i'm unsure how to format this because while i love walls of text, i understand the difficulty with reading them. however, i also don't want to create any more of a breadcrumb trail of links than i already have. so we'll be playing by ear for now. i'll test a mix of both for the time being, and if i don't like it, i'll make links.
i've not done a lot of reading this month besides some graphic novels and poetry. mostly because i've been busy bouncing between fanfic projects like crazy. below is a compilation of some of my favorite bits from those unfinished works. the first four are probably what folks are here for -- ELDEN RING. with a focus on the omen twins and my tarnished, thera. below that is a piece regarding the remnants of sephiroth, and below that is something involving gaster and sans undertale-deltarune. expect to see a lot more of the latter, especially with deltarune's new chapters being dropped in june. anyways, enough with the fanfare. enjoy!
TO TEAR THROUGH THE VEILPREMISE: morgott and mohg are dead. long dead. the lands between continues chugging ever onward, until the histories of queen marika and her demigod children are just that -- history. being omen, they are not absorbed into the slowly dying erdtree. instead they wander the world and reclaim their identities through interactions with other horned folk in the lands between and the realm of shadow.
---The overwhelming color of the valley was the only thing Mohg could see for miles upon awakening. He felt the old woman's blood bringing him solace -- something to call himself and, at last, words of his own -- but wherever it had sent him was unfamiliar. After years travelling the bodies of those who walk the earth, he couldn't pinpoint anything like the wide berth of lilies. Not even the pools of crimson in his memories were so vivid. His wonder is short lived, however, as dark robes swirl above him, obscuring his view. The first thing to draw Mohg's attention afterwards are a man's horns -- tinted lily-red, twisting like branches from his face and the top of his head. In stark contrast to his clothing and the screaming vermillion of the landscape is his white hair, comprised of tight coils, textured like a miniature cloud. The side effects of a persistent scowl are stamped to his face. He leans, curious and cautious, over the ghostly presence laying amidst the flowers.
Mohg's heart swells. Something about this person is significant and beautiful.
"Oh boy," the gravekeeper mutters, hanging his head. "I'm of no use to you, omen." The man grunts as he hauls himself to his feet. He swaps a walking stick adorned with glowing flowers and black feathers between his hands. "I'm no tuner. I take bodies to their graves. Not my buisness what happens after. My apologies." Despite his acerbic tone, Mohg can tell he is sincere. He anxiously stumbles, nearly dropping his cane, before resuming his trek across the field with his new apparition hovering close behind.
The gravekeeper makes subtle attempts to eschew this companion, but fails. The wraith is clingy and far more attentive than he, and it's obvious that it has had plenty of practice with tormenting others. Strangely, it does not strike with any frightening visions or dangerous commands.
Annoyed moreso than afraid, the gravekeeper huffs. "Why do you insist on pestering me? Your haunting means nothing -- my horns are well-kept."
Mohg shakes his voice free from centuries of disuse. It is cracked and trips over itself a few times, before he regains familiarity with it. He keeps his volume low and his words brief. "I don't mean to haunt you," he says. "You remind me of someone."
"Oh? And who might that be?"
Mohg gives a thoughtful pause, searching for an answer for the man as well as for himself. Still no name comes to mind. But as he stares at the moonlight wreathing the horned figure in front of him, hope stirs in his breast. "I'm not sure. That's what I am trying to figure out... and why I feel the need to follow you." He smiles to himself. "Maybe you will lead me to them?"
"Hm. I fear I'm no help there, either."
The duo walk until they reach a swath of land marked with gravestones, with some three times their tender's height. Other plots are smaller, marked by cairns or braided twigs and grasses tied to a stake. No matter their size, each grave is decorated with offerings spanning from jewelry to cut horns and loose teeth to carved effigies of patron deities. Or perhaps they were likenesses of the dead themselves. Unlike the surrounding area, the ground is laid with stone and decorative brush. The only flowers to be seen are bundles of the valley lilies and the same blue asters found on the gravekeeper's staff. They're placed atop every headstone.
"The flowers mean something," Mohg declares. He thinks of the golden petals he once laid in the hair of his most precious memory.
The gravekeeper nods. The rigidity in his body is almost entirely erased as he says with a gentle tone, "Yes. Everyone tends to their dead as they choose, but I'm drawn to give them my blessings, still. They lay in the body of the Twinbird, it's only right I give them the feather-flowers." He points to the blooms on his staff. "Blue to light the way to safety, red for the strength to go onwards to the next realm." He shares a moment of silence with Mohg before turning to face him, with a renewed, stony expression. "Speaking of which... again, I don't believe there’s anything for you in this land. You must hail from the plains, or the plateau. It'd be best for you to return." "The storm folk of Belurat work with curses. Not my people. Whoever it is you're looking for -- strange, kind omen -- is back there. I am certain of it."
