER 1

[ AUTHORS NOTE ] Soooo I did not mean for this to be so long. I got carried away–I can't help myself. And I’m sure there's parts which are messy since editing chapters this long melts my brain so I hope you’ll forgive me <3 Enjoy!

This land was not always weighed by death. Not always wrought by ash and ruin.

The Impaler, Messmer, changed that. Inked his name to its cause. Proud, it seemed, to wear the flame-soaked flag his crusade waved in the broken halls of your people.

He changed a lot of things in what would become his land of shadows, and always in manners most cruel.

The people feared him.

You feared him.

Ear craned to whispers of his name.

You lived a sheltered, privileged life, despite your lust for ungilded freedom, and your father wouldn’t tell you the state of things, how close this war had gotten. He often told you nothing at all, in truth, beyond the length of your duties as a woman and sole daughter of his house. But you feared the worst–for yourself, for those around you. Feared that death was fast approaching, for something of it shivered in the air, made its mountain calm taste ashen. And what is calm, if not what veils the savage storm which lies beyond it?

Something was coming. Of this your nightmare’s warned, though it seemed no one would voice their shared concerns. Playing fool to the obvious, as though to hide from truth would keep it from ever finding you.

You needed your brother; your only and cherished sibling. Your kin and closest friend. Needed to speak with him about your worries, needed to salve them, but he’d been garrisoned near Rivermouth for nearly two moons, a sentry against the threat of Messmer’s men–but no longer.

Today was the day he finally came home.

Your heart swims with warmth at the notion, as for days and nights you’ve fretted he may never return.

He was practically your twin, your brother Sven. People often believed such was true, though you were younger. And his imminent arrival was your first thought upon waking. To embrace him safely your sole intention when throwing yourself from your dusky blue bed at the silver of dawn, wrestling inside the arms of your emerald overcoat. Slipping on dirtied shoes your father would be ashamed of with all the clumsy, stumbled excitement of an eager child.

Sven is home…!

You were anxious to see him, even if your intentions of doing so well before your father ineluctably found him were far from merely greeting him home.

With this in mind, you rushed from your private chambers. Down through the broad, stone-floored hallways of your family’s hold, and knew not how you knew his procession arrived, only that you knew. Perhaps it was the song of the field birds, or those of the surrounding pines; that small forest which surrounds your sprawling, mountainous city. Or perhaps it was merely his presence in the air, something clung to the leaves like dappled dew, but you knew; Sven was home. He was safe, and you meant to keep it so.

The chill of the outer courtyard couldn’t receive you fast enough as you rushed past servants and guardsmen out into the dawn. The courtyard filled with horned mounts and war carts, brimming with the sounds of armor and hooves, as inside the gates amasses your brother’s wearied men at arms. And when you see Sven slipping off his steed alongside them, you fail even to call his name. Something catching in your throat as you merely bolt toward his presence, with him too distracted loosing his horned steed’s bridle to see you bounding there. Informed with a breathless grunt upon you tightly seizing him that you’ve come to greet him, swarmed by a hug that might seek to wring him of his very life. 

After tensing in bewilderment, he laughed; his exhales shaking you. “Someone’s eager to greet the dawn.”

“I’d be eager to see you no matter what time it is,” comes your mumbling in his chest.

He clasps one solid arm around your far more fragile form, bronze armor twisting leather joints as he brings you to his ochre-draped chest. Holding you there for warm moments, before shifting his hold somewhat in effectively prying you off him.

He surmises you a moment, as though confused by such fierceness of emotion. Eventually smiling softly. “Good morrow to you as well, dear sister.”

“You’re home,” is all you can muster, like you can’t quite believe it still, and a chuckle harbors once more in his throat.

“I’m home,” he agrees, quite simply. “Had you room for doubt I would be?” 

To this, you withhold response.

He lacks the helm of his fellow horned warriors, of whom it seems what remains of his regiment’s traveled here. Donning instead a fabric mask he now pulls from his nose and face; dark, shoulder-length hair spilling past his crown of two goat-like horns, their curves spiraling toward the sunlight.

He seems to decipher your worries as you eye his men, as you eye him ; giving your chin a small pinch in the effort to snatch you from them.

“I’m well,” he assures you. “You worry far too much.” Glancing at the vine-twisted keep far behind you, he wonders, “Have you told father of my arrival?”

Your expression’s wry. “Has it been so long you’ve forgotten I’m not entirely witless?”

One corner of his lips quirks as his hand shifts to your hair, ruffling it up a bit despite your instant protests. “Happily, it has not. And I’m glad of it. I’d prolong his inevitable criticisms for as long as possible.”

“I’m rather offended you hadn’t told me of your arrival, however,” you point out whilst slapping his giant, armored hand away, to which his dark brows pinch incredulously. 

“I only just arrived! I hardly know how you knew it.” 

Pressing back your responding grin, you shed the skin of levity in favor of matters more severe; ones you’ve rushed here to find him for in the first place.

“Come,” you tell him, in the guise of welcoming him home. “You must be tired. And before our unfortunate father finds you, I have questions of your time at the blockade.”

And though Sven sighs, he doesn’t stop you–allowing himself to be pulled by one hand toward the keep whilst his soldiers behind him toil with horses and armament; some greeting family, others guiding their horses back home. 

“Of course you do,” he mutters, unenthused. “Though I assure you father’s relayed the state of things well enough.”

He hasn’t, and Sven must know that. Your father confides in you nothing. He loves not your gender, preferring you’d been yet another son, and nor does he love you were born without horns. He thinks less of you. Sven can’t deny this unfortunate truth. And he won’t worm his way from your questions by playing fool to it.

“I’d rather hear it from you,” you state, forcing tension from your tone. 

Past chamber after chamber, you drag him searching for one vacant of any eyes that might spot you. And though Sven’s much taller than you, it’s like he’s dragging his feet in some useless attempt to dissuade you.

“My, you’re slow,” you chastise, leaning more weight toward your aims, more or less lugging the tall man forward. “Have you suffered so greatly on your journey that you now walk as a feeble old man?”

He rolls his hazel eyes, though at your taunting, his pace rises to meet yours all the same. “I’ve only just arrived,” he complains. “Have we not time to tarry?”

No, you bite back from saying. Instead steering him inside a broad, open storeroom where you two can be alone. We don’t. 

The room is quite barren, many of its supplies shifted elsewhere in support of the war. And after glancing about in ensuring your privacy, you turn and stare up at your brother hard.

He looks at you with subtle perplexion. Meeting your solemn gaze as all lightness is slowly bled of him.

“What troubles you, sister?”

You’re not sure what to say. Knowing the words, yet somehow sure he will resist them.

In your troubled silence, he takes your arm in reclaiming your wandering gaze again, guiding your worry more toward his. 

“What is it?”

Your mouth presses flat before you manage to force the words out.

“We have to get out of here.”

A crease weighs his brow. “What do you mean, get out of here?”

“I mean it isn’t safe here,” you tell him with more insistence in every second drawn on. 

You steal another glance at the opened doorway beside you, before taking his hand to steer him deeper into the room, away from what prying ears might hear you.

“I’ve heard whispers,” you state, in a whisper all your own. Staring up with desperation, attempting to wring the truth from his dodging hold. “The Impaler…”

Sven’s forearm tenses, though you press on.

“He’s reduced Moorth to naught but ruin, has he not?”

Jawline growing tight, some faint darkness glints his eye in a way suggestive that he did not want you to know this.

“We’ll take the city back,” he says, but you won’t have his dodging.

