#draconic-ichor

Blood started to seep from the cracks in the stone, moving as if pulsing with it’s own life. The tiny omen was frozen. The whispers about his mind humming almost soothingly as the thought of retreat crossed him.

He’d never heard them so clearly since the very first time they pierced his mind. He’d snuck away, finding his mother’s trident…or he supposed now rightfully his Uncle’s trident. Picking it up with eager hands, a thrill surging through him. But the moment his hands wrapped around its, surprisingly hot, pole something spiked into his mind. Something churning and vast; making his blood boil in his veins. He’d dropped it immediately, the metal clattering on the polished floor.

Now the voice sounded strangely comforting. It curled warmly in his ear until a dark shape started to rise from the crimson.

He’d seen some omens here or there, but never one quite so large. Definitely not one that cast such an imposing shadow. Magnus felt a shiver run through him, fur fluffing up a bit.

He gulped, standing his ground, realizing all at once this creature’s eyes were not tinted gold. His fur was close to the same shade of dark, not the pale silver-grey of his father and siblings. That little bit of his heart that craved acceptance, of understanding, kept his stance firm.

He spoke to him, with a kindness he was most unused to from anyone…save his parents.

The innocence of childhood dulled the fear the little omen should of felt in that moment. Could it be possible, a creature of legend himself, that Mohg was not familiar with the great tales? That possibility was baffling to the little omen, not realizing the question was more to bridge a gap of sorts.

“It’s mighty Greyoll!” The boy announced, holding up the stuffed dragon, “Like…from the stories.”

That small burst of boldness suddenly evaporating, Magnus shrank a bit, clutching the plushy close once more. He gulped, eyes unable to meet the other’s. “I’m M-Magnus.” He murmured, tail wrapping around his legs.

His voice wavered a bit, “But Maddox calls me maggots sometimes…and..,” he felt tears threaten, remembering intently what drew him to this place to begin with, “The people, they c-call me ‘Beast’.” The boy felt his eyes sting all over again, looking down at his feet after finally confessing what poisoned him so tenderly.

Mohg finds himself smiling a bit brighter when his idea to bring up the toy ends up working to get the boy’s boldness to show itself, his frail tone energetic and eager, if only for a few seconds. But oh, that wash of sorrow that eked the Lord from his world of blood soon returns, and though it does not wipe the friendly expression from the Lord’s face, the colour of his eye turns bittersweet in understanding of what the boy’s words imply.

Yes, the cruelty of the world above is something he knows well.

But he tries to keep his temper quelled — keep his voice warm, and his body still. His breathing even. His gaze soft. He is not a stranger to working with children, after all, but it has been quite some time. He hums. “Magnus… what a lovely name,” he says, genuine. “‘Tis a word in our Formless Mother’s tongue — didst thou know this? Indeed, it means, ‘the greatest.’”

He can’t imagine his brother ever spoke of the Formless Mother to his son, except perhaps in warnings. Maybe the name was intentional. Maybe it was just a fantastic happenstance.

He wishes he could ask Morgott in person.

Ah, but this is no time to dwell on his own issues; this moment must be dedicated to little Magnus. He sits comfortably on his heels, as close to eye level as he can get with the small boy. “What a terrible name the one called Maddox calls thee, when the true meaning of thy own name certainly must be the reality, for who else could tame such a mighty dragon than one who is the greatest, hm?” A gentle nod; one of understanding. “Art thou hurt by being called a beast? But why? Beast be merely a word given to creatures of great power, is it not? The dragons and rune bears? The crustaceans and wolves? If this be the title thou’rt given, find strength within it, my child. Thou can be as strong as any dragon, as mighty as any bear. A powerful beast in love and glory, in life and law. What a beautiful thing to be! Thou’rt blessed with great strength, and clearly the others can see it! O, to wear such a title, and at such a young age — ‘tis an honour!”

He doesn’t know if his words are helping. He’s just trying to explain what he wishes he’d known as a child: find strength in all you are.

Please, my Lord….drink some juice so you don’t die

Once he has his attention little Magnus gives a sharp toothed smile, holding up his beloved plush dragon. The toy still has a little crimson collar around her neck.

“Greyoll wants to stay here with you!” Magnus informed, “So you won’t be lonely, Uncle.”

(For the item ask)

from leave an object in my ask [accepting!!]

“Magnus…!”

The Blood Lord turns with such surprised intensity that the whooshing of his robes around his ankles nearly knocks the poor child to the ground. Ah, hell… But he kneels to better meet Magnus’ eyes soon enough, a bit of a nagging glimmer in his own golden gaze.

“My child, what art thou doing here?” Mohg questions like a proper parent, folding his long arms across his chest. “Did I not explain to thee the dangers of this palace of blood? Thou oughtn’t disappear from thy parents’ eyes, either — I am certain they would be terrified to know thou wert missing, and… and here!”

But Magnus soon explains his reason for being here, toothy little grin and all, and Mohg suddenly feels a warmth in his heart like almost never before.

He doesn’t think first before reaching to take the little plush from the young Omen’s offering hands. The toy is impossibly tiny within his own monstrous claws, but he holds it oh so gently, like cradling the most precious substance in the universe. He stutters…

But in the moment he found the Pureblood Knight's Medal, hidden amongst his mother’s belongings, he was at a loss where to turn. With tear stained cheeks and a bleeding heart he had activated it.

His family wouldn’t understand…his siblings all born graced with gold; where his eyes were dull with fur the color of raven down.

