#veiled monarch in shackles (morgott) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

headcanontheshitoutofsoulsborne · 2 months ago

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Elden Ring Chain 3

So, we made another chain for Elden Ring. Please note, that it was started BEFORE the DLC dropped, so the first fic was definitely written without any knowledge of DLC lore. The first fic was written by me, the mun and I chose the prompt "Morgott's and Mohg's fallout". Without further ado, let's start:

@mrslittletall

It had been some time since Mohg had last seen Leyndell.

It wasn't as if he ever had seen much of Leyndell, being forced to spend his childhood in the sewers together with his twin brother, Morgott. Maybe that was the reason he was currently trudging through the murky water instead of wandering the golden walls up above.

After all, all his childhood memories took place here. Many of them were poor memories. Mohg remembered being chained to the wall by these unspeakable shackles. He remembered clinging to his brother in fear of the monsters that roamed the sewers. He remembered being hungry, his stomach angrily growling, until they could organize themselves some food.

He also remembered having thrown blood pots towards the imps. That was a fun memory for a change. If a spirit caller snail was nearby, he could watch with glee as the summoned spirits tore the imps apart.

There really weren't any other things in the sewers for entertainment.

Mohg's reminiscing was interrupted by the sound of feet splashing through the water. Not any feet. He would recognize the sound of those footsteps anywhere. After all, they had spent so much time together down in those sewers.

Mohg turned around to face his brother, Morgott. As always, Morgott was only wearing a ragged cloak and a staff for a weapon. Mohg had recently found an appreciation for elaborate robes. His own choice of weapon turned out to be the trident. As the two brothers were facing each other, only the fact that they were both omen revealed that they were related.

“Morgott.”, Mohg said, his voice had been used so sparingly that it was sounding low and raspy, “What are you doing, brother?”

“I couldst ask the same of thee.”, Morgott replied in his strong and clear voice. Mohg sometimes wondered why Morgott's voice wasn't as touched by disuse as his. Had he done secret voice training? “Why art thou wandering the sewers instead of the golden walls of our beautiful home city of Leyndell.”

“Oh, I am simply reminiscing.”, Mohg said, “But that wasn't the question I had for you, Morgott. I want to know what you are doing.” Mohg extended a claw and pointed at the ceiling, “Up there.”

Morgott stared at Mohg with unblinking eyes, as if the answer should be clear and he expected Mohg to answer his own question anytime. Only once Mohg stayed silent, focusing on Morgott with his one good eye, did he sigh and speak.

“I am ruling the city.”, he said, “As is my duty once our mother has left. I have to watch over the Erdtree and make sure to uphold the order in the city. Thou perfectly knoweth this fact, Mohg.”

“I know that you rule over the city, brother.”, Mohg murmured, “What I don't understand is the way you do it and why. Morgott, I have only spent a little time in the city walls before I came down here, but it was enough to hear the tales about the Veiled Monarch and his right hand, Margit, the Fell Omen.”

Mohg hadn't forgotten how they had whispered the name. There had been fear. There had been disgust. Mohg himself had been forced to disguise himself to not be kicked out of the city right away should they figure out he himself was an omen. And here Morgott was, showing his form, but acting like a pawn. A pawn that everyone was allowed to hate.

“Both of these figures are you, brother.”

Mohg had figured this out easily. The name wasn't even very off.

“I don't understand what thee are implying.”, Morgott said, “Are thee saying that it is a bad thing that I am watching over the city of our birth and the Erdtree?”

“You haven't listened to me.”, Mohg said, “Why are you fine with disguising yourself, Morgott? I have heard how the citizens talked about Margit. They fear you, Morgott. They are afraid to catch your curse. They tell their children tales of how the Fell Omen gets them if they won't finish their plate.”

Disgusting, it was all so disgusting. Mohg had stopped to consider himself cursed. He had been born with horns and slightly inhuman proportions, so what! People saw a monster in him? Then he would show them just what kind of monster he could be but he would be proud of it. Every single jutting horn was a treasure. He hadn't even removed the one that had cost him his left eye.

After Mohg had finished his words, he could see Morgott wince. It was only for a second, maybe even only for a fraction of a second but it was there. His words clearly had hit a nerve. However, once Morgott spoke, he felt strangely calm and collected.

“Precisely.”, Morgott said, “If I would show my true form to the public, there would be an uproar. They would fear me. They would not accept me as their monarch for I have been cursed. Cursed with this form. Cursed to not be blessed by grace. That is the reason, brother, why I have to hide behind the veil. Thou, of all beings, shouldst understand, being cursed yourself.”

Mohg let out a scoffing laugh. Did Morgott really believe that nonsense?! He had looked through the lies of the Golden Order since he was a child. Or more precisely, he had been told. There were other orders to follow, other ways to rule. And it would not involve being imprisoned in sewers ever again.

“Cursed. That is what we got told over and over again. What nobody ever could tell me is why we are cursed. Just because we look different? Morgott, our own mother literally threw us into the very sewers when we were but small children! Our mother, that followed the rules of the Order you like so much!”

Mohg could feel the rage fester in him. What kind of mother would just abandon her own children like that?! He could not remember that she had ever visited them.

“The alternative wouldst have been death for us.”, Morgott snapped, “Having our horns excised before we would be able to survive it! Our mother granted us mercy by letting us live!”

“Are you even hearing your own words?”, Mohg was hardly able to believe what Morgott was saying anymore, “Death or a life in the sewers. How is any of that a better choice? If she would have cared about us, she would have made sure that we would be accepted.”

Mohg looked into Morgott's face. He saw the horns that he had cut off. A desperate attempt of his brother to fight his curse. He hated his curse and he hated himself. He always had. He wasn't wearing his horns with pride. All because the Golden Order had poisoned his mind.

“The Golden Order is just, brother.”, Morgott snarled, his tail flicking, his hand tightening around his staff, “It has been like this for centuries. Thou shouldst accept the fact that thou art as cursed as me. Just looketh at thee, thou even sacrificed thine eye instead of cutting the horn off!”

“And I would do it again.”, Mohg said, his fur bristling on his back, “I came here to propose you to join me but now I think I am wasting my time.”

“Join thee?”, Morgott seemed to be taken aback, “What art thou talking about?”

“I am forming my own order.”, Mohg said, “I never told you that but during our childhood, I made contact with a different outer god. That god was more a mother to me than our real mother ever was. She taught me how to use my blood, how to use my curse against my foes. Our blood is nothing to be feared and we are not meant to be shunned, we should wear our curse with pride. I will create my own order and I will crown myself its lord, the Lord of Blood. The very blood that you despise so much!”

Morgott had stayed calm during Mohg's rant but once he was finished, there was only hatred left in his eyes.