"You really wish to be rid of me." Mohg holds back the implication: it is not an uncommon sentiment. His thoughts whirl in fear -- fear that the woman lied, fear of being truly lost, and worst of all: fear that when he finds the being in his memories, it will react exactly like everyone else.
The gravekeeper is stunned into silence. He freezes, sensing the tension radiating from beside him, and ponders his next words carefully. Shifting his gaze towards the plot of memorials, he admits: "The truth is, I do not do well with spirits. I wish them well -- wish you well -- but you lot unsettle me. My work remains in the realm of the physical. As it has for generations before me."
"Am I not in front of you, speaking to you? What does my physicality matter?"
...
[the gravekeeper offers to travel with mohg to the plains. maybe give him a title of some kind]
"My name is Mohg."
The gravekeeper stammers. "Of course. Well, Mohg, is the person you're looking for... Are they..."
"Omen, like me? Dead? I would assume both. My memories are fading, and in many of them, I am a child."
---
After decades of sitting in the fetid caverns of his childhood, another omen spirit becomes quite bored. Internally, he knows that this is his lot. This is what he earned for being born as an abomination. Yet something horrible pries at him: a desire for more. Pushing that desire aside was once more becoming arduous. He frequently finds himself peering up at the dimming light of the old golden tree, wondering what -- if anything -- remains inside. Many of his accursed kin had crawled from their dens ages ago, breaking the surface with no sign of a struggle. The urge to follow them presents itself as a unscratchable, soul-deep itch.
His practice of bringing to mind the punishment for a creature reaching beyond its status was becoming more irritating than threatening. He is doing his penance well, he tells himself, and will continue to do so for eternity. A change of scenery seemed miniscule in the face of infinity. Once more he looks upon the Erdtree, as though asking for permission, and it gazes emptily back -- unmoving, uncaring. The grates of the sewer are bent wide, and the weather beyond the bars appears pleasant. It would be so easy to leave. He turns to the grimy wall of his cell. The shackles there are so rusted, the bolts so crooked, they couldn't hold anyone anymore, no matter how they tried. For a moment the spirit grapples with what he knows, in opposition to what he wants; but his loathing is tired. He slips through the bars of his prison, taking careful steps into the light.
The streets of the holy city are still streaked with ash. Footprints of various sizes -- some belonging to the four-toed people of the sewers -- mark where townsfolk have come and gone throughout the day. The gilded rooftops are choked by dust, and rather than nobility, the city center seems to be made up of a diverse mix commoners, alongside what could have been former cellmates. The wraith looks on, confused. How much time had passed, for such populations to be mingling? Still, graceborn residents inch away from an oncoming stampede of omen bairns who race through the streets with kites. One woman, hosting a dinner in her garden, makes a snide remark about their stench, their sound, and recieves a chorus of giggles from those in her company. Another lady, younger than her fellows, swiftly stands from her seat in the far end of the yard and reprimands the party for their behavior before storming off. She leaves shocked faces and a shattered glass of wine in her wake.
Though they shared some common spaces, omen and the grace-touched lived in separate areas of the city. More ash piled in the run-down townhomes of the omen quarter, where it was clear the hammer of subjugation still fell on the people there.[eventually this led into a segment where the morgott-wraith comes across the woman mentioned prior again, who has an omen sister and daughter who live in the ghetto. she visits them, and morgott notices the little girl staring directly at him. she's confused, this is her first experience with a daytime spirit. eventually she befriends him and shows him a tunnel she's been building, that hasnt been able to go any further because it's blocked by thorns. an Unknown feeling drives morgott to make his way thru the thorns, popping him out in the realm of shadow. he makes his way to belurat.]
Many more horned people flit about this town. Some living, many dead and cloaked in shadow as they wander through scaffolding, construction equipment, and burnt buildings. Most of the dead seem unbothered -- carrying pots of water and keeping watch over their homes as they would have in life. Children play with dogs in the alleys and stack stones at their own gravesites. At times, the murmur of the town square is disrupted by pained wailing remniscient of the sewer-gaol. Following the noise is always the same young, living person with hopeful eyes and a clay jar. Their hair, tied in intricate braids, flows like quicksilver over their shoulders as they gather the terrified spirit and whisk them away. This becomes a daily occurrence. To the watchful wraith, the task seems fruitless. For each soul the youth collects, a dozen more appear at the gates by dawn -- many sobbing as loudly as the prior occupants did. Still they return, jar under their arm, as though it was their sole purpose. A wave of understanding washes over him. He internalizes respect for their drive; their unending desire to act on whatever it was they believed. The effort, in his eyes, shifts from ridiculous to mildly commendable. He keeps his distance, watching over the jar-bringer and the scenes of the city from atop a crumbling steeple. In his silent vigil he bears witness to the routines of the town as it rises in the morning, waits for the wailing and stealing away of distressed spirits, and wonders at the behaviors of the walking dead. It soon becomes comforting. The villagers and their shadowy faces, in turn, eye him and his perch with curiosity. Some elders bow solemnly in his direction.
