Damn - Morgott x Reader (Tarnished)
A recounting of the early days of the new Lord. Crack fic taken semi-seriously. I've tried to keep this GN, sometimes I write she/her without thinking so please let me know if I have.
Rogier warns you of the Fell Omen.
The symbol of fear in the lands between. Of an omen so true to his nature he is naught but the cavalry of death.
You picture a beast. You picture a wretched visage of snarling hatred and-
The man that appears before you is tired and weary looking.
Convicted, yes. His (honestly quite pleasant ) voice definitely sounds like it hates your guts, but all round he looks more worn than anything.
There's a sense of rationality behind this front even as he parts his stance into a feral looking goblin-crunch. And tallying up the merchant, the crazy guy who sounded like he wanted to pawn you off right after calling you out on being single, and the lanky fucker who shut you in a closet with a knight twice your size, this is a trait that seems to be thin in the Lands Between.
You'd try to talk him down from fighting you if he didnt fling two golden knives at your face- one of which implants into your shoulder and bursts into sparkly fuck-you dust.
You honestly probably only best him because he seems to have grown weary of batting off tarnished from Stormveil. Gotten too complacent in his winnings. Looking into golden eye on horned face you see the surprise of someone who may have gotten out of bed this morning, but only just woke up.
Omen…perhaps not a descriptor, but a noun.
He's unlike any other race you have crossed in the lands between thus far. Angry and wild horns that sprout in every direction, even to the detriment of his own body. Boulder-like tail and long furred arms. But silver hair, snarl lines and a fiery expression of really wanting to gouge your eyes out- This is just a slightly exotic flavoured man.
He tells you he won't forget you as he whittles into a golden dust. And as you clutch your seal in a leather-clad hand you realize this is not one reuniting with the Erdtree, but an incantation.
A really impressive incantation that takes a mastery of faith. Did he… cast incantations within an incantation? Your heads spinning.
“Damn.” You mutter appreciatively as the final licks of gold disappear.
To which Rogier agrees, saying something about how that was an incredible foe -unaware that you haven't killed him.
You decide not to share, if only to spare his sweet, pretty self from diminishing an achievement.
A grace appears in the center of the bridge -which you wait for Rogier to leave before sitting at, since apparently not everyone can see these things.
You are luckily unsliced as you groan your way onto the floor, that injury happened only the first five lives you trotted up this bridge. But you are nursing the still-sore bruise of a cracked and then quickly potioned-away rib. Not to mention the seemingly sprained ankle you picked up trying to sidestep a hammer on a surface as even as Marika is purple.
You throw a bitten curse to your defeated enemy, as much intrigued as you are preoccupied and ready to move forwards. This has worked out to be a painful training, unrequested as usual but for once without any real death toll. A win, really.
Melina constructs into existence beside you, not bothering to kneel as she drops rather crassly into your lap two flasks of crimson tears.
The next time Margitt’s name appears to you, it's with Sir Ofnir.
Who seems to think your defeating of a yet-undefeated hunter of your kind is really naught more than a trife. Though sometimes it's hard to judge if that's what he really thinks, or if he's still mad you started with “Hey, Gideon.” when he clearly doesn't consider the two of you on a first-name basis.
But in the end no tarnished can scoff at a great rune, which you hold Godricks.
You really do try to be humble about it. Honest. Just- well it's so hard to not rub it in the twats face after his warm welcome.
He tells you there are seven more great runes, most of which are unknown as to where they actually fucking are.
Ranni disappeared, Lord of blood is somewhere, Malenia and Miquella also gone- at least the veiled monarch is guaranteed to be in Leyendell. But there's no telling what he'll be like when you get there.
Gideon speaks his words in articulated slowness but never does quite allow you the same time you give him to get his old words out. You try not to yawn. But then Gideon says, “Morgott, King of Leyendell-”
“Margit? That was the king?”
“No. Morgott. Margit is his Henchman-”
“Sorry?”
The withering look he sends you penetrates even through gold helm.
“Morgott and Margit are different people.”
“You sure?” You say and receive the instant dopamine that those two words have most definitely pissed Gideon off(nir). “Margit Morgott Morgott Margit. It's all quite similar, isn't it?”
“Margit isn't- Morgott-” Ofnir’s greaves make a dense thump as he holds his covered brow. “One is the king and one is an Omen!”
You open your mouth to speak again, but Gideon bites over you,
“Concern yourself only with Morgott!” Jeez, don't yell. “Forget Margit!”
You concede. Because Gideon is easy to prod, not your enemy.