“Blasphemy.”, he hissed, “You would forsake our birthright, everything our parents stood for, the Order that has upheld the land for centuries, only to play as a lord?! Don't be ridiculous!”

Blasphemy. How could Morgott be so stuck with an order that wanted his own death?! Mohg's festering rage was about to spill. He stopped thinking rationally, he was only driven by pure emotion.

“So you would rather uphold an order that wants your own death instead of trying to find a different way?! You are the ridiculous one, Morgott!!!”

The next thing Mohg knew was that he was standing closer to his brother than before and that his right claws were covered in blood. Morgott's hand was covering his right eye, blood seeping through his fingers. Mohg felt his blood, normally so hot and fervent, run ice cold in his veins.

“So thou wouldst attack me over an argument... if that isn't proof that thou art indeed a cursed monster, even hurting thine own flesh and blood.”, he murmured. There wasn't any rage in his voice, only disappointment.

“Morgott... I... I didn't want to... I am sorry...”, Mohg heard himself say. He had lashed out. He shouldn't have done that. But he knew that he was right. Morgott was running into his own doom. Mohg had tried to get him out of it, but he had ruined it. By letting his feelings take over.

“Just leave Leyndell and do not come back.”, Morgott said, “Traitors, all of thee. Thou art not better as our half-siblings.”

Rejection. It should have hurt but Mohg was starting to feel numb. A part of him had always known that Morgott was too far gone. The earlier rage reignited, convincing itself that hurting Morgott had been just. He would not listen. He would never listen.

“I will and you will be sorry for ever shunning me like that.”, Mohg snarled, “You'll see. I'll show you and everyone else. We don't need the Erdtree. Just stay here and rot at its foot, that is all you ever were able to do.”

Mohg then rushed out of the sewers, past Morgott, not glancing back, not sparing a second thought or the feeling of guilt would overwhelm him. He didn't stop until he was out of the city and then...

Mohg turned into the direction of the Haligtree. There was someone he needed. Someone that was ought to rule by his side.

He just needed to stop asking.

@sputnstuff

@irnbruforthetrue

Blood and Fundament

“What’s the difference between a Leyndell sewer rat and Carian Royalty?” The words echoed off barren stone and desiccated grass, “which way you turn your nose when the wind picks up.”

Dry, gritted, laughter issued into the silence as the hulking omen shifted his weight and collapsed the last dregs of masonry separating him from freedom. The laughter turned to a quivering sigh as the first, lilting, breath of fresh air graced his hide. Trident in hand, Mohg slipped into the night.

The first mile was hardest.

Feet used to muck and unyielding stone struggled to acclimate to soft dirt and ticklish grass. Nor was the omen used to the light. It was a good day when some poor soul was sent below to brave the dark and danger to provide the royalty’s benighted spawn with a memory of sunlight.

Here, stood in the moon’s bathing rays… there was far too much of it.

One mile turned into two. When the spurned prince found the road, and solid, familiar, granite, those scant pair of miles turned into a dozen with ease. The only sound, save for the occasional call of a bird or animal the omen had no way of identifying, was the crunch of the butt of his weapon digging into the pristine road with every step.

The road forked. For a moment he paused, unsure of where his feet should lead him next.

Then came the voice.

Soft. Matronly.

…

Kind.

“Follow the wind, follow my voice, dearest child, in freedom rejoice,”

With the wind to his back, Mohg turned to the North and began his march.

** ** **

The sun had breached the horizon some hours ago now. The heat of the blasted thing seemed content to scourge his hide unerringly as he continued to walk. The moments were a cloud decided to intervene and save the dire prince from its glare for a moment or two were the succour that kept him moving.

That… and the mother’s voice.

“Two there were, fundamental and depraved, where one shall strive, the other in my womb be saved.”

Mohg twisted his head as the sun dared peer past the tangle of his horns and worry his sight. To his left, the ground fell away to a great, forested, valley draped in mist; to his right were nought but sheer cliff and scoured rock. A bridge stood in the distance. The promise of somewhere dark to wait out the burning light all the motivation the omen needed to redouble his efforts.

“Ah… the wayward royal,” scant feet from his refuge; a hoarse, breathy, voice caused the omen to swing his weapon round to strike.

The creature before him was… small… so very small. It reminded him of one of his brethren that had been flung into the depths so long ago. She had been a short, squat, spiteful example of his kind with a dozen shorn horns leaking blood whenever she moved. This thing… was of a like; its head was far too great for its body while its limbs were spindly and emaciated.

“You know of me?” his voice rumbled like the shifting of stone on stone.

“Why yes lordling,” her skin was as wrinkled and sloughed as any omen hide. The woman stared up at him with great, pearlescent eyes far too big for her head, “and I know of the one whispering in your ear.”

At that moment the voice whispered anew.

“Traitor, profligate, false, with skin of stone, turn away sweet prince, and I shall give thee a throne.”

Despite the warning; Mohg lowered his trident’s tip to the dirt.

“How do you find yourself in my path?” he suppressed a grunt of pain as his fang grazed his skin tighter than it should, drawing a slicked cut in his toughened hide.

“I foresaw a need,” the seeress’ head slowly twisted to the side, “advice for the oncoming lord if he be wise enough to heed it.”

“Then speak,” his tone was curt and informed by the ever-rising sun. No doubt others would come upon him if he stayed in the light too long.

“I see… a mother of two aspects,” the voice in the back of his mind did not speak but pressed down on his consciousness near oppressively, “virtue, kindness, a guiding hand… and the other. Empowering yet intangible… utterly formless in their support.”

“I have no use for a mother,” the three tangs of steel rose from their furrows in the dirt to point aloft proudly, “I have done away with my need for all but mine own strength.”

“Then why do you follow her voice?” the thing’s head snapped back to straightness and trained directly on him with a withering intensity, “the calling of one so befouled.”

“For none cared for me but her,” to prove his point; the omen ran his fingers through the air and split the limits between reality and otherwise. Where his claws passed were left a bloody, dripping, gash in the skin of the world, “not my brother, not my kin, not my own mother.”

“Young prince-“

“NO!” his growl stirred the air and shook the ground, “I am one without loyalty not for any thoughts of betrayal or disdain but for the reason I have none loyal to me in turn. I stood guard over the embers of an evil for no other reason that it was the command of one who would not grace me with even a moment of love or care.”

“I-“

“NO MORE!” his claws ripped through the air and shredded the delicate skin separating his world from that of the voice. A torrent of blood, foul and burning with power, flooded out and over the little woman; her howl of pain lost in the roar of the sickening deluge.

He turned away. The ghost of sickness pulling at his conscious for the death of one wholly innocent in the face of his rage. What had she done except follow the bidding of a woman no more concerned with her fate than with his own. A pity… but not one that would weigh on his soul.

