𝐫 𝐮 𝐛 𝐞 𝐝 𝐨

#𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐋. independent and private radagon of fromsoft's elden ring. mutuals only. low activity. heavily headcanon based along with personal interpretation of source material. not spoiler free. established march 24, 2023. as written by taco ( 30+, they / them ). carrd.

Solemn duty weighs upon the one beholden; not unlike a gnawing curse from which there is no deliverance.

blog roll: @drachenblood, @helldevour

affiliates: hemithios. lionscrowncd.

@greatgospell: ❝ old stories are like old friends. you have to visit them from time to time. ❞

𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭. 𝐇𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐭 at the academy, such knowledge found not between the pages of the many tomes found within its ancient halls, but poured as wine and honey from the mouths of scholars – the sort just as wont to consume both with insatiable zeal. So sure were they in their dissertations given form through hastily scratched notes and barely formed thoughts, in this matter as they do in all things academic or not. ‘Tis the way of the studious, he’d learned, even his once wife given to such fits of passion that would transform her normally elegant hand to something of an indiscernible scrawl.

Each book told a tale and he himself no more than an eager student, so hungry to learn. So eager for what he’d once believed the world contained in an expansive library. He remembers this best, the moment when the might of a greater power descended clad in gold and black, come with a summons for a destiny he’d all but ignored.

And in those days that followed would he realize the truth of a story. For no more are they a study as they are a collection of memories. Thoughts had. Dreams faded. All turned to dust. No more tangible and real as the bonds that held man together. There is but one reality to this world, unchangeable save for but the whims of a cruel and unfeeling god, sight cast too far forward for the likes of something so fleeting as what is to be writ upon a page.

@ramblingsofamoonwatcher: ❝ i am the monster they all say i am. ❞

𝐌𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬, 𝐚 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 with no room for a muddled blur between. And above them all – the heavy hands of those who would ordain the place and role of each and every living being within this sordid world. Truth or lie, holy or corrupt, man or monster, such are the distinctions made. And Radagon himself, having taken his brush to this world, dipped in gold or elsewise. Gold is what flows within his veins, the very life’s blood that drips the heavens are his to weave. Incantations crafted to expunge this world of those who exist within the confines of the other side. For once so much of this world had been in opposition to the Golden Order, the flames of conflict scorching much of this land. Theirs is a god of conquest and bloodshed, sacrifice nigh a necessary sacrament to fill her cup. That he would answer that which would still remain as a stain upon the perfection of his Order with careful and merciless violence is but part of his nature.

For they are two parts as well, both golden and pure and divine, but he is the one meant to know and feel what it is to be mortal.

He looks to this woman in confession, hoping to discern her nature in turn. Truth or lie. Does she believe in the sincerity of her words? When he has known the vilest depths in which man may sink? When he has stood in witness of their sins and thus uttered inalterable judgement of their fates? His very word inviolate and their ends a resolution. Would he therefore need cast this one to the shadows beneath the holy capitol? Gaoled and held in chains, tormented by the evils that dwell in those labyrinths?

@curenone: “ you’re looking a little … broken up there. ”

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫. ‘𝐓𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐞 when the dust settles, when the last breath of mortal challenger and eternal creature both fall away, swallowed by the abiding dark of the Erdtree’s heart. And at long last, is he alone. Truly alone. He crawls to awareness within his own body as one might on hands and knees through tunnels of glass and rusted nails. And he fits uneasily within this vessel, feeling nigh too small for himself, feeling the loss of an intrinsic part of himself and wondering how he’s not bled from what’s been torn away.

‘Tis worse than before, when he’d woken to this world as half a man, carrying the memory of when he’d excised his very self from his body. He knows not where she has gone, but ‘tis not half of a whole that remains now, but a third of one being. Now ‘tis he, on his knees, slumped forward, hair falling about him as he stares at the hands in his lap, wondering if they were his after all. They obey not his command save but a twitch. All of him is agony and ruin, battered to pieces by the cruel hand of the divine. Hammered to fit the shape of a vessel and to be naught else but that. The bitter recompense for a lifetime of obedience. What matters loyalty when this is his fate.

He closes his eyes, the gold filaments of power that still drips from his chest but proof of godhood. All but defeated, he is a vessel still. One that is slow to mend as the pieces of himself have scattered and skittered away. Where one god must die and another mortal joins it, must he himself remain. As always. There is to be no reprieve after all.

The silence does not last. Nor does the solitude. There is strength that remains yet within his body when his hand closes around his hammer once more and he swings it about, smashing it through the chest of the stranger. A snarl that twists his lips as he at last stands, one hand clutched fast around his weapon whilst the other still hands useless by his side. Still a shadow form of what it once was, but slowly does it become solid. A vessel in which the pieces must fit together once more, in which the cracks must be sealed.

@lionscrowncd [  BATTLE  ]:     as they prepare to go on a dangerous mission, sender shares a final moment with the receiver, and tells them they love them, just as they head out to fight.

𝐇𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟, 𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭. ‘Twas not the name he was born with, but the name he has now. And it is his own. The singular definition of his self that he understands. When all else that is his is but on loan from her, when all else that he has some claim to is also shared with her, then must he find the borders between they two. He sees it at times, the singular thread that had been they that’d weaved through the ages ‘til that moment when they’d been split in twain and from that moment do these borders continue to widen. Yet not enough. Never enough when all that drips about him is ever tainted with the touch of Marika.

What can he be then but some growth excised from the greater body, left to fester on its own in the cold. The gold that he wears now are from her, the hammer that rests upon the table is as much his as it is hers. When he holds it, is the weight of it familiar, this weapon that is an extension of himself. The runes within come alight by his touch alone. With it will he exact divine judgement upon the battlefield, part god made mortal champion to a goddess now. This is all he is, he supposes, no more her weapon upon the snow.

