#fellomenking

Rya had never seen an Omen before. Not in a sense of being aware what they were, what was their place in the society. During her journeys she had briefly noted the wandering huge creatures, thinking no less of them than any other - could they hail from other lands?

For Lady Tanith, indulged in blasphemy against the ruling order, had chosen to shelter Rya, even from the terrors occurring even behind the manor walls, even from Rya's very origin. Refusing to taint the pure heart, a rarity among their kin.

Even though she hadn't been lied about the cruelty of the lands, the cruelty executed on unfortunate beings by her home family - the serpent herself, wasn't taught to despise or shun. And she knew too well, what hate and fear could bloom in others.

Outside, where serpents were non-existent, she was feared. Thus, choosing willingly to disguise herself in more accepted form, even though holding pride for her true image. And she chose to hide, only to spare the insults and unwanted attention.

Ryaalways believed in the good of the heart upon approaching anyone. Tarnished, the champions lady Tanith requested her to find, and other wanderers. Considering just how peaceful the stranger seemed, she hesitated none.

The shattering of the elden ring was an event felt through all the lands between and the realm writ from history. It was the one and only thing that could coax a devout son from his eternal post steeped in blood. Messmer could trust his men from Gaius to his most loyal fire knights to hold the fort while he was away.

Surely his mother would not ward him off for expressing some concern on her behalf. What he saw upon surfacing unto the land bathed in rays of the erdtrees eminence was far from that of his youth. The lands between seemed almost ghostly now and the capital would be no different, a husk of the glory it once was.

He'd minded his serpents to this point but the state of things as they were coaxed his companions to show themselves as he grew ever nearer to the tree that bore witness to the disarray of the golden order.

"Mother... Where art thou to have allowed chaos to reign?"

searing. the wounds inflicted from an encounter one could not expect. to think one whose very existence to rid the lands between of accursed creatures would show their face to him. infuriating hatred which leads their every step. his disdain for omenkillers cut deep , for how relentless the cleansings of the shunning grounds were in youth. & yet , as hard as they tried , they could never get him and his brother.

He doesn’t know why Mohg chooses the sewers, of all gods-damned places, to spend his free time. And he doesn’t know why Mohg expected him to know how to get to the sewers in the first place.

He’s lost. Beyond lost. He’s been running from guards, hiding from misbegotten, and fighting through soldiers for what feels like hours now, just trying to find the entrance to the sewers he was promised would be around here somewhere…

He can’t find it. He doesn’t even know if he wants to.

… Eh, fuck it. He’ll just explore the city.

It doesn’t take too much longer once he’s given up to find a strange room full of scrolls and belongings, a wide staircase leading out and up towards what looks like the very heart of the Erdtree itself. Its light is absolutely magnificent from this distance, calming and curing and oh so wonderfully kind. And though he had spurned grace long ago — had slain his maiden and sworn his life to the Lord of Blood — … he feels drawn to it.

And thus, he takes the first step.

(Like a moth to a flame, his wings will surely burn in anguish.)

“… Aye, it is,” said the omen at last, nodding his head.

“Perhaps it may come as a shock to thee, but I have considered dressing more… Appropriately… The veil, for instance.”

A pause.

“… But if I am to be wed without the veil, I do not wish to wear pants. Please understand. I am covered in fur, and they are discomforting. I have shaved myself in the past, but it is only a short term solution as it all grows back…”

“Th— the veil?!” He sounds outright disgusted. “On such a special occasion, celebrating the love thou share between thyself and another, thou wishest to present thyself as someone else entirely…? Nonsense! I will not have it. I would sooner see the thing shredded.”

He’s about to comment on the pants thing then, but first…

“… Wait… Thou hast shaved thyself?!” His laughter is… not soft. In fact, it thunders. “Thou cannot be serious! My own brother, the fluffy little babe, traipsing about naked as a plucked hen — hah!”

It takes a second for the laughter to die down before he continues speaking, batting a hand. “No, no, at this point, my brother, thou wearing pants would be yet another way to present thyself as another man entirely. The Morgott I know would never stoop to such lows.” An eyeroll. “Perhaps… a simple robe, similar to thy current rags, but less… well, ragged? Something light, that does not tug at the fur, and not terribly ornate, lest thou looketh like a clown upon a stage…”

It didn't take him long to sober up. After a 4 hour 'nap', or episode of passing out from exhaustion in the middle of a field in the Altus Plateu, he found himself walking back into Leyendell, covered in dirt with a hangover and some cuts on his body that were now looking a bit concerning. Some of his cuts looked discolored and were starting to pull at the skin around them. Not to mention the muscles in his legs were starting to ache. It was clear he didn't take care of his wounds well in his drunken state.

─╠═►Simple, the deflection was. Unfortunately for his king, Maldron crossed his arms, and leaned slightly backwards, as though a wall were there to support him. Such a statement may once have been enough to leave a bad taste in his mouth and dissuade him with that, but there had been too many people as of recent to speak to. Too many ideals to consider and squash. His wit was sharpened, and his ability to simply let things be, disrupted.