“Father insists our paths of trade aren’t broken, but I’m not the ignorant simpleton he thinks I am,” you say, fearful and sullen. Determined for whatever ugly truth. “He’s incinerating everything, isn’t he?”

“Who?”

“You know who!” your voice now raises. “Stop treating me like some blissful, ignorant child!”

In his reluctance, silence follows, though you read him well enough. Know your brother better than anyone. And you see something beyond the stone-wall of him splinter.

“That’s why you’re here, then… Isn’t it?” you press him, as your nervous heart still trembles. “To defend these halls… Belurat far beyond them… There’s nowhere else to fall back to. He’s ransacked everything else.”

He doesn’t immediately respond. Instead studying you with the hesitance of not knowing what to say, how honest to be with you.

You demand full honesty. “Tell me it isn’t true.”

Through his tension, he says not anything. 

Biting the inside of your lip so harshly it stings, you take both his hands in yours, squeezing harder than you mean to.

“We have to go,” you insist in one breath, unblinking. Hushed enough to hide such treason from any walls that may have ears. “We have to leave the city. Now. We’d be fools to wait any longer.”

The line of his jaw turns to stone as he studies you. 

“And go where?” he wonders at last, voice bladed against you. “There’s nowhere in reach where Messmer’s flames cannot find us.”

You’re left without answers, for there are none for such an impossible thing.

“We’ll find a way through the shadow veil,” you insist in desperation; disheartened to hear his weary scoff. Gripping his hands still tighter to win his ear. “I’ll tear the bloody thing apart myself if I have to,” you persist, not knowing if you even can, if such a thing is possible. “I’ll–”

“Enough,” your brother halts you, with such uncharacteristic firmness it stills your tongue at once.

A flicker on his brow seems to regret his harshness of it, though he carries on unyielding even so. “There’s nowhere more safe than inside these walls. And even were there not, who are we to abandon our people here? While we ourselves flee for spurious safety in the night?”

Our people…

The notion ties labyrinthine cords inside you. For though you care for your people–our people–don’t want them to suffer Messmer’s wrath…

Some of your people’s practices are those of pure horror. Traditions and rituals with shamans–with people–you’ve always found barbarous. Beyond what one can bear. Impossibly cruel.

Still. Even with the bad, there is good here. Hundreds of innocent lives that might be snuffed out. 

But when it comes to their lives, or your brothers…

You choose your brother’s every time, without question. Over every single soul that elsewise exists.

You hold Sven’s gaze as obstinately as he holds yours. “I’m leaving,” you say. “Tonight. And you’re coming with me.”

He regards you still more discontentedly, as some thread inside him fails in tearing through. And when he pulls his hands from the unyielding strangle of yours, there’s the smallest smile forced to his lips that might’ve convinced anyone other than you. 

“I understand your disquiet,” he says. “Truly, I do.” He brushes back some hair behind your ear, as if this alone might cease this war inside you. “But such depth of concern is unfounded. Worry not, dear sister... Messmer’s forces will not reach our city. Nor will the Tower Settlement fall.” 

As you frown, his thumb swipes your chin as though to swipe the shape of it from you.

“You underestimate me,” he says, with a glisten to crinkling eyes. “I’ll protect you, as I always have. As you know I always will. In this, you can be certain. And with it allow this matter to rest.”

You merely scowl at him. “You’re… You’re being stubborn… pigheaded… I–”

He laughs before frustration lets you finish. Drawing you to him. Hugging your scowling close whilst he strokes the back of your hornless head with playful fingers.

“I’ve heard tell of my being such,” he agrees, lightly. “Enough that I fear it must be true. The pigheaded prince, they call me.”

His embrace is comfort enough that your fears are near forgotten. Though it slips through your grasping fingers all too swiftly as he lets you go, with guidance toward the doorway where the two of you both entered. 

It’s obvious that he would see this conversation’s end, while you consider it hardly started.

“I also fear our father’s already loathe to’ve not addressed me,” he says, with this in mind, though with little relish. “I’m sure I’ll be his unwilling captive in the war room at least till dusk. After which…”

He pauses just before the doorway, turning you toward him with gentle hands.

“I expect you to sit with me at whatever feast he’s surely hosting.”

Your attempt at jest’s still murky with clouds of doubt. “A feast… I suppose your presence warrants as much...”

His eyes, even now, cast a sparkle. “Is that doubt on your tongue?” he ribs you. “My presence warrants several feasts, at least. Lavish ones, where the whole of the city stumbles home drunk from them.”

You look away, in no mood for his usual liveliness. And his fingers grace your upper arms in catching your gaze once more. Eyes passing between your worried ones.

“Be at peace, dear sister,” he says, with firmness reassuring, even now. “Leave worry with me. I won’t let ill befall you.” He gives your arms a squeeze. “Save me a spot at the table tonight, will you? Near some comely friend of yours. I could use a lovely distraction.”

You fight back the smallest smile in response. “I’ll have no part in you breaking some poor girl’s heart again.”

“Then I’ll take care not to break it this time,” he teases. 

As he’d guessed, you did not see your brother again till the world became swallowed by night.

Your father’s great hall is thunderous. Partiers laughing, people jeering, as though the only one worried is you.

How can they all be so ignorant of what death approaches?

You wish you could shrink from it; this jovial place. But you’re not one to cast aside a more pleasant reunion with your brother than the short one you shared this morning, so you stay, beside his and your father’s empty seats at the longtable as instructed.

As a man slick with sweat reaches toward you across the table for yet another leg of lamb, a darkened presence hovers just behind where you sit.

“Is this seat taken?”

The boldness, to ask such a thing of your brothers chair. Only a nitwit would speak such stupidity, and you turn to see said nitwit standing there.

He’s older, with a tangle of horns on his brow. A thin smile and small eyes, with teeth greased with the ale which surely prompted this.

Yet another, it would seem, after your affluent hand. As if your father hadn’t plans to sell you to whoever’s hand flattered his own most. 

“Yes,” you say brusquely, turning away more rudely than you mean, though you find it hard in that moment to care. 

You grab the flask of ale before you and suck it down as though you mean to drown in it.

Wherever is your damnable brother?

Wiping amber from your lips with an unladylike hand, you endeavor to breathe some fresh air. Standing up far too quickly, to the effect of nearly toppling over, and it’s no wonder you don’t often drink liquor.

Wavering your way from the hall, you make your way out into night. Out, through the courtyard, knowing not where you wander, only that you’d rid yourself of all raucous and smell of that festivous hell.

Ale warms your veins, yet you still rub gooseflesh from your arms as you wander in your long-sleeved gown up the stairway of the keep’s curtain wall, thinking to look out at the darkness beyond the sprawling city’s light.

The breeze is stronger up here, on the wall’s utmost walkway. Curling the length of your skirts in about you, tugged to and fro with the wind's invisible hands. And you stare outward, full of worry, not aware that you aren’t alone.

“Didn’t know I’d have such fine company.”

It’s a gruff voice which greets you, and you turn with a start, though it’s only a grizzled guard who addresses you. A graying old man with kind eyes and a knobby head of horns. Is your father so wanting of forces he’d pluck some greybeard from his bed to man the bailey?

“Apologies,” you say, “I didn’t mean to interrupt your watch.” Vacillating a moment, before adding, “I’d stay a while, if you’d allow it.”

His eyes crease as he smiles, pushing himself up off the half-wall he’d previously leaned upon.

“Stay as long as you like,” he says. “There’s naught much to look at. Boredom’s making me numb.”