His father too withdrawn, still burdened by misguided guilt. No…Morgott wouldn’t be able to stomach the things people called his youngest son. At least in no healthy way.

The boy’s tail flicked over the worn stone, trying to muster up all the courage in his small form to call out, “Hello?”

The title he was cruelly given by the Capital’s youth echoing around his mind: Beast. While strange whispers he only understood in dreams drew him deeper in.

Magnus swallowed thickly, calling into the dimly lit hall once more, “Uncle?”

The cry is haunting, really: so small, so shy, so terrified beyond belief. The voice of one with nowhere else to turn — no other opportunity, no hope left for acceptance in this bitter, bitter world. A cry so small, so full of innocence, it makes the Blood Lord’s very ichor pulse cold, flame as frigid as snow as he mulls over his options here.

He has not shown his battered face in Gods know how long — no, not since his defeat. Safely hidden away within his grand palace of blood, his mausoleum’s roses overgrown and the albinaurics gone hungry, he has been waiting. A coward he is, for a coward he has been, reclined on lavish furniture and nestled away where the blades of the Tarnished cannot reach him. Building his strength. Mending his ego. Staying safe. Staying away.

But something about this voice pierces even through the aether of crimson that keeps him shielded from harm.

He could ignore it — could continue to recline, to slumber, to read and relax and live in luxury’s lap within Miquella’s warm, wondrous blood. But it feels wrong to ignore. It feels like hell to hear at all. And in his gut, in his very heart of hearts, he feels…

Responsible…?

…

Alright. He’s made up his mind.

The floor of the hallway little Magnus finds himself walking within is spattered with blood, sticky and hot, alive despite being drawn from death. It is a harbinger of the world which lies beyond the eye of this tunnel — indeed, of the very nature of the scarlet universe around them.

And, all at once, not very long after his second cry for attention, it all begins to move.

To pool, to coagulate, to spatter and sputter towards itself and form a large, ever-shifting pool of deep, dark red. It spews and spits, bubbles and churns, and soon enough, the conductor of the magic’s symphony presents himself in the flesh:

A crown of horns, splintered and broken, emerges first from the crimson pool — signs of a battle fought, and lost; like a buck with missing prong. A gnarled face, with even more twisted teeth, dripping red and scowling fiercely. Broad shoulders, the stumps of clipped wings; dark, casual clothing — a silk robe with red stole. Any who had known the Lord of Blood before his fall would call this image a shadow of his former self. But he, in all honesty, has never felt more alive as the cool air of the mausoleum hits his rough skin, and sends a shiver down his strong, proud spine.

The sight in front of him is… somehow both what he had expected, and not at all, at the same time.

“Be not afraid, my child,” the Omen speaks, his voice as soft and soothing as a mother to their sleeping babe. He holds up clawed hands to show he is unarmed before approaching with slow, cautious step.

He’s at a loss for words as he approaches the small Omen child before him, kneeling before his form and offering a gentle hand. He takes in the boy’s every detail in silence, from his grace-forsaken eyes, to his tangled horns, to his simple clothes, to his familiar-looking tail…

Did he call me… uncle…?

Then it clicks with a painful pang through the larger Omen’s chest. Morgott…

Morgott, you really did it…

Pause.

“Thy… doll is cared for with immense care, I can see,” the Lord of Blood begins to speak, trying to… break the ice, in a sense, with something a bit less heavy than the complicated matter of family ties. He runs the pad of one finger down the toy’s nose as he says this, giving its snout a little boop. “Thou hast a heart full of love, I can tell, for being so kind to them. Do they have a name? Ah, or perhaps, I ought to ask thee that question first, hm…? What art thou called, my child?”

How would Lord Mohg feel if he found out he had like omen nieces or nephews?

…I have some fanchildren between my Tarnished oc and Morhott that I have had a deep yearning for them to meet their uncle…especially the youngest that has a striking family resemblance to the Blood Lord himself

from send ☕️ for an honest opinion [accepting!!]

“Oh, were I to find out that Morgott had found someone to settle down with, I would be over the stars with joy! Very good — very good indeed. It would certainly have been a long time coming. He deserves love — oh, yes, him moreso than most. And to have children, too, to carry his lineage? Oh, my heart is absolutely aflutter just thinking about it! Little Omen darlings… I am sure they would be the absolute sweetest things.

“Ah, I do fearhe may not understand my… lifestyle… well enough to allow me near his children, however, stuffy git as he often is — or, at least, was, when we were still on speaking terms… But, were he to ever have little ones, I would love to one day meet them, should our paths ever cross again. And I certainly hope he would feel the same. I would adore for any child of mine to know their Uncle Morgott.

“Mm…

“… This be a game of honesty, though, is it not? My one concern upon hearing this theoretical be… that I worry for his future children’s confidence. Indeed, Morgott certainly be not known for his kindness towards himself and his cursed blood. I fear he may — accidentally or otherwise — instil the same fear and hatred he holds for himself into his children, whether through speaking of his curse or in telling stories of his past. I do not believe he would ever cause active harm to a child’s psyche — no, no, never — but… well, I simply know how he is, as they say. I would hate to see more Omen children, especially those born of such a fantastic man, unhappy with who or what they are.

*pulls boots off, now only having sock clad feet*

*starts slowly making my way over to the Lord, purely through shuffling*

>:3

“What is the meaning of—…?

“…?!”

Oh dear.