“Is that so, my son?” the heat and fury of the day died away in an instant. It was unfamiliar to Mohg, one that he had only imagined, and feared.

The mist had risen from the forest below around them. The sun was hidden in the haze. Yet it may as well have sat before him in all its fiery glory as the sizzling form of the crone slipped away in golden light. The bald head shrunk and bloomed with radiant blond hair. The hunch of her back straightened and the wrinkles receded to the perfect smoothness of youth. The rags and leathers morphed and fluttered in the breeze into gossamer silks.

“You…” the word burned in his throat like the vilest of curses, “YOU!”

He advanced with murderous intent and the moment he was within arm’s reach found himself propelled back like an intransigent young omen before its thuggish elders. His skin burned, his eyes screamed at him, every piece of his existence felt torn and abused in the face of her.

“You spurn me,” Marika paced out of the swamp of infernal blood like it was but a rain puddle. Mohg could make out her face, if only just, and her expression was truly unknown. Pain? Disappointment? Disdain? He could not say, save for the absence of one thing.

Fear.

“Yes,” he clambered to his feet, the robes he was swaddled in making the action clumsy to say the least, “I forsake you with nought but gladness in my heart.”

“You stand in the presence of a god with venom on your tongue,” she gently cocked her head and appraised him in the same unreadable aspect as before, “your father’s son to be sure.”

“Rather he than the bastardised mirror of someone as cruel as thee,” Mohg reached down and pried his trident from where it had fallen, “rather I serve the very whisper of a matron in the absence of one such as yourself.”

“This voice, this grave murmur,” she scoffed loudly. Like one would dismiss the ideas of a child, “she leads to not but dissolution and malice. I have seen her like before. I stood before her and the pantheon beyond your ken and found her sorely lacking. She is a spiteful, jealous, self-serving and will discard you like a broken doll the moment you lack purpose in her game.”

“A mirror you have stared into many times I would imagine,” he spat acridly on the ground.

“Quite…” the mist now surrounded them in totality, “my son, he who burns with the ardour of his father, what contrivance of fate must I summon to return you to your post? What holy division must I sow to return you to my fold?”

“There is none,” the solar bloom of her power flared threateningly, “Morgott may be content as your lapdog, a shadow to sic on heretics and the rightfully discontent alike. Not I. You ask for my obeisance as if I was but a petulant child in need of scolding and correction.”

The Omen drew to his full height above the dainty woman.

“To be sure I am my mother’s son, aye, for I shall not rest in a realm where your injustice may bloom. I will not kneel before you, traitor of all, and swear allegiance like my word can prove anodyne to your actions. No, you ask if I feel remorse? Regret? NO!”

“Mohg,” her tone was a deathly warning lost in the wake of his fury.

“You ask all this and I tell you thus!” the voice murmured joyous couplets in the back of his mind, “I am Mohgwyn, master of a new dynasty, AND I WOULD DO IT AGAIN!” the butt of his weapon slammed into the dirt and sprayed muck over the hem of his mother’s dress.

“Very well,” she spat out in disgust.

And she was gone. The queen of the golden order disappearing in a radiant beam of light. The mist began to dissipate and left the omen alone on the country road with nothing but his ire and a steaming pool of blood-flame.

“Oh child, darkling prince, Wielder of mine furious power, With my words I shall evince, Means to make foul Marika cower.”

“Yes, my queen, my mother,” he rumbled, albeit wearily.

Climbing down and tucking himself into a nook beneath the bridge. Mohg let sleep claim him with a twisted, cruel, smirk burning on his lips and dreams of grandeur polluting his mind.

@theschneckenhouse

@palepious

The bright light stung his eye. When people called the Leyndell the golden capital they were not jesting. As if the Erdtrees light was not enough, each roof, each tile and lantern was coated in gold. It was all terribly gaudy and tasteless. Though, Mogh supposed that he had to respect Marikas dedication to the theme. What an odd strike of aesthetic luck, that even the grand bolt of Gransax had been golden when he assailed the capital all those years ago. Or had it been another color, perhaps the same as crimson as their lightning?

But of course in her eternal dedication to her vision Marika would have had it coated in a thin sheet of gold to match the rest of the city. No doubt before even sparing a glance at the destruction the dragons assault had brought to the common people.

Though in all her grandeur Mogh did have to mourn, that Marika had seemingly not bothered enough to coat her soldiers in gold as well. Like roaches they had steadily been congregating on his trail. Too scared to face him, yet unwilling to just leave him be.

Would it have been such a great task to also grant them golden chain mail? It seemed to be present in such abundance that a menial task like this should not have been a hurdle, no? Yet here she was, only favoring the ones who were already born into her high grace.

Yet another thing he would change once he and Miquella were united in their shared dynasty. Under them, all would be loved and cherished equally. Unlike under his cursed mother, who only loved those that fit her ideals. And even for them her love was conditional.

So many things would change. The roaches behind him would rejoice if they knew what could await them. Yet they clung to the familiar neglect they suffered under his mothers yoke. Believing that if they just served hard enough that they would be recognized. As if their worth had not been determined by the moment that they had been born as lowly servants. Not unlike his misguided brother. Did he still dwell in their old prison underground? Clinging to the pathetic hope that if he was just good enough that she would recognize him as her own?

“Halt thy wandering, abhorrent creature!” The shiny figure of a knight moving itself into his way pulled Mogh out of his musing. “Thou art not welcome in this realm! Begone!” Resolutely the knight had already unsheathed their sword and pointed it towards him.

They were bold. He had to give them that. Even if said boldness bordered on stupidity. Still he indulged the knight to the point of stopping in front of them. Despite looming over the armored figure with almost twice their size, they did not back down. Perhaps it was bravery, not boldness, bordering on stupidity after all.

“Dost thou really think that thee standest a chance against me?” Despite the growing irritation in his throat Mogh kept his voice level and almost soft. As if he were talking to a child. For all their willful ignorance, these knights could almost be considered that. Still the knight did not catch the hint. Golden lightning danced around their blade as tension grew in the roaches behind him.

“It does not matter if I falter against you, monster. Others will take my place where I fall. Thee shalt not defile her Majesties holy city any further!”

Mogh wanted to be angry. He wanted to scream profanities and launch himself at the knight the same way he would have done if he were still young. Young, desperate and so so angry. He was still angry. But more than anything now, he was exhausted.

It was out of that exhaustion that he didn’t strike first. That he let the knight call their comrades to arms, now that their superior was there and gave them orders, the soldiers seemed to remember that as a unit they had a duty to fulfill. Crying out, they too unsheathed their weapons and charged at him. Only then did he hit back.