Your attempt to return his smile falls short. “I fear I may fail to salve boredom, if that’s what you hope. I’m not presently much for conversation.”

He quirks a grandfatherly brow. “Long night?”

If he wasn’t so kindly, you might be aggrieved he’s still insistent on chatting away through the night. But as it were, you just sigh. Staring out into the darkness beyond the city. 

“One longer has yet to grace me.”

“Say no more,” he says, understanding. “The quiet’s a balm for such things.”

Relieved, you take him up on such advice.

You stay on the wall with this stranger who feels somehow a friend for some time. Likely longer than you ought to. And it thaws you, inch by inch, of that worry which clings; enough till you finally clear your throat to speak, to somehow return this man's kindness. Though as you turn to say a word, a flicker of light in the distance instead captures your focus.

Standing straighter, you're drawn like a moth to that faraway glisten. Watching as one glimmer turns to four. Then a dozen. Then more. Unable to turn away from whatever those pinprick lights are as they loom so far across the horizon, like stars dragged over ground. Asking the graybeard, “Do you see that…?”

You hear the old man’s armor shifting as he seems to adjust his gaze.

“...Aye,” he says at last. “I see it.”

You cannot look away. And how some flickers of light can distress you, you fail fully to grasp or name why. “What is it?”

Silence, as the graybeard beside you stares.

“...M’not sure,” he utters at length. Perturbed, a touch, it seems. “Though whatever they are… They're getting closer.”

Reaching one grizzled hand toward his neck, the old man grasps a silver looking-glass from where it dangles upon his chest, raising it in scanning outward. And with a glance at him, you wait with bated breath for word of what's seen.

“...Too dark to see for certain,” he murmurs, his tone more weighed than before. His eye staying glued to his contraption. “...There’s perhaps two dozen… N’whatever they are, they’re too large to rightly be torches…”

For stretching moments, he stares outward, as do you. Until finally he offers you his looking-glass, slipping its delicate chain off from round his neck.

“Take a look,” he offers, and in disquietude you do, not so much as thinking to decline him. Something raising every fine hair on your skin, though the reason eludes. 

You see…

…Flames.

The distance holds them small, in the palm of its night-drenched hand, though with every second passed they grow larger. Wavering midst the shadows, as if lumbering side to side; as though flame itself's somehow walking.

You peer past the lens to stare with the naked eye again. And it's then you first feel it. The ground come so slowly to life. A sensation so subtle at first you cannot hear the distant thuds which crescendo each minute vibration, more and more, til you cannot deny them. A sort of hum. A twisting of earth. More rhythmic with each second dragged on.

Despite how vague and far those groans of earth, whatever could be their cause flashes images of horror inside your mind. Of something you’ve only heard tell of; a wickedness only since dreamed. Of machines, gnarled and vast, designed with the fuel of bodies. Tall as any tower. Barred as any gael. Fashioned for death and the installation of fear in any soul hapless enough to look upon them.

Just its image painted in your mind inscribes fear in you now, as was its architects intention.

You stumble back a step, eyes growing wide in the darkness as you stare at those ever-growing flames. And though you lack any proof of their purpose, some piece inside you knows what they are. Why they’re here.

The looking-glass tumbles with a delicate plink from your grasp, while the man beside you’s expression draws confusion.

“What is it?” he asks, but you’re already running. Down the bailey’s length, down stairs, through the courtyard's growing dim.

Sven.

You hear the graybeard’s horn sound behind you, and though you should find relief in what little solace its call to your father’s forces might bring you, you cannot care. It matters little. For surely those golems grow nearer with every lumbering step, and there’s nothing you or your father’s dwindling men can do to stop them, not if all tell you've heard about Messmer is true.

The ground further shakes, undeniable in what it might bring you, as you enter the sconce-scattered castle. Fighting the length of your damnable skirts as you bound in through the hallways as fast as you can, as already panic clouds your vision.

Messmer will feed your bodies to his golems one by one. Impale all others. Leave your ashes to rot on a graveyard of spears, your tombs like a forest. Your corpses charred black, with faces frozen in whatever terror his flames found you in; whatever anguish his spear brought before the mercy of death.

You run still faster; in past the broad, opened doorways of the dining hall, where merriment’s paused in favor of scattered, flummoxed eyes and panicked questioning, though even that you find hard to hear.

You need to find Sven. Need to drag him to any place far from here. You have to protect him, as he always has you–even from himself if you must, and such is his dauntless, stubborn pride that you likely will.

There’s no stopping what may come, you should have dragged him from this place far sooner, you–

You're too late.

You were too late–dammit, you–!

Reeling as you turn one hallway’s bend, you're forced to shove your way past those filing into the corridors; servants, guardsmen, guests, all traveling with purpose or else questioning if you're under attack. And it's nothing short of a blessing catching eye of Sven's height lingering above the masses, as he likewise spots you; gaze alight with relief as he fights his way toward you.

Lodged within the crowds of mismanaged havoc, he takes your arm and drags you further into the keep, beyond the rising panic of those behind you. 

The ground further quakes. Iron chandeliers overhead further quivering. 

How close must they be now? Those colossal, wandering flames?

“I saw them,” you tremble as Sven further leads you, knowing not where he guides, too dazed to question. “I saw them, Sven. The furnaces. I–I couldn’t–they were so far away, but they–”

“I should have sent you away this morning,” he says, almost to himself, which does nothing to allay that viperous terror twisting through you. Sounding to wrest up whatever hope he has left whilst adding, “Though it’s not too late.”

It’s then that you realize he’s leading you in the direction of the stables.

You seize his wrist; stopping him in his tracks as his impatient, worried expression turns across one shoulder, his gaze alone questioning whether you’ve succumbed to sudden madness.

“I won’t leave without you,” you tell him, knowing already his intent. That he’d send you off and remain behind here. As of course he would, seeing reason to fight, though you won’t allow it.

This stubborn, stubborn man.

He doesn’t answer. Instead attempting to drag you on again, though you dig your heels in as sediment trembles from the rumbling walls all around you. 

“I’m not leaving without you!”

You don’t mean to shout, but you do. 

He looks at you as though you’re a war he’s already lost.

“I can’t leave while the city needs defended,” he argues, resolve fused to his every sinew. 

His valor is nothing short of infuriating.

“Then I’m staying with you.”

“No, you’re not!”

“Should you put me on a mount I’ll simply ride right back,” you protest, gaze growing wild. “You can’t make me go anywhere unless you ride by my side in ensuring it!”

His look is of utter frustration. But as horns blare and some distant, bone-deep tremor once more shakes the earth, inspiring a ripple of far away screams in the castle, there isn’t time to dissuade you. And with an agitated breath, he diverts course in leading up a set of winding stairs–those leading toward the hallway of your bedroom, where he guides you with swiftness.

“Stay here,” he says, ushering you inside your chambers. Seeming barely to accept such a compromise. “Bar the door. Remain hidden. I’ll return for you.”

The rapid beating of hooves and heels sounds far below your bedroom's balcony window, and too soon Sven's turned to leave, with you grabbing his wrist before he is able. “Don’t go! Don’t… Don’t go out there, Sven…!”

Tears burn your eyes, their threat overwhelming your lashes, and the resolve of Sven's own expression crumbles somewhat to see it.

He takes your face gently in his both hands while you plead with him once more, “Don’t go…” Steering you just a touch closer in placing a kiss upon your brow.

“Do as I’ve told you,” he bids, resolutely. “Allow no other entrance. I’ll return here as soon as I’m able. You have my word of this.”

And with this, he is gone. His warmth left on your cheeks as tears spill where his touch had been.