At sunset the jar-bringer spots him, despite his best efforts. Before he can dart away, they approach with their brow pinched into a frown. Their eyes glisten as they speak softly, in a language unknown to him, but an obvious tone -- one he associated with comforting small children. He balks at the expression of pure pity. Never had they spoken to any of the shadow-spirits in such a way. Pride stirs and bubbles to the surface as the wraith gathers himself, preparing to take his leave. He could understand their passion, but to entertain their bleeding-heart endeavor at the cost of his self-regard...
The evening breeze shifts around the jar-bringer, stirring their tiny braids, and in response they adjust their expression to a display of neutral patience. They open the vessel in offering, and wait.
Upon closer inspection of them, the wraith notices the dozens of tiny horns that sprout from the top of their head and shoulders. Their hands, dark and tipped with claws, and a cleft that runs from the bow of their lip to their nose. They were like the shadows in the streets, like the creatures hidden in the corners of cities and forests. Like him. He looks into the mouth of the jar warily. He had no idea what happened to those who go in. They were simply never seen in the village afterwards. Then again, he had no idea what would come of crawling through the thorny tunnel, and on the other side was something far more interesting than a prison or a ghetto. His living counterpart remains still as he contemplates entrance or escape. They are still as he leans towards the possibility of something better awaiting him inside the jar. The wind picks up again, and his decision is made: he climbs in. Doing so prompts a relieved exhale from his warden. The opening seals and the world goes dark.
After a brief walk, he senses being carried up a spiraling set of stairs before being set upon the floor. Pungeant incense seeps through pores in the clay as the sound of metal trinkets clatter about outside. It is silent for a moment, and then suddenly, something solid strikes his vessel. Vibrations rattle the wraith's intangible ears. The jar-bringer tunes their voice to resonate with those waves; the notes move something free from where his heart would have been. An ancient ache he hadn't the motivation to soothe begins to dissipate. The humming becomes singing and more tapping, growing in intensity until the jar -- and the whole earth, it seemed -- is filled to the brim with the chaos of music. Something further wrenches at the spirit contained within, and eons of rage, sorrow, and resentment spill out from him like sour bile. Yet, nothing hurt. He felt lighter by the second.
The singing cuts dramatically to a massive chant, resolving with ten stomps that cause everything in the room to shudder and knock into each other. Some objects fall to the floor with metallic ringing. With each beat, his vision spins and fear rises in his throat – fear that his vessel would crack and he would spill out, coating the ground with whatever filth had just been wrung from his being. Then the space falls silent, save for the jar-bringer's panting. A breathy prayer is lifted upwards, and the lid of the container is removed. He nervously draws his gazes up towards his strangest of companions, and they look back with a sweaty brow and a smile full of sharp, familiar teeth. They dip their head in invitation.
As he exits, Morgott is struck with the memory of his name.
---
[the final scene. a lot of shit happens and the twins end up finding each other. i just wanted to gush about the beauty of the realm of shadow lol]
"No time to waste," Mohg calls. "The sun is rising -- look there!"
The realm of shadow springs awake. In the dried grasses of the plains, curly-horned beasts bleat their morning alarm; baby birds open their beaks in waiting as their mothers return to their ground-nest. The spirits and their lively counterparts stretch their limbs, sweep their doorways, call out to one another from their windows. Dew gathers on the hems of long skirts as women and children go to the river with their heirloom pots, charred as they are, and today, nobody weeps. The ominous tree hangs its head solemnly in the distance, and the black castle continues to assert empty dominance atop the plateau -- but the most oppressive constructions of man stand insignificant beside the glory of the sun.
Oh, the sun! The true thing -- not the eternal glare of the golden Erdtree, but the warmth of an abundant, impermanent star. From behind the Tower it rises, shifting the horizon's hues with every passing minute. Clouds catch the light and paint themselves in a coppery glow. The river dances in the eyes of the horned folk, as if to blind them with light enough to blot out the dark tree, the dark keep.
Morgott looks on with awe at the sights, the sounds. He cannot bring himself to say anything else but: "I see."
"Shall we go together?"
"Go?"
He turns to see Mohg's outstretched hand.