There is movement from behind, Godfrey who shares his tent now finally stirred awake. Radagon bothers not to look, though well can he envision the glory of his companion’s body, having been welcome to it the night before. Cut from the divine and still Radagon aches in a way that is utterly mortal. Held tight against Godfrey, is it so easy to allow the borders of himself to unravel, lost to a brief moment beyond grace and gold and all things tied to fate and destiny. ‘Tis always fleeting, but with Godfrey can he believe it to be eternal.

A large hand comes to settle against the small of his back, so warm and comforting that Radagon finds himself easing back, allowing Godfrey to guide him back to the bed, where he’s pulled into the man’s embrace. He’s handled as though he weighs nothing at all, brought to straddle Godfrey’s lap and to feel the pleased rumble through his chest as Godfrey begins to work through his vast locks of crimson red. Fingers card through his unbound hair, the scarlet locks falling as a river of blood down his back. Radagon can ill comprehend why Godfrey seems to enjoy his hair so much when the color itself is blasphemy, but here is he now and Radagon is too content to do much in protest.

@caediis: ❝ the blood of my enemies i will shed gladly. the blood of innocents is another matter. ❞

𝐎𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲. Denied the world will he make for himself one cradled within the earth. A slumbering dynasty engraved with the slow trickle of blood that runs from the profane. Life made into an aberration. He sees it wheresoever his gaze turns, in twisted creations and the horrors with talons still dripping with fresh blood and viscera. This is his creation. Where churns the deep red pits of that which was once vital to life, now but a step away upon a shore washed crimson. ‘Tis there might Mohg have his baptisms, where his supplicants lay drenched in these gruesome currents.

To bear witness to such a creation, Radagon can ill conceive where might Mohg draw the line between innocent and corrupt. Would believers of the holy tenets be suitably cast to the depths, their throats slit open and their own life’s blood decanted from their beings? Would then he be made to join the penitents, for a certainty has Radagon much to repent, his sins uncountable, his salvation beyond reach.

“Thus will thou contrive to be the arbiter of mankind.” Radagon peers to that which lay beyond what has ostensibly been his prison since having been spirited away to Mohg’s kingdom. So high above the world that Mohg has crafted might he ignore it all and instead peer to the false heavens, pretending elsewise if not for the iron scent that suffuses every breath taken. ‘Twould be so easy to believe that his child bears naught but good intentions, that he means only the best for this world. But the touch of his false god is as tainted and poisonous as waters befouled by the bloated dead.

@arathina: ❝ i must be strong. if i despair, my grief will consume me. ❞

‘𝐓𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐠𝐨, 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐡𝐚𝐩 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 and not one split between two wills, when he’d realized that what rests in the unseen shadows of the capitol is a blade. An edge that would cut easily into the unwitting. He’s no wounds to bear for his own missteps, but he knows of its existence all the same. The weight of a crown is a strange shield in some ways, but even he ill needs such protection when divinity still flows through his veins. The self-same blood he has blessed cursed his children with, only one marred by the red of his hair and thus suffers most for being her father’s child. In temperament and in appearance. Both children of his heart, his one light within this wretched city, who have become heirs to his burden and with it his own enemies.

The knives turn at times to the twins. Radagon toils harder still for a greater shield than what a throne fails to provide, for a happy people would mean safer childhood. He works through the night and finds himself yearning for simple days when the only yoke he need bear was that of a mere champion, when an enemy is the one he meets upon the battlefield. Now he fights for his children with failing diplomacy and an iron hand.

Godwyn once spoke of children sequestered away within the country. When he places a hand atop young Miquella’s crown of flaxen gold he thinks of his child amidst fields of wheat. Would that he had such luxuries. Would that he could take both children and settle within the azure lakes of Liurnia. His burden is their burden, and such are shackles that’d clasped tight about their wrists ere they’d been born to this world.

His precious and precocious son already feels the rattle of such chains, who remains at the same height now as he’d been years ago whilst he watches his sister age and suffer through the years. What use is the power of a crown when his children must feel its weight all the same. When Miquella must utter words of strength and grief. He halts in his tracks, hand falling away from his son, the same knot of grief that has tied about his heart since the moment he’d known he would be a father once more tightening once more.

@fenrs: ❝ there are wolves in these woods, and worse things. ❞

𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝, the sun bright across his bare shoulders and the scent of crushed grass and fresh sap an overwhelming perfume about the air. Here, was where he’d stood, watching with little feeling as the axe men took the great trees, felling dozens by the hour. Nigh an army of them with their dulled weapons still somehow gleaming against the sun when their great blades were held high ere they were brought down against the ancient trunks. To disturb such wood was to invoke the ire of the spirits and did such ethereal beings dwell within, their wrath made known the more they'd carved away of the arboreal body.

Worse things, Fenris had the right of it at least. Wolves are as nothing to one who has reared many, having felt the powerful bite of such beasts. Centuries ago had he vanquished the worst denizens of the forest, banished them to whatever lay beyond this mortal world. But when the forest itself is but a living creature, new life may germinate. The scars of eld have all but been reclaimed, the borders between man and nature shifting to the dominance of the latter. He espies not a single fallen trunk nor the discarded axes of his servants.

“Art thou easily worried of such things?” The look he slides towards Fenris is scrutinizing though he finds little of the fear that Radagon might expect of a lesser being. More wolf and spirit is this one, like scenting out like in this moment. He wonders if Fenris is aware of the many gazes that they have drawn by their transgression of having ventured too near. “What dwells within abhors my presence, for good reason, I suppose. ‘Twas by my command that I’d had its being despoiled.”