Tags: Elden Ring, Tarnished OC, Tourma the Unknowable | Tourma the Eclipse, Omen OC, Morgott the Omen King | Margit the Fell Omen, Roderika (Elden Ring), Smithing Master Hewg (Elden Ring), Omenkillers (Elden Ring), Canon-Atypical Pacifism, Found Family, Adoption
A simple tarnished of no renown attempts to escape the capital with a precious treasure found deep within the Subterranean Shunning Grounds. In their haste, they stumble in exactly the wrong direction, coming face-to-face with the golden city's acting king.
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Tourma dashed through the streets of the capital, the sweat pouring down her face beneath her stone helmet stinging her eyes as she tried to navigate the blurry, half-familiar paths she had traced over the past few days. A bolt of lightning cracked far too close for comfort, leaving her ears ringing and setting off the bundle held tightly against her chest to crying all over again. She swore in a tongue none would recognize there, even though they were functionally alone.
The Shunning Grounds had been a welcome reprieve from the searing glare of the sun off every wall and rooftop of the gilded city above; its damp, cool corners feeling far closer to home for the lowly Tarnished. Its denizens had been no kinder, granted, but the architecture provided more natural cover for her to work with when stealthing about, and the ambient color palette lent itself well to camouflaging. Navigating its sprawling innards had been a pleasant distraction until they’d heard a shrill and unmistakably distressed cry echoing through the damp stone pipes.
At first, they had assumed it was a trap. There were plenty of beasts – not to mention unscrupulous opportunists – capable of mimicry, and anything living in such a place would need every advantage in the struggle for survival. But when she had followed the sound, slinking low through the darkest afforded shadows, all she’d found was a squirming, shrieking piles of rags half-submerged in whatever liquid drizzled through the area’s man-made tunnels. It was a child after all, its gray skin covered in cuts and sores. The numerous adult omens patrolling the subterranean byways had been proof enough of the rumors; Grace really hadn’t needed to drop this in her lap to prove a point.
Carefully, cautiously, she had scooped the infant from the water and wrapped it in a dry, blue cloak she never used. It would need various attentions, but a sewer full of rats, slugs, and basilisks was not the place for that. Nor was the main road, apparently, where the bairn’s cries had attracted every last enemy Tourma had so carefully snuck past on her way in. Even the other omens paid no heed to the shrieks of their kin, so long as an enemy was in clear view. She had been forced to flee for the capital once more.
And while the forced retreat had given them the time and space to hush their new charge, every second above ground had proved as perilous as her first two dozen trips through. Finally, after a long chase that left them wondering if their legs would hold out long enough to reach sanctuary, Tourma heard the steady retreat of metal footsteps fading behind them. Their pursuers had finally given up the chase.
Panting, she stumbled to the top of a stone staircase before dropping to her knees. Shaking her shield off her arm, she wrenched the feline imp helmet from her head with one hand, the child still clutched in the other. Wiping her face with the red cloak wrapped about her neck, she looked down at her foundling in the light for the first time. What she had taken to be scars were actually fine, white hairs, and the “sores” were nothing but the stumps of budding horns. The child had not entirely escaped injury by any stretch, but they were in blessedly better condition than she had feared.
As she brushed a small wisp of pale hair from their forehead, the sound of footsteps hit her ears once more, though these were unhurried and soft – naked, even. Her head flicked up, and a pit dropped in the bottom of her stomach, heavy as lead.
“Graceless Tarnished.”
’Graceless?’ she thought curiously. ’I can still see Grace.’
“What is thy business with these thrones?”
’Thrones? Tourma glanced about the arena, bewildered. If the omen king’s aim was to confuse and distract them, it was working. Sure enough, however, there were several, semi-spectral thrones set up in a disheveled semi-circle at the bottom of the staircase Morgott was descending. As he monologued, the Tarnished tried to imagine each of the demigods taking their respective places. However, the thought of colossi like Godrick and Rykard trying to take their assigned seats alongside dainty Princess Ranni was downright laughable.
A sudden crack drew their attention back to the king just in time to see his walking stick burst from its shell and reveal its true form within: a dark blade with a glistening rainbow pattern reminiscent of oil on water.
“Have it writ upon thy meager grave: Felled by King Morgott, last of all kings!”
At his booming declaration, echoing against the overgrown stones of the stage, the bairn – still clutched tight against their breast – began its choked, squealing cries anew. Icy shards pricked Tourma's heart as the fear of death stirred within her for the first time since arriving in the Lands Between - not for herself, but for the child. An omen, orphaned by Grace as they were, would not be spared the grave as she would.
The king froze with his curved greatsword held aloft in one hand.
“What is that?”
Even from such a distance and with the shadow of his great brow over his eyes, Tourma could see he was looking directly at the baby. And while his expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts, the intensity of his gaze kept them on edge.
The king’s sword arm arched, and the Tarnished dropped into a low stance, ready to dodge and bolt. However, he merely spun the weapon around to hold the blade behind rather than before himself. Tourma opened their mouth, tried to force the words from their throat, but all that escaped was a rasping croak. As usual, the haze of adrenaline made it impossible to even choke out the simplest of words. It seemed to make no difference to the king, who slowly approached the two regardless. Though she had her reservations, Tourma adjusted her hold to support the child’s head while gently turning its face towards the king. When he came close enough to loom over them in silent appraisal, she felt no threat.
