After making his preparations, the Tarnished officially set out for the Castleward Tunnel. Aureliette, meanwhile, had tucked herself into Melina's cloak, vanishing into the Site of Grace with her. It was a small perk of being a spirit; perhaps losing a physical body wasn't all bad.
Speaking of spirits, I did get that bell from the blue-skinned witch... apparently, it can summon them. He had heard of the Spirit Calling Bell in the old days—a tool crafted to call upon souls that hadn't fully returned to the Erdtree to fight once more.
During the peak of the Golden Age, the light of the Erdtree was everywhere, allowing spirits to be summoned at will. Now, however, the power was fading. One needed specific locations where the lingering strength of the Erdtree was concentrated—near Minor Erdtrees or Statues of Marika.
"Quite a few restrictions," the Tarnished mused. He had no immediate desire to call for reinforcements. He looked up at the silhouette of Stormveil Castle. Even in the Lands Between, this fortress was legendary. Aside from the Royal Capital and the fabled Eternal Cities, it was arguably the largest standing castle in existence.
Now, he stood at the mouth of the tunnel leading to the main gates—the domain of Margit, the Fell Omen.
"Margit... let's see what you're made of." The Tarnished drew his blade, letting the steel drag against the stone as he walked into the darkness.
He didn't rush. He paused for a moment at the tunnel's exit, partly to admire the decaying grandeur of Stormveil's architecture, and partly to wait for the "Omen" to show himself.
Sure enough, a golden sigil manifested atop the archway of the bridge, showering the air with shimmering flecks of light.
"Tarnished..." A deep, gravelly voice echoed before the figure even appeared. "Emboldened by the flame of ambition... dost thou truly seek the Elden Ring?"
"Oho...?" The Tarnished rested his curved sword on his shoulder, calmly watching the golden dust coalesce. A massive figure leaped down—a man draped in a heavy, tattered brown cloak, his face a mess of matted beard and protruding, gnarled horns. A thick, muscular tail swished behind him.
The Tarnished recognized him instantly. It was exactly as he had suspected.
"Margit... Margit... hehe, you always were creative with names." The Tarnished laughed.
The figure above froze. For the first time, "Margit" actually looked at the intruder. His pupils dilated in shock. He hadn't expected to meet him here.
"Isn't that right... Morgott?" The Tarnished grinned, looking up at the towering Omen.
"Uncle... Uncle, why are you here?" Morgott's voice lost its authoritative edge, replaced by a sudden, frantic tremor.
"You little brat. Why wouldn't I be here?" The Tarnished's eyes remained kind, but the smile made Morgott flinch.
"I... I did not mean... that is to say..." Guilt flooded Morgott's face.
"What's with that expression? Swallow it down. I don't remember raising you to be a stuttering mess," the Tarnished barked.
"I..." Morgott choked on his words.
"So, you're the one guarding this bridge? The one who took down Chierbashia? You've certainly come into your own." To be able to handle a Crucible Knight without even using his full strength—it was something to be proud of in this age of warriors.
"Yes... Uncle." Morgott leaped down to the bridge. It would be a grave insult to remain on higher ground while speaking to a respected elder.
The Tarnished's expression soured. He pointed toward the castle. "Do you have any idea what kind of beast you're protecting in there?" He was, of course, referring to Godrick.
"I know... but Godrick is one of the few descendants of my brother. I simply could not..." Morgott knew full well the atrocities Godrick committed. But they were kin. Godrick was the seed of his late older brother, Godwyn. If he didn't look after him, he felt he would be failing Godwyn's memory.
"You're wrong. If Godwyn were alive, he wouldn't tolerate Godrick for a second. He'd have cleaned house the moment he saw what a pathetic wretch the boy had become. Your brother was a saint, but he wasn't a fool. Godrick is a stain on the Golden Lineage. Do you understand what that means?" The Tarnished narrowed his eyes, his gaze scrutinizing his nephew.
"I..." Morgott hesitated. He had never actually met his brother. Born an Omen, he had been cast into the sewers from the moment of his birth. Godwyn might not have even known he had two younger brothers.