Foolish knights should have listened. Foolish knights and soldiers.

Despite his size, Mogh deftly evaded the knights first swing, catching their wrists in his claws before they could attack again. In a twirl of his sleeve he stood beside them, clawed hands digging into the opening of armor underneath their arm. His fingers dug into their flesh like he was ripping apart a ripe fruit. Warm, sweet blood gushed forward and the knight let out a choked cry. Whether it was to rebuke him, call upon their comrades or warn them, he did not know. For it was not their flesh his claws found next, but that of the formless mother.

He heard her sigh softly in his ears and burning blood gushed forward, flung messily upon the roaches that had now gathered a desperate sort of courage and begun to charge. Not that it did them any good. The blood he had flung melted through their armor like hot water in snow, leaving the men and women screaming in agony as they bled out on the floor. Mogh watched for a moment as the bodies around his feet writhed and moaned in pain, only for one after the other to still.

What a waste.

They could have been part of something greater. Something beautiful. Still they decided to go down senselessly for an order that could not care less about them. A tragedy really. Not for the last time on that day, Mogh let out a long suffering sigh.

“I warned thee. Thy compatriots shall hopefully learn from thine mistakes.” He spoke more to himself than anyone else. The streets had been deserted ever since he had first made his appearance above ground, and now, all those that had dared to show themselves laid slain at his feet.

————

Mogh was ashamed to admit that he arrived later than intended. Both to due to his own mistake, and those of others. He had only been in the capital once before, and that was a long time ago. Plus he hardly had been able to get a tour and a layout of said city. Additionally, it was rather hard to navigate when one was accosted by soldiers at every second turn he took. But it was of no matter. In the end, all he had to do was take the roads and paths leading ever closer to the Erdtree. Which was hard to miss.

The Erdtree sanctuary was, apart from everything else, surprisingly dim. Being so close to the ever shining Erdtree, Mogh would have expected it to be blindingly lit up in every corner. But no. Aside from the entrance opening up to said tree, there were barely any light sources. Perhaps even the divine and noble got tired of staring into the light all day and night.

Now that he was up here, Mogh was surprised at how little resistance he was meeting compared to down in the streets. Perhaps the queens knights had finally realized that they were in no way capable of stopping his advance. Or perhaps they thought that not a single soul would be brazen enough to just barge into such a sacred place.

Morgott surely would have wept with reverent delight if he was the one standing here now. Not that his fool brother would be forthright enough to demand his birthright the way that Mogh was doing now. Still he couldn’t help the nostalgic pang of guilt at standing here without his brother. He had promised to bring them both to the surface after all. Before they had split paths. He hoped he was happy, wherever he was. Holed up no doubt, still hoping to be recognized by the golden order.

Alas, tragically Mogh was not given the privilege to dwell further on his twin, as a new figure came into view on the platform leading out closer to the Erdtree. Where he was supposed to find Miquella. Only that the one standing there was very much not his younger empyrean brother. In his stead stood a tall, blond woman. She stood with her back turned towards Mogh, seemingly lost in thought. A long braid lazily thrown over her shoulder.

He had never met her in person, but after seeing her image on endless statues and paintings, he without a shadow of a doubt knew that before him stood his queen mother Marika.

Really, his luck could not have been worse. Where his agents had predicted that Miquella would dwell in the sanctuary at this hour, he instead encountered the rotten queen herself. Slowly she turned her head towards him. She was all golden, save for her black dress. From the gold hair kept in its signature braids, to the golden chains and charms that wove themselves around her body. And especially to the golden eyes that seemed to sear themselves into his own. As if she was drinking in his appearance. Now that he saw her in the flesh, he couldn’t help but marvel at how similar she and Morgott looked when he was younger. Surely he would have rejoiced over such a revelation.

“What art thou doing here?” Her tone was calm. Deliberate. Though her features were etched into an expression that could almost be described as exhaustion. Did she recognize him? Did she know that she stood before one of her children? Or did she just see another misbegotten omen that had dared to crawl high enough to offend her himself with his rank presence?

For the first time in a long, long time, Mogh was at a loss for words. What could he even say here? If he admitted to wishing to claiming Miquella to act as his divinity, he would reveal his plan to the enemy. Surely she would mobilize her forced the moment she claimed his head to squash the burgeoning dynasty under her heel. No. He had to protect them. His knights and surgeons. A diversion, he would have to feign a unrelated defeat so she would not question his hasty retreat.

“I have come to claim my birthright and a throne in the council of demigods!” The boisterous tone came to him easily, despite standing in the face of the woman who was solely responsible for the torment he and his twin had suffered for years underground. Not to speak of all the others she had branded undesirable. Marika raised a perfectly curved eyebrow at the wild movement his arms and closed her eyes for but a moment.

“Thou knowest that there is no place for thee amongst them. Mogh.” So she knew exactly who he was. She even remembered his name. A strange and unbidden feeling of warmth clawed at his insides.

“My council is absolute. And I shall not suffer the insult that would be thy presence and input. So… leave. Thou art not welcome here.” Despite the harshness of her words, her eyes remained closed. Could she not even bother to look him in the eye when declaring his misbegotten nature?

As he had expected. She still saw him as little more than a blight upon her name. “I had feared thou would not see reason. Then let me prove it the same way mine divine father has done before.” Once more the trident manifested in a flash of flame within his grasp. The stumps that would soon grow into wings itched to be released to flaunt the power that thrived within him now. For him to call upon his blood, to punish her for the pain she had inflicted upon them. To prove that despite all, he had still grown into something formidable.

The first strike was deliberately sloppy. As expected the tridents spires pierced nothing but air, as she vanished into golden dust with the gentle chime of her bracelets. As such, he violently swerved the trident to his left, covering his blind spot. Metal struck against metal as the spires collided with the handle of his mothers hammer. She held the thing in an almost casual grasp, easily holding against the force he had used. As expected of a god.

“If thou wishes to imitate thy lord father, thou needest to strike harder.” Her tone was factual as she pushed back against his trident, leaping into the air with her hammer led in a wide arch as if to demonstrate. And demonstrate she did. Despite barely blocking her charge with the handle of his trident, Mogh felt the force and searing heat of her weapon in his bones. For a dreadful moment he feared his weapon would snap in half.

But he held fast and managed to rear back in time to recover himself before Marika was on him again. Her onslaught was brutal and made Mogh think of being battered by a furious building come to life. The giant crayfish beneath the candle would never be able to hold a candle to her.

With that came the realization that he would not be able to defend against her like this much longer. Each of his muscles and bones ached from the barrage they had suffered under her Mogh was almost certain that several of his ribs were already broken. They circled one another for a few moments, Mogh rapidly thinking of how he could escape this predicament, while Marika watched him with the serenity of a cat knowing that its prey had no means of escaping.

