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Getting a certain grumpy Omen to talk about himself is like pulling teeth. Even after their relationship graduated from burying the hatchet through awkward flirting to sharing a bed. Morgott knows every insignificant detail under the sun about her. Meanwhile, she’s still finding out some of the big lines. For instance…
“You have a brother…?’’
There's a lengthy pause. Pulling teeth. “Yes.”
“And you were going to tell meeee,” she drags out the word, “when, exactly?”
Morgott has the decency to look away like he realizes he has been remiss, but then he says: “When thou had reason to know.”
Willow makes a fist. “Why, you insufferable–!”
“Master thyself. A crisis is upon us.”
“What, this?”
Clenched in Willow's hand is the catalyst for this little lover's spat. It's a beautiful invitation made by hand, gold trim on vermilion, with calligraphy worthy of a lord. It reads:
Dearest brother,
We would be delighted for the honor of dining with you and the new Elden Lord. Please consider this a formal invitation.
We will hold the dinner in my palace on the — An attendant will be sent to fetch you at the appointed time.
With love,
Mohg
Reading this invitation, which arrived just earlier today, is how Willow finds out her life partner has a brother. He doesn't seem to care one whit about that; the dismay on his face attributable to the invitation itself. “What's the big problem?” she suffers to ask. She can and will give him hell afterwards. “Your brother who I didn't know existed is being perfectly nice and inviting us to dinner! What's the ‘crisis’ here?”
“Thou'rt daft, Tarnished wench–”
“Wench?! Oh I'm gonna k–”
“–Where didst thou see an invitation?”
“Huh?! What the bell bearings do you mean?”
“Doth thou see a request to confirm our attendance? Nay. An attendant will be sent to fetch you, ” Morgott quotes. “Tis a warning, not an invitation.”
Willow stares up at him like he's lost all sense before deciding to give the invitation another look-see. She pauses while rereading it. Her expression shifts. “Huh…I guess it is phrased a little weird…but so what? Point is he wants to have us over for dinner, right? That's nice!”
“Thou wouldst not believe so if thine eyes beheld my brother's domain…”
“You mean this ‘palace’ he mentions? What's wrong with it?”
“Words art insufficient.”
After chewing on that vague answer for a moment, Willow rallies: “Listen, we have to go. This is the first chance I've gotten to meet your family without having to fight for my life. I really, really want to go.”
Morgott has no recourse when she flashes him the sad Tarnished eyes. Not that it matters what he says at this point. Mohg is sending one of his sycophants to collect them regardless. Morgott could kill them, or at least bat them around until they left, but, well…his relationship with his brother isn't quite so hostile. Destroying it to avoid a dinner party seems a bit of an exaggerated reaction.
“Tis unavoidable…We shall go.”
The Omen indulges Willow when she beams and jumps into his arms. At least she seems to have forgotten his little lie of omission.
Soon she'll understand why he tried keeping this particular detail from her.
*
When the day of the dinner arrives, Willow is surprised to see Morgott actually dress up for the occasion. She wouldn't have requested it. She loves his homeless vagabond style, and she wouldn't force him to wear something that makes him uncomfortable.
“Cease thine staring,” he grumbles after joining her outside their bedchamber. She's making a fine goldfish expression at him. It looks stupid.
Tearing her eyes away, Willow blurts out, “Y-you look good! I didn't think you were going to dress up…”
The compliment bounces off Morgott like the blade of an unupgraded weapon. It's hard getting him to react to praise. Not impossible, but a simple you look good won't cut it. Maybe if she whispers it in his ear later. “Tis simply to avoid my brother's carping. He places too much importance on appearances.”
“So you two are like complete opposites, huh? Ah, wait, is what I'm wearing good enough?” She has her greaves on under her tunic; it's very noticeable. She'll rarely be seen not wearing some piece of armor. It doesn't feel right unless she's going to bed. Even then, she kept it on when she used to sleep alone. Never know when something terrible is going to spring out of the bushes to slice and dice you!
Maybe it's because he knows this about her, but Morgott answers, “Thy dress is adequate.”
“Aw, sweet-talker.”
Before they get a chance to be too gross, their escort arrives. Willow freezes in place when she sees who it is. “ You?!”
A familiar face, or rather mask, grins at her with the same sinister impishness she remembers from all the way back in the First Step. “Ahh, my lost lambkin! How it broke my heart that you refused the illustrious Mohgwyn Dynasty…but, I suppose the Elden throne is sufficient compensation.”
Willow's soul leaves her body at those first few words, and she doesn't register any of the other nonsense spilling out of Varré's mouth.
An unfortunate witness to the whole scene, Morgott gives her a dubious look. “ Lambkin ?”
If only one of those horrible giant lobsters could emerge from the ground right now and kill her instantly with a beam of water between the eyes. “Please…,” she whines, “never call me that again…”
“I assume this…character is no stranger to thee? Or doth thou allow strangers to address thee with such questionable monikers?”