"If you can still hear me, step aside. Let me enter that castle and clean house for Godwyn and Godfrey."
"Uncle... may I ask your purpose in returning to the Lands Between?"
"Before I answer that, I have a question for you." The Tarnished needed to be sure of one thing. "Tell me the truth. What is your stance on your mother shattering the Elden Ring?"
"..." Morgott struggled to find the words. Marika and Godfrey had been distant parents at best; the number of times they had visited him in the darkness of the sewers could be counted on one hand. He barely knew them. And yet...
"I do not understand the Queen... but she gave me life. I respect her." Morgott spoke with total sincerity. The Tarnished nodded. Morgott had always been mature for his age. He didn't complain about the unfairness of the world; he fought only to protect the world that had birthed him.
"But I cannot fathom why she broke the Ring. It is the foundation of everything. Her actions have left the Lands Between in ruin."
"Listen, kid. The Golden Order was never perfect. Do you think the people were better off because of it?"
"The Order is exclusionary. We stained our hands with the blood of countless tribes just to make the Erdtree the sole hegemon. Life cannot avoid conflict, Morgott... but the Golden Order is the most extreme form of tyranny."
"Uncle, you..."
"Let me finish," the Tarnished interrupted. "In the beginning, we all bled for a new age. Marika and Godfrey truly believed in the Erdtree. But things changed."
He lowered his gaze. "Over time, Marika realized the truth. The Greater Will—the power behind the Elden Ring—doesn't care about this world. It views anything outside its influence as a threat. The War against the Giants? Protecting the Tree. The War with the Dragons? Establishing dominance. But what about the others? The Misbegotten, the Omens... you. The world's hatred for you is exactly what the Greater Will wants."
"How could that be...?"
"I bear a curse," Morgott whispered. "To be shunned by the world is only natural."
"Let me ask you this: Has your 'curse' actually harmed anyone? Do you drain the life of everyone you touch? Stop talking that nonsense. There's a limit to being 'too good' for your own sake," the Tarnished snapped.
"The Golden Order drilled that into you. It made you believe you were lesser. But remember this: To the Greater Will, we are all ants. Even the humans enjoying the 'Grace' are just fuel for its fire. It has no mercy, only mockery. It uses us and discards us, just as it did the Giants."
"Marika acted because people need a leader who offers a path—not a cold, heartless god who offers only oppression. Oppression breeds rebellion, Morgott. Do you understand now?"
"This..." Morgott's weathered face was a mask of conflict. He didn't care about being shunned, but if innocent people were being treated as mere pawns... he couldn't ignore that. "But the Erdtree birthed me..."
"No. You carry the blood of the Crucible—the era before the Erdtree. Back then, your traits were considered a blessing. The Erdtree only labeled it a curse because it was different. Morgott, I know you. I know you better than Marika or Godfrey ever did. And I don't want you to be the one standing in my way when I tear down this rotten age."
"Uncle... you intend to destroy this era?!"
"This era is already destroyed. Replacing the Elden Lord is just a cycle of the same misery. We have to shatter the Greater Will itself to break the loop." The Tarnished made a crushing motion with his hand. "Don't stop me. I don't want to forget our bond."
"...Uncle, I respect you deeply. You were the one who showed me kindness, and because of that, I learned to love the world." Morgott smiled, a surprisingly gentle look on his face. "But..."
He gripped his heavy, wooden staff—the disguised sword.
"In this moment, I am Margit, the Fell Omen. My duty is to guard the gates of Stormveil and protect the last of my brother's line. I will not abandon my post. So... Uncle... please, fight me. Let me see if you still possess the majesty of the Raging Wolf."
"Oho? Very well." The Tarnished reached into his cloak and pulled out the Omenshackle.
Morgott's spirit visibly wilted at the sight of the object. A primal, soul-deep terror flared in his eyes. But he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand tall.
"Since you want a real fight..." The Tarnished chuckled and crushed the shackle in his bare hand, reduced it to black dust. If this was Morgott, he refused to use a tool of humiliation to win. That would be beneath his pride.
(Man, what a waste of Runes. I should have known I wouldn't use it on him. Curse you, Patches.)
"Come then, Uncle!"
•
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