You staunchly refuse the cruel suggestion of your heart; that this may be the last time you see him. Uncertain how you’ll barricade your door with no lock on its innermost side, though you’re desperate to keep your mind busy, to heed Sven’s instructions. So with great effort, you squeeze yourself in behind your bed’s massive headboard, barely managing to shove it inch by awkward inch away from the stone-hewn wall. Shoving with all your strength until the mass of it blockades the doorway.

Time is as much a weapon as any sword. And as you wait for your brother's return, heart tangled by vines in your chest, you seek to pry yourself from terror enough to stumble out onto your balcony, where night wraps you up in its arms.

The song of steel and iron grows ever louder from down below. Your view half-concealed by the edge of the castle. Horns sounding more in the darkness. The rumble of beasts and mounts and men shaking into the ground. And your strained eyes grow wider upon seeing a haze of flame glowing just outside the city, bewitching the air to a blistering hellscape of dancing cinder and molten fog.

Such a harrowing sight overwhelms you.

Whatever has come, it is here.

Your hands grip desperately to the terrace’s balustrade as the world around you abruptly lurches in place, and with a vicious crack one section of walls round the city erupts into pieces, struck by some mammoth blow beyond what your vision can see. Stones tumbling like naught more than ash as a behemoth lumbers in through the wreckage. A mountainous cage of a being, weighed slow by its body of metal; stomach burning with the piled corpses of past feasts. Its silhouette singed against darkness, twisted by hundreds of arms reaching out through the bars of its belly; burned slow enough to long to be free.

You long to look away, yet can scarcely remember to breathe. The cities outmost towers growing brighter with ashes and flame in a nauseating dance of destruction that would see all before it laid waste, as behind the crushed path of each furnace, Messmer's forces are free to bleed in. 

The city you've known all your life slowly transforms beyond all recognition. Your sense of time broken, sands scattered to the wind, as you watch the growing onslaught in horror. Your pupils shrinking from a vicious, sudden trail of horrid brightness as tendrils of flame lick the air, weaving through it, met soon by a chorus of screams that grow shrill before melting. Lungs scorched in a firestorm that sets the very sky on fire, and you've never seen anything like it. Like a dragon assaults your city, though even they cannot wield such a vicious flame.

You can do nothing but watch as fire tangles through buildings and streets. Your fingernails digging into your palms till the marks left behind may soon bleed.

Sven…

You… You can’t just stay here, sequestered in your room like this-!

You have to find him,

You have to help him–!

But if you leave, how might he find you amidst the chaos?

You have to stay here. He needs to know where you are when he surely comes back, for he will. He’ll come back. His word was given.

Villagers run through the streets as flame leaks its way its alleys; into the very reaches of your father’s keep, as its bailey comes crashing at the slam of a furnace golem’s gnarled excuse for a fist. And as your world shakes you hear Messmer’s men storming in through the courtyard. Hear the clashing of metal grow near. The screams of terror in hallways, all while fear tears through your bosom like an animal clawing to get out.

Where is your brother?!

It feels as though an eternity has held you breathless in its clutches, and as the sounds of war draw nearer, your walls feel to close in.

Footsteps soon sound within the corridor behind your shuttered doorway. Soldiers grunting, weapons clattering to the ground beside a distant woman’s shriek. And then the handle of your door’s taken hold of. The wood of it shuddered by what seems an impatient hand; rattled against how your bed keeps it fully from opening.

Your attention hones tightly toward it.

Sven…?

It remains as a thought, your throat’s tautness not letting you speak it. As you watch in a silence that would strip all reason raw while the door falls eerily still.

You’ve no time to react before your chamber’s entrance blasts violently open in a hailstorm of splintered wood and flame, whipping the room with embers as you stumble back and scream from the ruined blockade of your doorway. 

Snowflake cinders hang loosely in the air as your eyes strain through the rubble, and you know not the man who stands there in the wreckage, whose outline swirls amidst wisping smoke, though he’s wearing Messmer’s red. A pointed helm adorns his looming outline, its steeple skyward, and from his breadth a dripping crimson cowl falls lapping at his heels. Armored head to toe in blackened steel save the shape of his slowly smiling lips as he beholds you. And though you can’t see his gaze through the intricate, beak-like visor he wears, you you can feel his curious eyes scanning over your shape.

“Well… What have we here,” he croons above the distant hymn of bloodshed; that war below now muted by growing unease. “A hornless trollop all alone in her chambers… Tucked away, it would seem, just for me…”

His cruel lips curve as you instinctively falter from him, recoiling further toward the terrace at your back, even when its height would further trap you.

The man steps in through your doorway's ruin, unperturbed by anxious lack of welcoming him in.

“You aren’t quite as foul as the rest of them,” he observes, almost to himself. In no real hurry to approach you, as instead he makes a game of dread. Bits of broken wood twisting beneath his heavy, prowling footsteps as he draws ever closer, and though you glance to the ravaged doorway behind him, with him its gate its passage feels to shrink.

“Not the talkative sort?” he wonders, idly, with a falsely exhaustive sigh. “What a pity… I'd hear your tearful pleas, were it up to me.”

His drawing nearness springs a trap in you, and unthinkingly you try to flee. Though as you bolt in sprinting past him you find he’s far faster than you could have believed.

He’s snatched your wrist in his harshly armored grip before you can even flinch, his every finger steel and pointed. Flinging you without mercy onto the rubble of your bed as a cry tears from your chest, your body shaken as you tumble. 

“Such a morsel I’ve found myself,” he breathes, becoming feverish as a predator above prey. “You do look hornless… Though I’d be sure of it. Let us see if you have any defilements in places I haven’t yet seen, hm?”

Terror wraps fists around you, and though you scramble to get up, to run, he’s on you in an instant. The weight of him shackling you down against your ruined mattress on the floor. The snakelike scales of his ruby tabbard scraping up your kicking legs as he roughly straddles down your writhing form, and though you strike his half-masked face in desperation it does naught but scrape your fingers raw.

He laughs at the attempts to dissuade him. Snatching your wrists and squeezing until you fear your bones might crack.

“There’s that flame,” he croons, tone gleefully debased. “I thought for a moment you’d bore me. How long might that tiny flame flicker before tamping out, I wonder?”

With hungry hands, he grips and tears the flowing fabric of your gown at the seams, ripping it from your thighs as alarm makes you mindless, has you kicking out wildly in the attempt to be free.

“Let me go!” you scream, voice stripped by panic. “Let me go! Get off of me–!”

His breathy laughter’s a horrible thing. But all at once it’s frozen in his throat; locked away as his muscles all seize. Its cruelty marred instead to a painful choke, something congealed, as a swing of metal shears the air behind him, slashing through what seems his severed spine.

His form grows rigid with the realization of death. Wavering in how he pins you, before slumping down like a lifeless tree whilst your lungs are crushed beneath him. And though you fight to claw him off, his weight of steel proves too much for your waning strength.

Some hand seizes the cowl which drapes the dead man’s neck, tearing his body from you. And with a gasp of needed breath you’re overcome to see Sven, like a beacon above you; his red-slicked sword in hand.

Blood and ash fill the lines of his handsome face. Concern whiting his brow as he reaches down to take your shell-shocked hand.

There’s little time to coddle you.

“Are you hurt?”

Tension cleaves to every inch of you, though as you struggle to swallow, you also strive to nod your head. 

“I’m… I’m fine.”

The need to thank him once again for saving you, as it seems he always does, trembles past your mind with you too overwhelmed to fully grasp it. And Sven’s jaw is hard as he holds your trembling hand, his fingers weaving through your own.