A desperate itch along his back where bones were waiting to protrude brough Mogh back to himself. Right. He had every means he needed to flee this unwanted encounter. Far as he knew, even the god queen herself had no means of soaring the skies like her sons pet dragon. It was a calculated risk, but he had no other choice.

Once again, he charged at her. While launching himself through the space that seperated them, the bones within his back spiked and elongated. As he had hoped, Marika once more side stepped, readying herself to cleave down at his side, only to be met with a blur of blood and feathers. The giant black wings that were ever growing underneath his skin and finally found their way through, carrying him off the platform and into the sky.

Against his expectations, Marika did not attempt to strike him in the air. Even when he soared closer and closer to the city walls. No, when he looked over his shoulder to where she stood, he could only see a small golden figure. No hammer. Just her. Standing there and watching him fly off into the distance.

This would not be the last time she would behold him. That Mogh vowed to himself. Soon enough she would have to recognize him as an equal. As the herald and lord of a new age.

His age. The Age of Blood.

@omelevate

@redsixwing

They were already calling it the Shattering. After Marika Herself shattered the Elden Ring; after the demigods, her children, took up arms and rune fragments to empower themselves, and seek dominion.

For the merely human, it was just a dragging, awful nightmare of a war. The wounded needed care; the sick needed treatment. The surgeons found themselves first busy, then overwhelmed, then made targets in their bright healer’s white. The circumstances became so dire that even students of anatomy were granted robes and pulled in, even those with no inclination to healing. Varré was one of those.

Rumor said that frenzy had broken out amongst some soldiers; then, the healers became mercy-killers, putting down the afflicted before they could spread the virulent yellow flame to others. First, the bearers of that curse were put to death; then the poisoned and the badly wounded. It seemed that the list grew longer week by week, until the misericorde, pity of the heart, was more commonly used than the tools of healing.

Some pity it was that sought its own victims.

But the Last King’s army had been pushed back, and the surgeons went with them.

Varré had not been to Leyndell before, and he wasn’t enjoying his visit. Two more of his companions had disappeared into the depths of the city, either fled or taken. The numbers were running terribly thin.

He, young but reliable, had been sent to look for the most recent. She was a surgeon in her prime. She had last been seen entering the Lower Capital, a poor area where she would no doubt find need for her skills.

The trail ran immediately cold. Few people cared to see a surgeon; Varré’s mask got stares and sneers, and one or two taunts. “There goes a butcher,” someone said, behind his back. They thought so little of him; not a healer, but a killer. Not a scholar, but a body-thief. He did not turn. Had these fools been the end of his colleague?

“Here to get those pretty white robes covered in mud,” someone else muttered. “Better off in the Shunning Grounds.”

That gave him something to look for. She was not aboveground. She might well be below.

——

Varre climbed down with caution. The old well-head led not to water, but to a massive storm-drain, and it was clearly used as a sewer. Something splashed when he stepped down off the ladder. Something else clung to his feet and stank. Yet it was not worse than the battlefield; here, he could hear only the movement of water and some furtive animal in the shadows. No screams. No stench of blood to complement the fetid waste.

Thank goodness for the perfumed wisp of fabric inside his mask. Varre would have purity within, even in the foulest of settings. Nothing had been able to taint the integrity of his body, even in the worst of situations.

He walked further in, lantern and dagger at the ready. His candle glowed golden; his robes threw the light yet further. He felt as if he were the focus of a painting, one bright spot on a canvas extravagantly defiled. Was that not the sensation of being watched?

Indeed, he was: a hulking, horned silhouette fled from his lantern. Splashing footsteps showed a path he did not intend to follow. The foul omen knew better than to hinder him.

Or perhaps, his colleague had already put fear into it. Varre’s lip curled behind his mask. He had no time for it or its accursed ilk. He would be ready for whatever came. He was a war surgeon, hardened by battle; filth did not frighten him, nor monstrosity. If he stood alone against accursed omens and the effluent of a city, he would do it with a masked smile and a sharp knife.

When the moment came, he wasn’t ready.

Something shifted out in the darkness past the reach of his lantern. Another omen, perhaps? Black horns glinted like a knot of serpents. Gold glittered, embroidery on heavy cloth. Gold shone in one eye, reflecting like a cat’s.

Gold, here, in a sewer? Gold thread decorating the body of an omen?

The figure stood up. Up and up, until it loomed over him. The pipe seemed abruptly very small.

“Isn’t that convenient. You came to me this time.” Its voice was surprisingly polished.

This time?

White fabric fluttered: tucked into the immense creature’s waistband was a surgeon’s scarf. Then she was kidnapped, taken by this very omen. Varre’s mouth was suddenly dry, his heart racing. Could he-

“Kidnapper, you will pay for your actions,” Varre promised.

Varre had just one phial of precious perfume; he loosed its cork. Lightning crackled around him, a warning, and made his dagger glow as golden as the omen’s eye.

It did nothing. Less than nothing. He swiped and felt the blade cut, but the great clawed hands wrapped around him. Nobody but his captor could possibly hear his furious, terrified scream. Varre kicked. Masked, he was prevented from biting; his hands were pinned and already tingling. The big omen chuckled, turned, and began to descend.

“Is it your colleague you want? The other surgeon? You’ll see her soon enough.”

——

Afterward, Varre remembered little of the descent, and nothing of the path the big omen took. The next period of time (for without a sky to watch, without treelight or the sun, it was useless to call it a day or night) was spent in abject terror, either bound or held in that iron grip. The omen - Mohg was his name, and he affected the title of Luminary - spoke at length during their travels.

He would stop the Shattering, he said. He would stop his foolish brother- a figure unnamed, but whoever it was, must have been powerful indeed - and set the world to rights again. Some shadowy figure he called the Formless Mother would reign over a world brought back to life through the virtues of blood, and the betraying goddess would be given a swift death.

Did not the surgeons know about blood?

Varre spat, “I’ll bleed you for this.”

The big omen just laughed, again. “Good! Good.”

“You shall have no mercy, omen.” Varre growled, but his voice sounded thin and frightened in his own ears.

Mohg lifted him up to look into the frightening face of his captor. Unable to turn his head, he found himself assessing. One eye was already gone; very well. He’d try to attack on the blinded left side. The jaw lacked lips; the needle teeth would be best avoided, but he couldn’t tell how wide the jaw could open, with rampant horn growth potentially affecting the joint. The horns armored the skull-

The omen was studying him in return.

“Why not spill blood to a greater purpose?” he asked, for all the world as if they were having a dinnertime conversation.

Varre found he had nothing to say. The omen - Mohg - was out of his mind, or he was ill, or he was fascinated with the grisly subject of murder.