You swivel to lean up against the opposite side of his desk. You cross your arms in thought, pondering where should be your next goal. Who you might be able to lease some information from. How funny it is that two people have such similar and odd names.
Margit. Morgot. Margit. Morgit. Aha. Damn.
….
Gideon sighs irritably at you. Looks one hateful look up and down to your ass planted on his precious workspace and-
-calls Ensha in to kick you out.
You're following a little cookie trail set up by your now dear friend, Kalé. Padding through dry leaves of a forest with boots borrowed from a soldier in Stormveil and diving into the nearest bush each time one of those demonic Rune Bears comes near.
It takes a few hours to find the small fort that Kalé had pointed you towards, but you eventually stand before a broken down doorway. There's someone at the top, perched high just as Kalé said, but you can't quite catch a glimpse at them- Backpack stuffed full of foraged herbs, flowers and swords from your escapades to the point it's limiting your head movement.
You shout a “Hey!” and get no response. “Uh…” you tap at the hilt by your hip. You can hear whoever is up there shuffle.
…
You do the stupid click.
The ground shakes in a mighty mass of armour and furred cape. Hunched low, the person before you still reaches your chest. Then like a Miranda Flower, they unfurl up and tall and higher and higher.
This is a wolfman. Near twice your height and scarred. What comes from toothed maw and blinded eye is a gentle and light voice,
“Kalé sent you? Ever the bloody busybody.”
You can't say you have a defined fondness for Blaidd after your first encounter, but he's definitely pleasant enough. You come to an agreement on a favour Blaidd needs, you introduce, and you don't feel like there's an undercurrent of attempted indoctrination or use in the conversation.
You cast on yourself a blessing before you go to leave and in this moment Blaidd mutters a “Wait…” with nose pointed down towards you.
Blaidd holds your wrist with your seal up to his face, and in preparation of getting it gnawed off you ready your other hand on your sword. He doesn't seem intimidated nor does he really acknowledge the caution, the half-dog simply plants both palms on either shoulder and spins you with a force you can't do much about. You'd usually sever a person's arms for touching you so but Blaidd gives one shocked gawk at the armoury worth of weapons saddled on your back and seems to put together that you are far too little and too strong to be your average grace-chaser.
“Am I mistaken or are you the one who felled The Grafted?”
“What if I was?”
“I should thank Kalé for the keen scout.”
And with this compliment, you think a friendship has begun.
You don't preen, per se, but when Blaidd asks for more details you are happy to oblige some information. Because you fought a demi-god welding axe and motherfucking dragon head and that does deserve at least a little bit of pride.
Blaidd listens with the keen interest of a seasoned fighter and seems to become as fond of you as you are him when you compliment the goliath sword casually hung on his back.
Then he asks,
“And the Omen posted at the gate? Did you meet it?”
Your neck prickles, raises at attention in that specific spot on your spine, like channeling deep within your nervous system for a difficult incantation.
“I did.” You say.
You recount the fight, light on the details and deliberately ambiguous on the outcome, lest others believe you have killed him and come back to shout fraud when he rematerializes at the gate.
Just as you inquire more into who Godrick was, who he was descendant of- to which Blaidd knows a great deal more than Gideon told you, remarkably- you feel that prickle again.
It is not a tingle at the mention, it is a reaction to a very real use of faith.
You go to warn Blaidd of it but before you can spit out any sort of word-
You are promptly taken between two jaws of a bear that could probably kill a god, and shredded to gruesome pieces.
You wake again at the grace, shaking in that hollow feeling of being dead and then not being but only because when it happens outside of combat, you're not prepared.
You trot back to where you were conversing with Blaidd, it takes only an hour this time. You spend the journey embarrassed to have died such an embarrassing death in front of a fellow warrior. Then you feel worse when Blaidd has obviously scattered and gone to get on with his day.
The forest is just you, the ghosts and bears. You turn to leave before another undignified death finds you.
Travelling towards and out of the forest you are ambushed a third time today with that deep tickle of awareness.
Your face light up in a gold as bright as light and down from the sky rains one large, slender and -most importantly- familiar looking dagger.
It embeds the ground right where your foot just was and you tear backwards to avoid it. You land flat on your behind and tip over from the weight of your haul.
A wine barrels worth of flowers and rowa berries soak even through metal, chainmail and undershirt.
“MARIKA DAMN IT!” You screech in frustration once you've confirmed there to be no other threat than the intimidation that you are being watched.
Being watched by the Omen.
And then you sprint for your terrible life when the noise you make attracts the eyes of animals larger than you are sick of this.