“Come,” he says, not wasting words. Towing your stumbling fragility with him from the horror of your chambers. 

You haven’t made it far at all before the clamor of many footsteps resounding in these hallways soon assails you. And round the corridor's bend, just several yards before you, comes a cluster of soldiers in regalia you don’t recognize, so they must be Messmer’s men. Led by a knight in red like that of your bedroom.

Their party pauses upon sighting you, as does yourself and a stiffening Sven. His giant hand gripping yours more fiercely.

Silence, as time strips thin and the lot of you warily eye one another.

“You there,” the red knight says, his voice like brass. “You are the son of the false, impure king, unjustly throned in these lands, I presume?”

Shifting slowly forward, Sven secures himself one step before where you stand, stricken beside him.

“Would that I were,” he says, ever defiant. “What difference does it make?”

The knight before you slowly smiles, though its quick to fade away. 

“We’d make a sigil of your broken body in the courtyard,” he says. “I’d hoped to fell you outside. Alas, we must now drag you there, instead.”

The line of Sven's shoulders grows taut, before abruptly he shoves you from him, your hand stripped from his–pushing you further behind him.

“Go,” he orders, not glancing back. “Run.”

You tremble, and cannot move but to shake your head. Salt soon stinging your vision. Unwilling to obey him.

“No–”

“Go!” he shouts, yet still you cannot heed him. Will not heed him.

The red knight tilts his chin, gesturing three soldiers carry on before him. And already your brother’s sword is raised; knocking back one spear that would see him dead, and then the another. Repelling blows as each comes raining in, trading strikes through the bedlam.

He holds them off for much longer than any man rightly should, such is your brother, such is his mastery of sword. Sweat soaks his brow, blood spilling through his armor with every blow he fails to break. Felling two of Messmer's men as two more are sent by the man in red to take their place, and you're terrified he’ll tire before the end of them. 

You scarcely notice, at first, how beneath his steps bubbles forth a glowing pool of red.

You watch in pure horror as flames like vines slowly leak up through the cracks of the floorboards, tendrils of searching crimson, while Sven’s too caught by battle to heed them. And the moment you cry out for him to run is already a cry too late, as those flames burst forth with sudden violence. Flinging from their center a massive spear, pierced up from the very ground he stands on, as though formed from the shadow of his feet.

The spear flings forth with impossible strength, goring high into the ceiling like the shoot of a savage, crooked tree. It’s hilt still buried in the ground as its speartip thucks up high in the timber above you; piercing through Sven's middle, metal lifting through his ribs.

His body's rigid where he hangs, high above where once he'd stood fighting. And you forget what feeling even is as his body gradually falls limp. Sword slipped from wilting fingers. Clattering to the ground so far below his hanging feet.

All you can see is him and that spear he hangs on. An awful monument to a moment that will live with you forever. And you stare at this nightmare of him; balking backward. Stare, as your heart crumbles into pieces, and you can do nothing else. 

Sven…

You can’t find breath enough to even cry his name, though it trembles in the pit carved where your heart and lungs once lived.

Those soldiers still alive before you part within the haze that strangles your breath, making way as someone else approaches, though you hardly notice as you stand there. Defeated. Tears blurring your vision to a melted, burning thing. 

….Sven…!

He cannot hear those cries you fail to utter. And even should you scrape them from your chest, he’ll never hear your words again. Nor your larks. Nor your laughter. 

Just this once, you might've protected him. Just this once. Yet here you've failed him. 

“Do not prolong the inevitable,” a low, serrated voice condemns from midst your shrouded torment, and you blink away what tears you can, straining through grief to see a dreadfully towering man, so tall no common hallway could ever hope to hold him.

You’ve only heard tell of Messmer. That his hair is red as bloodied fire. That his eye, his only eye, is as gold as Marika’s sins. That two winged snakes adorn him, with agile minds and bodies it seemeth all their own. And yet even those two snakes now watch you, along with their wretched master. Their emerald eyes trained to your every movement, though you shift none.

You bite back your tears; anguish giving way to anger. Your jawline like glass, so hard and close to splintering, but still you’ll grit your jaw up at this red-maned savage as though on his neck you were clamping down, tearing the very life from him.

His captain steps forward, but Messmer’s lengthy, muscled arm raises scarcely enough to halt him in place, though his order's immediately heeded. And though his captain’s face lay hidden behind a snake-like helm so similar to Messmer’s own, you can sense the confusion which braces through him.

“Not her,” says Messmer, so low you scarcely hear him. And you stare, at this monstrous man, while he meets your gaze with what seems not an ounce of pity. 

His eye, you admit, is a strangely beguiling thing. Like a spell that might dissect the furthest reaches of you. Its gold so strangely brilliant, like a pinprick of flame, gnawing through the darkness.

“...Take her,” his deep voice at length breaks through the enchantment of his gaze, and you at once feel panic swell at such an order. “We couldst use another specimen for the storehouse.”

And then, he is gone; turned without another word said, as though he matters of much more import to attend to than whatever in any hell his decreed fate as ‘specimen’ might bring you.

You far prefer death.

When Messmer’s captain comes for you, obedient dog that he is, you immediately try to run only for your gown to snag you back within his clutches. And as he lifts you beneath one arm like a satchel of wheat, you snarl and you fight with every bit of strength remained in you; transformed into a hopeless, feral thing. Clawing at his legs, biting at his wrist despite his armor blunting every blow at him, until he slaps you so hard your vision blurs and all sound’s replaced by the ringing of your skull, your body hanging momentarily limp.

It does no good, your fighting, though you scream and writhe and fail to stave back tears as you’re carried from your father’s ruined castle.

The world outside is smoldering waste.

All is fire and ash. 

You see no one else left living.

You have nothing.

Nothing.

This demigod of flame has taken everything from you. Has burned away your heart to an ashen pit. And while you are still living, you will do everything within your power to gift him the very same.

[ AUTHORS NOTE ] f’s in chat for Sven, rip gone too soon 😔 I actually felt really bad killing him, but I wanted to give you a legitimate, visceral reason to hate Messmer so he had to go. Anyway thanks for reading! I’d love to hear your thoughts 💕

[buttered-milky]

Something that immediately struck me about Messmer’s second phase form is that both the winged serpents’ sheds and the abyssal serpent’s shed (like, the summon he uses) are incomplete. And they’re not just a “the shed broke off halfway” incomplete. They’re the sort of confetti shed you see from neglect.

The abyssal serpent especially has multiple layers of shed piled in places, which is something that happens when a snake tries to shed, has stuck shed, and then fails to shed in that same spot over and over because of the original stuck shed. Like I said, it’s something you see in neglect. In the abyssal serpent’s case, it would be pretty severe neglect, which makes enough sense considering Marika sealed the serpent off and it has essentially been neglected/willfully ignored for most of Messmer’s life. But what’s more interesting to me is the incomplete sheds on the winged serpents. Every now and again a snake may have some stuck shed. It’s fairly normal (I Swear I am not judging u if ur snake has had a bad shed I promise I know these happen).

But it’s also very easily avoided with good husbandry. Which is to say, the seal was still not the best thing for Messmer. He was still neglected.

I’m just having a lot of fun putting my reptile husbandry knowledge to use with the snake symbolism in the game heheheh

Edit: stood in my kitchen like 🧍‍♂️ today when I realized burn wounds (also on the abyssal serpent) are also common signs of real-world pet snake neglect when owners use heat mats unsafely (this also means snakes are not temp regulating properly/on their own terms which wooo big win for all my thoughts about Messmer having bodily autonomy taken from him)

[mossy-green-aka-ferrythem]

You know... I have thought a lot about Messmer.