The rest of the journey was similar. Varre struggled; Mohg held him fast, and told him all the ways bloodshed would undo the wreck of the world.

If only it were believable! If only it could be done. When he spilled Mohg’s blood, perhaps the big omen would come to see that there was no value in the pain.

——

His moment came when Mohg put him down. They must have traveled far indeed; Varre did not recognize the place, only that it was underground. A lift carried them downward, its sides open to a dizzying drop. When they arrived at the bottom, Mohg put him down.

Varre’s feet were numb from the awkward position he’d been forced to maintain, and he stumbled off toward the omen’s blind side. Not nearly so off balance as he allowed Mohg to think, he gathered himself and attacked.

The misericorde did not cut as deeply as he hoped. Whether it was the thick robes that foiled it, or an unexpected twist of horn beneath, the dagger only stung Mohg to rage. The omen shouted with the pain, but turned and grabbed again. Varre flung himself backward, but a heavy hand slapped him off his feet. His mask clattered off to one side, and his head rung with the impact.

That was the end of his brief rebellion. Mohg held him down, one hand clasped over his wounded side, the other splayed over Varre’s chest.

“I was hoping to do this later.”

Mogh took his dagger as one might take a stick from a child, an easy wrench that left his wrist hurting. The blood on the omen’s hand glistened, ominous.

“…but I suppose it must be now.”

With surprising delicacy, Mohg made a cut. He squeezed his fingers together over it, so that his own blood fell into the wound. Varre, helpless, could only watch.

Contamination! The contact hurt, it burned, like nothing the surgeon had ever felt.Pain and euphoria in toxic mixture. Fire spread from the shallow cut, riding his own heartbeat throughout his body.

He screamed in earnest, and Mohg clucked at him. “Bite your tongue, will you?”

Varre felt the room swim, saw shadows writhe behind Mohg’s immense silhouette, and fell into a crimson eternity. Something awaited him there, some truth he could almost glimpse, born of the wound and beyond anything he had ever seen. To regard it would be pain, but to ignore it… madness.

When he awoke, he was still restrained. He patted weakly at the great hand.

Mohg’s head turned, regarding him with one wary eye.

Varre could only remember his defiance. He could no longer understand it. He’d thought the omen lord was mad, unable to apprehend the divinity that moved through him. Now—

Now, Varre knew what he had to do. There was a power capable of challenging Marika the betrayer, and this omen, this enormous accursed man, was its chosen vessel.

“Luminary,” he breathed, and saw the lipless mouth open in a needled smile.

“Let me up, please. Let me apologize for wounding you.”

“You may,” Mohg said, and lifted his hand.

Varre bowed before his new lord, and set about tending the wound he had so rashly inflicted.

@hunteralienperson

@dbzespio

The stench of the sewers was palpable, and he dreaded to consider what lurked within the foul waters lapping at his feet, drenching his trousers nearly to the bone. But... all for a greater purpose.

For Varré wished to know his Lord, Luminary Mohg... to gaze upon his form, to feel his love.

Deep within his heart, Varré knew this little wish of his was quite selfish, but he had a feeling his Lord would understand; for he was one who held great love and kindness, the likes of which none other could match. Surely Lord Mohg would be willing to allow his prized war surgeon such a precious gift... for Varré was his stalwart knight of the coming dynasty, the only one of many who could properly accept and understand his love, who could fulfill his destiny... for the greater good of all.

Yes, Lord Mohg surely would understand. So Varré could afford to be a little selfish... just this once, of course!

Smiling softly, the war surgeon raised his lantern, peering into the darkness.

He needed to navigate these depths, to search the childhood home of his loving Lord, all in the effort to find him, or at least, to uncover a trace of where he might have toddled off to.

For who knows where the good Lord might wish to commence his dynasty?

Well, wherever it was, Varré was sure to be there, the very moment it began...!

The rats snarled at him while he trudged along, clutching his bloody bouquet tightly. He chuckled at their eagerness, and he was all too happy to demonstrate to these beasts just how loving he could be. After all, pain was the most exquisite path to pleasure, and he was always delighted to assist in providing a path towards true bliss...

He practically danced within their blood, hoping that all the excitement would serve to draw out his Lord. But of course, mere rats weren’t enough. He set his sights upon the Omen next.

If his furious blows weren’t enough to quiet them, his swarms of flies were. The fiends fell easily enough, so long as he didn’t allow them the opportunity to group together. Luckily for Varré, the monsters weren’t especially social, and so he found he could fairly easily take them down one by one.

Soon enough, he found himself alone, and he frowned, wondering where he might explore next. With only his lantern to guide him, he ended up traversing atop some winding pipes; and it seemed stone gargoyles made their homes there, for they kept showing up, seemingly just to annoy him.

His bouquet shattered them easily, but the silly beasts were devoid of any blood… how disappointing.

Still, Varré held his chin high, for knew he’d come across some trace of his Lord eventually. And even if he didn’t right away, he felt certain there were still plenty of chances for further bloodshed for him to personally enjoy. After all, he and his Lord had similar cravings, and he knew he deserved at least a couple of indulgences...

And then, he came across an intriguing prospect!

Varré rubbed his hands together greedily, gazing over the giant lobster milling around down below. It wasn’t quite as fun as an octopus, but it surely had more than enough blood. Yes, far more than the creature deserved...

Oh, how he would enjoy rectifying this little injustice…!

Hopping over to the lowest pipe, Varré took the plunge, falling down to the depths below. The fall nearly broke his bones, and he shivered, taking a moment to awash himself in the sensation.

“There you are, my dear!” Varré called out to the lobster, rushing towards it with his bouquet clutched tightly over his heart. “Rejoice, for you will play a small part in our coming dynasty!”

The lobster, dull as it was, barely noticed him at first. But then, it primed itself for battle, claws sharp and ready to slice. Varré rolled aside, avoiding its dash towards him and greeting the creature with a few vicious strikes from his bloody bouquet. The blows nearly shattered the lobster’s carapace, and the monster thrashed, managing to catch Varré in a claw. Helpless to resist, the war surgeon lay still while the creature squeezed, crushing him.

Just when Varré thought the lobster might try to eat him, it instead threw him, and he landed quite a ways away; as if the monster had simply grown tired of him and tossed him away.

Varré pushed himself up and shook his head to re-gather his bearings. “Well, now that’s just—”

He stopped short, however, when he took notice of his lobster friend. It was apparently engaged in a new battle, one with another creature that looked just like it.

So now there were two giant lobsters, and clearly none of them wanted to play with him anymore. For they were both seemingly locked in battle with one another, not even sparing him a second glance.

How very cruel of them…!