Relaxing, they took the opportunity to observe the king in turn. He was as impressive in the flesh as he had been when they’d clashed at Stormveil – and just as haggard. Tourma was aware of the burden he chose to bear and respected his resolve, even if she had numerous issues with the target of his devotion. Despite that, and despite his rough edges and distant demeanor, he was still a king. He was no father – as far as they knew – but he had once been a child himself, they reasoned. He knew the horrors of the Shunning Grounds better than any previous ruler of the capital likely had. They only prayed that the Order hadn’t diluted that awareness.
“Not thine own, I should think,” he said finally. “Twas not so long ago I crossed blades with thee.”
Tourma nodded. Feeling the rush of adrenaline starting to ebb, she tried her voice again.
“The sewers…” It was all she could manage, throat dry and tense, but the king seemed to understand well enough. He gave an investigative sniff before snorting a puff of breath into the child’s face, edges of the swaddling fluttering in the gust. The infant whined and scowled comically, and Tourma bounced them reassuringly.
Straightening to his full height, the king regarded Tourma as she soothed the child.
“Has thou strayed from thy path to the throne? It would seem so, and yet thou still found thy way here.”
Tourma hesitated. Nothing about their ambitions had changed. They still sought to rejoin the Elden Ring, taking the throne in Princess Ranni’s name but also in remembrance of Fia and Rogier, D and his brother. She had little clue what duties exactly the title brought with it, but they were willing to do anything in service of those they had once failed to protect; their actions would aid those their lost companions would have served in turn.
With that said, circumstances had unarguably changed. If they had any desire to keep the child alive, they would need to carefully reconsider their plans for the immediate future. With any luck, they would find assistance until they had completed their journey and secured a home and a family to house the both of them. Failing that-
No. Failure was not an option. Not if she wished to retain the right to Princess Ranni’s hand. Hands...?
They sighed. “Should’ve...left them there? Others down there... Must be...some way to survive. Growing up among its kind...” Her vocal cords were unclenching, but her mind was still awash with thousands of overlapping thoughts. They gave the child their fingertip as a pacifier, having nothing else to offer and knowing its cries would easily drown out their weak muttering if it started up again.
Morgott rested the tip of his hypnotically patterned blade in a crack in the stone flooring and shifted his weight to it as though it were still a walking stick.
“Does thou realize that the omens prowling those detestable Shunning Grounds are but a fraction of the discarded? Some survive, yes, but ‘tis more a testament to nature’s gambling habit than the fitness of their environment.”
With trembling fingers, Tourma refolded the cloak where the child’s budding nubs of horns had begun to poke through.
“And you? Also just a lucky gamble?”
The king sneered, and Touma could have sworn a growl rumbled deep within his chest.
“Thou art dancing about the point. Dost thou still seek the Elden Throne?”
“Yes.” It was out of their mouth before they realized it, yet they found they had no regret. There was little point in lying to a man like him. “Though, I have...strayed somewhat, yes. I would not...endanger…” When their voice failed, they merely cocked their head towards the child. “I just...need to get somewhere safe. Then I can think again. For now...my only concern.
“Safe… The Hold?” She muttered to herself as an idea finally broke through the mist. She looked up at the king, still by her side.
“It is no business of Ours,” he grumbled as he pulled his sword out from between the stones. Turning his back on them, he made his way towards the staircase, brushing a hand along the top of one of the spectral thrones as he passed, fingertips lingering ever so fleetingly.
“Wait.” Tourma took a step after him. All of the fear and instinct cultivated during their encounters at Stormveil that had resurfaced undulled at first sight of the omen king here in the capital had now vanished entirely. “I-If you know what such a child might require-”
“They are as any child,” he said over his shoulder wearily.
“A name, then.”
“What?”
The Tarnished took another step forward.
“Would you bless them with a name?”
“Do not try Our patience. Art thou so incapable as to require assistance in even the most basic of tasks?”
“No. But I’m a foreigner. I don’t know what names are auspicious here.”
A bitter chuckle escaped the king’s lips before he clenched his jaw tightly shut again.
“Auspices? For an omen? Thou’rt mad.”
“Yes." Tourma let the rest of the comment pass, unwilling to relinquish the momentum she had been granted. "A name granted by a king would surely carry a blessing.”
In the seconds of silence that followed, a curious, rhythmic clicking sound tickled her ears. It took them a moment to realize that the king was tapping his nails against the hilt of his sword, still in hand.
“We shall consider the matter. The next time thou appear before Us - alone - thou shalt have thine ‘blessing.’” Even with the venom laden in his final word, Tourma believed he would keep that promise, for he was a king despite it all.
With that, Morgott retreated from sight, back up the staircase and into the shadow of the great Erdtree, its resplendent branches bathing all but its very base in soft, golden light. Left alone with the babe, the golden mist that had blocked their exit dissipated. She looked down into the child’s peaceful countenance as a warm breeze tossed golden leaves about them in the now-empty audience chamber. A petal fell upon the infant’s forehead, and Tourma allowed herself the indulgence of seeing it as a sign.
“I will bring you there,” she said to no one in specific. “A place where some semblance of family may be found.”