Whether or not he ever left the Realm of Shadow, what matters is that one must think about how deeply heartbroken he must have been by his banishment.

Even speculation as to whether or not he ever saw Leyndell adds to this because imagine. Your mother, your guiding light, creates her perfect, shining, Golden Order, and she looks at you and decided that you are not in it. You will never be in it. Because you stand as a testament to her mistakes. Even though you were a favorite of her's, the serpent that writhes within you is her shadow, and as her son, that serpent has become something that defines you. It has defined you from day one. From the very moment you carried out her graceless purge, you have fully made yourself a son of Queen Marika the Eternal, as that is what Marika has come to embody. Any warmth that was within her instead shines out in a hollow facade, and with that facade, comes the shadow that shows the truth. The truth being you, Messmer.

Messmer is such a fascinating character. He clearly looks up to Marika so much. After all, she is the woman that defined his entire existence. He was most likely the closest to Marika out of all of her children, and his abandonment set an example. I cannot think of any other example of any of the demigods that personally interacted with Marika, only hearing her name echoed through legend. Only candidate I can think of is Godwyn and... well we all know what happened to him.

Anyways Messmer hits close to home because like. He's such a gloomy figure. The dungeon where you find him as a boss, Shadow Keep, is so extremely desolate throughout, even the research hall feels deeply depressing and vacuous. When you find him, he is in the dark, his serpent and flame writhing within him, sitting by a statue of his Mother.

Now I feel as though my thoughts aren't fully formed right now, but god. The dynamic between Messmer and the Tarnished really gets me. Think of it. Marika, someone who represents a golden, holy light that shunned him for his Gracelessness, has summoned you, a Tarnished, bereft of Grace, to succeed her and become Elden Lord. Think of it. How unfair that is to him. Messmer, son of Queen Marika, made to become a symbol of fear, someone truly unforgivable, like his own Mother, only for her to cast him away for that curse that dwelled within him, that serpent at the base of everything, her deep sin, so she can create her Golden Order, and be at peace knowing that her shadow is hidden away, beneath her, suppressed. Banished, completely forgotten, wiped from every historical record, not a single thing in The Lands Between that list his name. Him, made by her to be forgotten, being uncovered again by you, the Tarnished, someone from outside the Land of Shadow, and just. It is just such a shock to Messmer that such a thing happened. That his Mother's interest lies in a figure that in some ways, is not dissimilar from him. It must just feel so unfair. He's shorn of light, a shadow, abandoned by Marika. While you. You are Tarnished, without Grace, only guided by it, and Marika has chosen you, and others like you... and not him. I believe his commentary about his purpose, him embracing you with his flame, is out of envy, out of him trying to talk from a high position he doesn't have. All of this climaxes with his second phase, where he finally rips out his Mother's seal, and embraces oblivion. He stops living a lie. He realizes who he is. Cursed by shadow, fallen down into oblivion, merely a coiling, base serpent, embodying vice. Embodying all his cruelty, all of it completely taking him over.

All of this means that the only worlds he can say as the last of his life leaves him, are these words that just say it all.

"Mother... Marika...

A curse...upon thee..."

His mothers love has long since left him, abandoned him, and this is all he had left, until the end, where he finally realizes everything.

[willowthewiisp]

"messmer doesn't have a great rune because he wasn't in the lands between when the elden ring was shattered"

Okay but there's evidence pointing to her children just straight up inheriting them because again it's not like the runes are physical objects they're not shiny rings or talismans they're literally fragments of the laws of fucking nature that make up the elden ring as a whole. Anyways, how would morgott or mohg get their runes if they had to physically pick them up, which is highly unlikely. No I think they were just seemingly inherited inside of themselves against their will but I DO think they had to visit their respective towers to maybe activate them similar to how we activate them but this is just a possibility and maybe that's just a lowly tarnished thing.

Regardless

Clearly her children inherited them because they in some way shape or form had connections to the elden ring through Marika, which is why the rennala children get runes because radagon is of Marika.

Ranni probably lost hers when she killed herself

Miquella broke his when he probably divested himself of the last of his flesh and shit

So why DOESN'T messmer have one.

Because maybe. Just maybe. He isn't of marikas body like the others.

Same with Melina but like ranni she could have just lost it when she died in body.

Rennala was given hers by radagon which should have been clue number one that something was sus with him because HOW would he have access to the elden ring and a great rune at that point in time unless he was already of marika. Also love the rune basically confirms erdtree births quite literally happened from the sap of the tree...Marika could have actually never physically given birth.

Look I'm not even 100% a supporter of messmer and Melina were actually children of the gloam eyed queen, but I will agree there are a lot of synchronicities that point to that idea being true and we absolutely know Marika is more than willing to do whatever it takes to ruin her enemies. And here's the controversial take, if messmer is radagons son that must mean this was before he was absorbed into Marika and he was his own person because CLEARLY he had his own life his own origin story and everything. Marika likely assimilated him or hell used him as a vessel for a part of herself. But I think it's bizarre radagon has origins as a slave stone worker and has sewing tools and ties to the misbegotten. Like what? How? How could he have his own story if he's always been Marika. Because he wasn't ALWAYS Marika.

(It's why I hate the "Marika and radagon shared a jar" theory because it makes no sense to me.)

Anyways.

Messmer could have just not inherited a rune because maybe Marika cut him off or some shit, she was scared of him after all and whatever love she held for him died on the vine along with everything else she cared for. But that still doesn't change the fact he SHOULD have had a rune but does not. Which is tragic regardless of what the reason is. He was either truly abandoned by the mother he loved and crucified himself for or he was never her child stolen away from a mother Marika put down for power. Like. It doesn't matter messmer loses every time.

[dragonfire2lm]

Elden Ring Headcanon: Messmer Edition

Spoilers below, these headcanons are based on item descriptions, and thanks to some helpful people in the discord I'm in for clarifying some lore that completely flew over my head.

Ok, so, just as a disclaimer: I do not care who you ship Messmer with, or how you view him, the following headcanon is just my interpretation, that does not mean that everyone should share said interpretation. If you do, awesome! if not, just continue on with your day, the following headcanon has no bearing on your enjoyment of the character, the game, or what you do to express your love of Elden Ring.

Messmer seems very aromantic coded to me. He has friends among the knights that serve him, cared about them to the point he listened to them when they wanted knowledge preserved, and mourned the loss of a friend when two of knights rebelled against him because of Messmer's serpentine nature. He also has a lot of love for his family, with how he was an older brother figure to Radahn and had a brotherly bond with Gaius, not to mention how he's turned himself into a symbol of fear and uses his fire (which he has tried to get rid of multiple times) all on his mother's orders.

Yet he has no interest in romantic relationships (R.I.P Rellana), and I just, think it'd be neat if I headcanon him as aromantic (Note: that does not mean he's also asexual, I am specifically focusing on aromanticism here) based on the fact that he cares a lot about his knights and his family, but had no interest in Rellana in a romantic way.

Plus, its all in good fun, and aromantic rep is sorely lacking in media, so what's stopping me from reading certain characters as being aro-coded? Fandom often interpret characters as gay, bi, trans and so on for their headcanons and fanfics, so what does it matter if I pick a character to write as being aromantic?

This is, after all, a hobby, its for fun, and if you personally don't agree with this, that's ok. Whatever ideas you have, and whatever ideas I have can coexist in the same fandom space.