Varré huffed, rising to his feet. Perhaps he should just let them kill each other, since they were both clearly so hellbent on such an outcome.

He bit his lip, considering. No, no. It simply wouldn’t do.

After all, he had a duty to fulfill. And he simply wouldn’t stand anyone, not even some dull-witted and overgrown monsters, avoiding a taste of the pleasurable love of the Luminary Mohg. The creatures didn’t quite deserve it, dumb and selfish as they were, but Varré would see his Lord’s dynasty through... and everyone had a role to play. Even brainless beasts such as these two.

Furious, he rushed ahead, brandishing his bloody bouquet. He could still see the wounds he had already inflicted on the first creature’s side, so he targeted that portion of the carapace, bashing away. Meanwhile, the lobster began thrashing again, striking not only Varré but also the other lobster. But Varré persisted, and soon enough, one of his strikes hit an artery, splashing blood everywhere. The monster froze and then shuddered, seemingly unable to take the pain. And that’s when the other monster finished it off, with a mighty swing of its great claw.

Varré tutted. “Stealing my kill, are you? Well, we can’t have that…!”

The creature clicked its claws in apparent irritation and actually had the audacity to spit at him. But Varré kept rolling aside, slowly but surely making his way towards the over-sized beast. And once he reached it, he began another flurry of blows, striking its claws, its backside, its face, wherever his bouquet managed to land while the lobster thrashed about, even wilder than the last beast.

He didn’t hit an artery, but he didn’t need to; for the creature finally succumbed to the brute force of his continuous attacks.

What a disappointment.

So Varré kept going, striking the dead creature until he did hit an artery, bathing himself in blood.

The war surgeon sighed in contentment, rubbing his bloodied hands together, unwittingly spreading the still-warm fluid down his arms. “Ah, to feel the love of our Lord Mohg… You are a lucky creature indeed…”

Humming in delight, Varré hopped over the carcass and made his way further into the depths of the sewers, his now-bloodied lantern guiding him along. He reached a narrow passageway and quieted his steps, delighting in the little shiver of fear that trailed down his back. His Lord was close; he could feel it. Surely his love was so great that he could feel his presence, the quiet, the tension, and the fear in the air. The Lord Mohg was powerful indeed.

Licking his lips, Varré crept onward, respectfully lowering his lantern. He reached a large, empty room, and here he paused, lowering to his knees and resting his lamp on the ground beside him.

It would be here. Here they would meet.

He shivered when the light flickered, holding his breath before clasping his hand to his heart.

It was time.

“Welcome, honored knight!” a voice boomed, one he had never heard before but somehow knew, rather intimately, it felt to him. “What brings you here?”

Varré kept his head lowered in a respectful bow, but he couldn’t hold back the smile that lit his face. Thankfully, it was hidden behind his mask, but he felt certain its warmth might slip into his next words...

But no matter; his Lord was a loving one. Surely and undoubtedly so.

“A selfish wish, admittedly,” Varré told him, clutching tighter at the fabric over his heart. “I longed to know you, to see your loving face, perhaps to even feel... the warmth of your hand upon mine…”

He sighed. It felt good to let him know this, despite the stabbing guilt he felt at the greed of his request. High-ranking as he was, it was still far beneath a lowly knight such as himself to wish for such things. Perhaps there was a reason the Lorg Mohg had kept himself from Varré and the rest... And he didn’t want to trample upon such a desire, should it truly be the Lord’s wish.

“I just wanted to see you,” Varré admitted. “I worry for you... being alone as you are.”

There was a pause; and Varré didn’t dare lift his eyes, though he knew his wish was so close to being fulfilled.

Still, he wouldn’t risk his Lord’s love. He needed his permission. He could not, would not take anything, not even a small glance at him, without express approval.

“Arise, dear knight,” the voice boomed, just as grandiose as before. “Your wish is granted.”

Varré could hardly contain himself. At long last!

He hurriedly rose, gazing over the Luminary Mohg.

A fine man he was; though some might argue he was no man at all, but an Omen. Copious horns protruded from his face, altering his features. They looked painful, and the Lord Mohg took command of it, mastering it well. Judging by his expression, he was proud indeed, grinning at him with sharp, dangerous teeth. His robes were copious, spotless and lavish, extravagant in every way, well fitting for such a fine Lord.

Varré quivered, both hands to his heart now. “My Lord, you are… beyond words…”

He had never seen such a wonder, never, not in all his years.

The war surgeon admittedly felt quite weak in the knees. “You are beyond everything I would have ever thought possible!”

“Soon, my dear knight,” Mohg reached out his hand to him. “Soon, and with you at my side, we will have our coming dynasty…!”

Varré’s heart skipped in delight, gladly setting his hand within the open palm of his Lord. The Lord Mohg’s hand readily dwarfed his own; his fingers were long and his claws, sharp, cutting into Varré’s glove, very easily drawing blood.

“Together, we will bring our dynasty to life!” the Lord Mohg cried, drawing Varré close. “And you know your path; bring to me others, more who will share in our love and our work!”

“Of course,” Varré flushed, delighting in their proximity. “I already have someone in mind… My little lambkin!”

#elden ring #elden ring chain #fanart #fanfiction #mostly mohg centric

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warsofasoiaf · 2 years ago

Note

Could you do a character analysis of Morgott the Omen King next?

catgoblinchelly asked: Your character analysis are always a joy to read. Could you do one for morgott?

Morgott is an excellent boss battle both from a gameplay and a lore perspective, and a great and tragic character on his own. Morgott is utterly devoted to the Golden Order to the point where he willingly accepts the Greater Will's edicts - it's abandonment of the Lands Between as the Erdtree's thorns cut off any attempt at reaching Marika or in someone repairing the Elden Ring. The Greater Will has abandoned the world, and Morgott stands ready to enact punishment to any Tarnished that dares stand before the Erdtree and demand rulership, just like the rest of Morgott's other siblings. God has abandoned this world because of ambition, and so it shall remain. Forever and ever. Amen.