Now, here's a headcanon that's a lot less...controversial.

Messmer sees via his serpents, his remainnig eye, as seen in his phase two transition, is a glass one, a prosthetic eye. He probably can't see out of it. Granted, there is a lot of blodd on his fingers after removing it, so maybe it is a magical functioning eye or something, but it could go either way. But given that when we enter his boss room for the first time, we see one of his snake friends before we see him, so I feel like that opening cutscene hints at the fact that he uses his snakes to see.

I like Messmer, he's very friend-shaped.

I just think he's neat.

Edit: The lengthy disclaimer at the start of this post is just me covering my bases, I've gotten guilt-tripped and generally felt unwelcome in a couple of other fandoms for simply having an aromantic spectrum headcanon, or you know, being an asexual fan of a game and its characters when most of the player base is clearly not asexual. (A different game, not Elden Ring, the elden ring community has been very accepting, but the Doubt Still Remains because of my previous experiences)

Thank you for reading.

[cinderflower]

Thoughts on SotE now that I've seen/explored essentially everything the DLC has to offer.

This post is quite lengthy so I've put it under a read more.

Overall, I did enjoy this DLC and most of what it included. There were only a few major issues I had with it and most of it is from a lore perspective (wow guess about what!) and a lot due to my own personal preferences. So I'll start with the positive, because there is actually a lot of positive with this DLC.

Gameplay: I really enjoyed the gameplay and world design of the DLC, the new weapons, etc. Overall from a pure gaming perspective this is primarily peak FS. While the bosses could be excessive at times with how few openings you get and how short those openings are, that didn't bother me at all for the most part. Most bosses felt fair and rewarding to fight and defeat and tbh at the end of the day that's mostly what I care about when playing these games. Metyr, Rellana, & Putrescent Knight in particular stand out as the two I enjoyed learning the movesets of and fighting the most (except Metyr's lazer beam spin attack, good god).

Level Design: The levels acting as self-contained areas similar to the base game was definitely appreciated and I did enjoy having to figure out how to traverse the map to get to the various places. Each area was unique and visually stunning - though the lighting and saturation at times was jarring. The frenzied flame area in particular stood out to me as something I'd love to see revisited again from a design and mechanics perspective. Also the Cerulean Coast and Trina's area were gorgeous.

Lore: Trina!! The main standout that I enjoyed was the Trina lore. Also the lore regarding the shadow realm, frenzied flame, the fingers, Ymir, Messmer, and Marika all felt mostly seamless with the base game with most having callbacks to lore scattered around in the main game itself. There's a few things I disagree with fandom's interpretation on already but that's to be expected.

Most of the positive is a lot of what people have already been saying so I'm not going to belabor the points too much.

Now, what didn't I enjoy?

Gameplay: The excessive re-use of base game mini-bosses, specifically the ones I already hated fighting (dragons, death rite bird, fallingstar beasts) ended up all feeling like a chore rather than being rewarding. Similarly, the furnace golems got really old really fast and the gimmick ones weren't even enjoyable to figure out - I'll absolutely skip them if I play through this again. Lastly, I'm convinced the Commander Gaius fight was designed in a lab to be utterly miserable to me specifically because it had every single mechanic I hate in a fight.

Level Design: Some areas were so incredibly barren it was a chore walking through them. As mentioned above the shadows and saturation at times was jarring so I do wish that had been cleaned up.

Lore: By far the lore I was most excited for is the lore that disappointed me the most, and not even necessarily because of the story it was trying to tell, but how it told it. I've always from day 1 been onboard with a version of Miquella that strives to make the world better from a sense of naive idealism that ends up leading him down a similar path as Marika once he sees that everything he tries fails to come to fruition, that he cannot undermine the Golden Order and the state of the world with what power he has and with the power he has at his side. I am onboard with a Miquella who piece by piece compromises his ideals in an "end justifying the means" kind of way - so my complaint is how they actually went about trying to tell that exact setup.

Before even the Radahn debacle, the heavy heavy heavy leaning into the bewitchment aspect of Miquella was so incredibly disappointing because it strips his character of what I personally found so intriguing about him: a character who lured people to his side for his sense of idealism, people who then had to come to terms with their own atrocities committed on his behalf for the sake of this ideal future, and all the complexities that accompany that. I always find that mind-control, bewitching, etc in fiction is an incredibly difficult tool to use in a way that is narratively satisfying which is why I detest the use of it so much, because it does exactly what it did here - it took the characters who had their own motivations, lore, and complexities pre-DLC and stripped them down to being either one-note, victimized, or it trivializes their own lore entirely. Primary casualties of this lazy writing choice: Miquella, Mohg, Radahn, and Malenia

Moving into Mohg - I just hate it, what can I say. It's all the above. The whole reason Miq needs his body is such a weak plot point that I have no words. The bewitchment takes this character who was such a beautiful narrative foil to Morgott, strips him of that complexity, and is now forever cast into the victim role. I'm not saying he isn't a victim, don't get me wrong, but to me it was more compelling when that victimhood was at the hands of Marika and the Golden Order. It felt satisfying seeing a character in contrast to Morgott who rose in the Erdtree's defense trying to make something new in response to being outcast and shunned. Sure, were the means at the hands of an Outer God? Yes. Was the blood cult cruel and wicked? Also yes - in fact, as I write this, Mohg seems more of a mirror of Marika than anyone else. Suffering under the current regime and creating an empire to overthrow it; but unable to claim godhood himself like Marika did, he needed a surrogate candidate for godhood, specifically the Formless Mother's godhood: Miquella (assuming only empyreans can become gods and Ranni's body is gone and Malenia is already under the influence of the Rot God). The reasoning for his kidnapping of Miquella is already there, so why did the DLC feel the need to cheapen everything about that narrative to just go "haha jk he was bewitched this whole time" ! Unsatisfying. Deeply disappointing.

Radahn is baffling, even now after sitting on the lore for a few days, it is utterly baffling to me. I get how the DLC set everything up so please don't try to explain it to me, I get it, but it just makes no sense when looking at what the base game set up and even Miquella's ideals? If Miquella is looking to build an age of compassion, why choose the character who wants to be a warmonger? They even re-state numerous times how Radahn finds that war suits him, which makes sense, because his character was about aspiring to be like Godfrey who was The Warmonger Extraordinaire. It made sense that between his allegiance to Sellia and his tutelage under the Alabastor Lords that he would hold back the stars (which control fate, though the DLC did muddy this up too, a post for another time) and would use that power to defend the control he had and seek out more control. But why would he seek it out at Miquella's side and make a vow for an age that would end in the lack of war? That would put him docile and complacent, nothing more than a tool, at Miquella's side?? Especially because if he idolizes Godfrey, surely he would have seen how when Godfrey no longer served his purpose, when there were no more wars to fight, that Marika cast him out - so why would he ever agree or make any sort of vow to that end? It makes no sense to me. It also absolutely makes the whole battle of Aeonia so trite and meaningless, so utterly devoid of any of the dynamic that made it compelling.

Which brings me to Malenia who actually got me interested in ER lore in the first place. It was her character that got me more interested in Miquella and consequently Mohg as characters. So what the DLC has done to her character is nothing short of tragic to me. What was the point of it all? Obviously for her scarlet rot to be cured is a big part and her loyalty to Miquella is as well and I do still believe she would go to would go to devastating lengths in his name (at least pre-DLC). But post-DLC? With the Radahn lore? Why would she entertain the battle of Aeonia in the first place? Why would she nuke herself and Caelid to try and kill Radahn if it was all "according to Miquella's plan"???? It cheapens the devastation, it cheapens her character, and it makes her look worse. Also Miquella was there as well as we see from dialogue with Freyja where he cures her of her rot so ??????? Why did Finlay have to single handedly carry her back to the Haligtree???? If this was all planned???? Someone please explain this to me because I cannot make it make sense.

The most glaring sins of all the above is that while the other lore the DLC expanded upon had roots and foreshadowing in the base game, the whole of Miquella's story in the way they decided to tell it - with the exception of Trina and his core motives - had nothing in the main game. It was all net-new information added in the DLC. And sure, DLCs are supposed to expand upon the base game and give new information, I don't disagree, but when everything else in the DLC has tie backs to the base game and this plot point doesn't? Not an item description? No environmental story telling? It's just bad writing. I refuse to believe the Haligtree statue is Radahn not Godwyn based on the base game lore, that's lazy as fuck justification. Similarly, I've seen people point to Loretta, and sure if Loretta was encountered in Caelid where all the Radhan lore was but she wasn't, she was with Ranni in the Ranni area so that's weak as hell too.

In summary: if this was the version of lore and Miquella that had been presented in the base game I would have absolutely no interest in the story or the character. If anything this DLC has served to actively sap out a lot of the excitement and joy I had in the series because it handled the main lore I was interested in so poorly (my opinion).

I'll probably still finish Field of Reeds as well as Truth and Blood especially now because I want to see the story through with the care that the DLC should have given to the characters, but beyond that? I can't see myself remaining invested in Elden Ring moving forward, especially not if the DLC canon seeps into the main fandom. I already dislike seeing the few Radahn/Miq things I've seen because of all the points above. If you liked the DLC and the Miq lore, more power to you, but I'll be cleaning up my feed to avoid a lot of it moving forward.

And my one last petty gripe: it's like they wanted the radahn/miq fight to echo the vibes of twin princes, but they utterly missed the point of why the twin princes fight from a mechanics and lore perspective was so interesting in the first place.

[katyspersonal]

Here’s a triple whammy, Midra, Messmer, Rellana for the character bingo pls?

( @izunias-meme-hole )

Ohh bitchin'

God I just.. I will have to try to not turn it into an essay for your SANITY (ba dum tss) but in simplest terms possible, this was THE peak DLC experience for me. The Abyssal Woods already were super interesting and atmospheric, as well as learning that Midra is a NERD with so many books all over his Manse. But like.. the battle already captivated me a lot. It was just.. so well-done in every aspect. The music, the movements and attacks... No boss ever deserved the staple "battle feels like a dance once you get into it" praise more than this guy. ;-; I already was not normal about Frenzied Flame in general, but this just dhfssdfg It was so well executed god. Remember being OBSESSED with his music theme, also the first character in a while to make me often check his character tag on Tumblr. @val-of-the-north won't let me lie, I was literally drooling thinking about him in the first few days after that fight and could not think of anyone else @_@

Also I really enjoyed digging further into his story and motivations, what happened here with the Three Fingers and Nanaya. Analysis of the whole SoTe for me. This brand of despair also appeals to me at all, especially when it is tied to you and your associates being hunted like heretics (only the old ones remember!!! XD). Funny enough, just the day before I've met him in the game I've had a very unique mental breakdown where I was ranting like a madman about how much I've tired of holding the horrors and pain inside and how I wanted to just give up and unleash it. I can't get into too much details, it was very personal, however the phrase "May chaos take the world" was stuck in my head all along! And Val mentioned that 'interestingly enough, a theme like this IS addressed in SoTE' + 'you kin one of the characters for sure' so... yeah, that was something. I needed a character like this quite a lot :')

Messmer is AWESOME!! I do not obsess actively but rather just reblog the fanart and stuff that gets on my dashboard, but there are SO many things I said as my thoughts about his and Marika's relationship. And now I have even more to say! You could tell I love Midra more, but Messmer offers infinitely more to talk about and explore! And, god, his charisma, having attracted so many intelligent people to join him and even accept his serpentine nature (apparently a big no for people in the setting for some reason fdjjfds). Also one of the best designs in the Soulsborne series EVER. Also it is his voice actor's DEBUT! Literally HOW????? sfhdjhsdhgfdshds

It IS, for sure, hard to talk about him and not touch upon MANY other characters as he is tied with them so much. Marika, Melina, Fire Knights (especially Queelign), closest Black Knights that ditched him, Rellana, Gaius, Winged Snakes, god knows who else... I love how many relationship he has, but also what interesting potential he opened for exploring the lore with Abyss, Base Serpent and potentially Fell God! He is so many things. And I think this is appropriate how hard it is to discuss him outside of his relationships and curses... It is just like the character himself: having his life and purpose in it basically predefined by a curse he had no control over and his mother, and being a scourge or an idol for others, but barely being a person on his own... Discussions about him are JUST like him, you see what I mean? This also makes me emotional.

I do not have that many headcanons about her, but I am proud of those that I have! x) There is always the room to create more of course! Ok naturally 'everyone else is wrong about them' is not meant to be taken seriously fdshfhds But a big cornerstone for understanding her was the description of her swords referring to Moon and Fire having always been together in Japanese original script, which is just the sentiment from Sword of Night and Flame! So I can no longer see her as huge Erdtree/Marika simp at all, but instead as someone who, although without any hard feelings for her sister's choice, believes Cosmic Sorcery and Fire should be together (again) which makes me look at other takes like:

Just the curse of getting brain hard-locked on your interpretation fdshfhds On another note, I fucking LOVE her design, I am NOT able to enjoy any other armour anymore and just want to wear hers all the time fhhfsd 'Silly' because Twin Moons IS a silly concept, as well as cosplaying Sulyvahn XD ...but also because I see her as silly and fun person, to contrast Messmer's emo vibe x) Smug about kicking asses too! She gives me this strange feeling too, like... I can accept most of the bosses having to die for the plot and narrative, but thinking about her getting killed actually upsets me! She is an optional boss and should STAY as such. #rellanaplslive

[sausage-rolll]

This quote makes me think a lot of things...

If Miquella has removed all things golden from his very being, then I wonder if St trina and/or Messmer could be what remains of his respective halves.

If he removed everything "golden" (I assume erdtree/Marika/Golden order related) then how much of Miquella would actually remain? Would it be so little that it may as well be a different person entirely? I mean, Miquella is very golden. From his design, his lore, his lineage, his power and the very blood that runs through his veins, it all just screams "Golden." If Godwyn the golden hadn't already been born I'm half convinced Miquella would have been called "The golden".

After removing "everything golden" from himself would he even be "Miquella" anymore? Would he even want to be?

And what of the other half? Would that contain so much discarded contents that it itself could also be a new person? How would they feel or act knowing that they're merely the discarded, unwanted scraps of a larger, fiercely more powerful whole? Would they feel bitter? Wronged? Would they come to terms with it? Would they even care? They themselves were once part of the being that discarded them, so they may very well agree with what was done. Or they could despise the act and long for the day when the two could be reunited.

Malenia was able to (while likely accidentally) remove large portions of herself via her first aeonia bloom, which took the form of Millicent and her sisters, so what would happen if an Empyrean did the same with prior knowledge and full intent in what they were going to do?

I'd wager they'd be able to split themselves cleanly, and possibly become something entirely new in the process.

Messmer, Miquella's strength and flesh and lineage

And St. Trina, Miquella's other half and what remains of his ambitions and goals, but likely no means of carrying them out due to discarding their power.