Morgott was born a cursed Omen, reviled by the Golden Order as cursed, born outside the guidance of grace. Common Omens have their horns sawed off, killing most, and those that survive are used as shock troops, sent out as fodder for the Order's armies. Royal Omens are spared the mutilation for being shoved into the sewers to hide their shame. Morgott was not spared this despite being the child of Marika and Godfrey, they were shackled and kept under the strictest of confinement. Morgott would eventually either be released or escape from confinement (perhaps during the Shattering), but took to the Golden Order to uphold it. The Omen were originally blessed in the era of the Crucible, their bestial features considered a sign of favor, but increasingly looked to be considered a devolution and impurity in the era of the Golden Order. Morgott internalized this belief and accepted his status as a lesser being. He could never be as favored or worthy as his sibling Godwyn the Golden, but he could still uphold his parents' order. While all of his siblings took their own path, Morgott took to defending the Golden Order, becoming the Veiled Monarch, Morgott the Grace-Given. While this seems odd, remember that Morgott suffered much from an early age. He likely took the Golden Order as a means to provide a meaning as to why he suffered, something within him that rationalized his pain. By embracing this divine order, even if he was at the bottom of it, it gave him a sense of comforting and belonging beyond the idea that he suffered because the Erdtree wished to destroy the Crucible and its own structure that exalted the Omens. When you first meet Margit, he condemns the Tarnished's ambition, and later he does the same to his half-siblings. His admonition of "ambition" makes sense, both against the Tarnished and later against his half-siblings. Ambition caused the Night of Black Knives, killing Godwyn and causing the Shattering - Ranni's ambition led to Godwyn's death and the ambition of others led to countless dead and suffering. To Morgott, ambition *broke* the Lands Between. Accepting his status as a lesser being curtails him of ambition - he is a vessel of a higher will, he refuses ambition on his own.

As Morgott could not officially rule given his status as an Omen, Morgott could not lead his armies directly. Morgott thus concocted the false identity of Margit the Fell Omen, Morgott's leader who led the Night's Cavalry as the Veiled Monarch's enforcers. As Margit, Morgott could shed his tattered cloak and fight openly to enforce his judgments as monarch. It's as Margit that the Tarnished first meets Morgott, attempting to stop any new warrior from attacking Godrick the Grafted and challenging the Golden Order by acquiring shards of the Elden Ring. The status quo means that the Golden Order still persists. Radahn has lost his mind and will not get another Great Rune, Rennala has shut herself inside the Academy, Malenia is unconscious, Rykard was defeated, and Godrick too weak. Thus, Morgott acts to perpetuate the Lands Between in its wounded and dying state. Here is one of the greatest tragedies of the Golden Order - Morgott was intelligent, brave, and loyal, even crafting the Sentry's Torch so that his half-siblings would not fear another Night of Black Knives. Yet due to the Golden Order wanted to stomp out the previous divine order of the Crucible, he is considered a lesser being. He suffered a horrifying fate and fought to uphold it, no doubt continuing the treatment on other Omens.

Morgott's boss fight, from a lore and thematic perspective, is one of the best in the game, up there with Gwyn, Lord of Cinder fight in the original Dark Souls. Morgott arrives in the throne room after walking down from the stairs leading up to the Erdtree, demanding "what is thy business with these thrones?" Morgott then recounts the names of the siblings who fought in the brutal post-Shattering civil war, condemning them as "willful traitors all." He curiously omits Mohg, but it could be that Morgott has no knowledge of Mohg's actions (since Mohg was not involved in the Shatterong, instead kidnapping Miquella) He then draws his rainbow Damascus curved greatsword made of his own hardened and sharpened blood (this is confirmed by the Great Omenkiller cleaver made out of Omen horns, which brings "vibrant colors to the mayhem"), boldly proclaiming that the Tarnished will be "felled by King Morgott, Last of the Kings." Morgott is an evolution and enhancement of the previous Margit the Fell Omen fight. Morgott mixes up fast attacks with his greatsword with heavy attacks from his summoned holy hammer, using his throwing knives to punish flask use and flipping about the battlefield like a bullfrog gymnast. When he starts taking damage, he erupts in holy fire and enters his second, more aggressive second phase. He begins to use his cursed Omen blood as a weapon, erupting his blade in fire reminiscent of Mohg's Bloodflame magic. It's an exciting fight that suffers from Morgott having low HP - even with a summon the fight is over far too quickly unless you rush Leyendell immediately instead of exploring the Altus Plateau. The Draconic Tree Sentinel at the eastern gate seems like a greater threat than Morgott himself.

After Morgott's defeat, we learn that the Greater Will has actually abandoned the Lands Between and refuses to let anyone ascend, blocking the chamber with impenetrable thorns. This puts a new layer of tragedy upon Morgott - he knew right from the start that nothing would actually fix the Lands Between continuing as it once was, the path that Morgott was taking. He did this unloved by the Erdtree and the Golden Order as it says in his Rememberance - he was unloved as an Omen yet loved the Golden Order. The Golden Order persecuted him and yet Morgott could see no other way. The Lands Between was a stagnant and dying, but Morgott refused to take a chance on a better way like his other siblings. Of course, there's no guarantee that what replaced the Golden Order would be any better - Mohg's Moghwynn Dynasty under the Formless Mother or the Frenzied Flame under Vyke (or the player character) are certainly worse, as is the defilement under the Dung Eater. If the player character does not take it upon himself to find a new rune to place into the Elden Ring, then the Elden Lord ending is the Age of Fracture, a era of bronze instead of gold. This calls to mind the vision of Daniel in the Bible, where King Nebuchadnezzar dreams of a statue with a golden head, a silver chest, and loins of bronze - each age descending the statue worse than the one before. So in this sense, even if the player doesn't agree, Morgott's actions are not pure nonsense - he has a method to his mode of thinking. This is why I compare him to Dark Souls's Gwyn, Lord of Cinder, because Morgott upholding the clearly failed Golden Order reminds me so intensely of Gwyn offering himself as kindling for the First Flame to continue the Age of Fire rather than risk everything being undone and a new age, the Age of Dark, coming to be.

Later, when Godfrey returns, he cradles his son, so diminished, until his body returns to grace. His Omen curse was lifted, or the Erdtree accepted him into grace anyway (or some other explanation). Here we see that despite everything, Godfrey loved his son, even if he imprisoned him. Morgott held on to see his father, but also to see the Erdtree that he so cherished set alight by the Tarnished. Morgott is the first of the truly mandatory bosses - you have to face others before him, but Morgott cannot be skipped save through unintentional sequence breaking. Morgott would never accept a new order even if it was possible to bypass him. FromSoft sets up a tragic fight and tragic figure, perhaps not as directly painful as Great Grey Wolf Sif or Gehrman the First Hunter, but one where you do feel sad for fighting him. He doesn't have the negative characteristics of Godrick, Rykard, or Mohg and taking him down isn't a mercy like Radahn - this is a tragedy, a true waste of someone who could be so much greater than he was if he had possessed the imagination to see it done. Whether that's due to the trauma he suffered as a child as I've speculated above or another reason entirely, Morgott represents so much missed opportunity that it's impossible not to feel for him. As he fades in his father's arms, perhaps the acceptance he received from his father, and of being accepted by the Erdtree at that last climatic moment, gave him some measure of peace.

Thanks for the question, Cat and George.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

#elden ring #elden ring morgott #elden ring margit #character analysis

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