“You really think I want this?!”
“I know not. It seems thou retaineth yet thine secrets.”
“ I just never wanted to think about this weirdo again!! He works with those Tarnished who used to chase me at random trying to kill me! He even tried to recruit m–Wait. Does this mean your brother is their boss?”
A faint, vindicated smile plays on Morgott's face. “I warned thee about him.”
Ignoring the less-than-warm reception, Varré looks between the two of them with his immovable smile. “I take it you are ready, hm?” he jumps on the latest pause to cut in. “We should not dawdle now! You are expected after all.”
Clutching a hand to his chest, he adds: “Ah, to break bread with our great Luminary…I do hope you appreciate the privilege, lambkin.”
‘‘Tis not too late,’’ Morgott tells her. ‘‘I can dispatch this man.’’
‘‘...Won’t your brother just send another?’’
He would. And he would probably show up himself if they killed enough of his bloody fingers. ‘‘We could hide,’’ is his paltry final suggestion.
Willow takes it into genuine consideration. Then, ‘‘No, no, we’re not hiding. I’m meeting your brother no matter what. Even if he’s the leader of some murder cult.’’
‘‘...Wouldst that thy impressive resolve falter but this once…’’
The defeated words of protest go unacknowledged. Willow turns to Varré, addressing him for the first time since he showed up on their doorstep. ‘‘Alright, man, take us there.’’
*
Using an ornate medallion, Varré transports them to Mohgwyn Palace in the blink of an eye. Morgott is grateful that they are able to bypass wading through the blood lakes in the valley below the palace. They’re unfortunately not quite spared the entire trip to the inner grounds. Varré leads them uphill through the throngs of shuffling zombies to a cave complex as dark as a moonless night. Though Morgott himself doesn’t need it, Willow is quick to light the lantern that seldom leaves her hip – even on special occasions.
Morgott sneaks glances at her along the way. She seems unbothered by their surroundings thus far. ‘‘Pray tell thine initial impressions,’’ he finally asks as they keep pace with Varré.
‘‘Hm?’’ she looks up at him while trying to mind her step in the gloom. It’s a good thing they have an escort. The inhabitants of this place must not need a straightforward path anywhere when they can just emerge from blood puddles wherever they wish. ‘‘Oh, I’ve seen much worse. Caelid with all the rot, Mt. Gelmir with the bodies strung up all over…So I’m not going to start crying over a crowd of blood zombies. Even Raya Lucaria had zombies in the courtyard, and that place looks really nice on paper, right?’’
Morgott supposes that’s fair. He hadn’t considered that her journey to the Elden throne had been paved with horrors. There’s no doubt that she’s stomached worse sights. ‘‘Perchance I needn’t have concerned myself over thine reaction.’’
She gives him an indulgent smile. ‘‘You were worried I’d think ill of your family. I understand.’’
‘‘Thy ire at my secrecy has abated, then?’’
Ah. She forgot she was supposed to be mad. Oh well. ‘‘Yeah, I guess you’re forgiven, you big dunce.’’
‘‘Dunce? The one who does all thine paperwork?’’
‘‘I said what I said.’’
Smiling faintly, Morgott lets the remark slide.
*
At last, the big moment comes. Varré leaves them at the double doors leading into the palace, lamenting that he will not be joining them for dinner. Immediate family and their chosen partner only. He seems close to tears at uttering the words, and it’s a relief when he makes himself scarce.
‘‘Your brother has someone in his life too, then?’’ Willow asks when the weirdo has left the premises. ‘‘I guess the invitation did say ‘we’.’’
‘‘One of his knights,’’ Morgott answers with a nod. ‘‘Though I have not met him, I would wager my brother is quite taken with him. Most if not all his letters mention the man.’’
‘‘We love a good lord-and-knight setup! Alright, showtime. You ready?’’
‘‘Ready as I shall ever be.’’
*
‘‘Welcome, honored guests.’’
Willow's first thought is that both brothers were blessed with a deep, sexy voice. Incriminating color rushes to her cheeks as her eyes meet their host for the evening. “Oh no, he's hot…,” she mutters under her breath.
If she had a golden rune for every time one of Marika's Omen sons made her horny, she'd have two golden runes; which isn't a lot, but it's still interesting that it happened twice.
Garbed in black, red and gold finery, Mohg projects all the bearings of a well-groomed Lord. Impeccable posture, an affable expression (noticeable despite the fangs) suitable for company, an aura of admirable self-respect…Willow is almost compelled to curtsy. Something she has never done in her life.
“Wherefore art thou so flushed, Tarnished…?” Morgott asks in a harsh whisper.
Mohg saves her from having to answer by approaching the two of them. “A delight it is to have you here. The new Elden Lord, and my dear brother.”
While Morgott gives his brother a withering stare in response, Willow marvels at Mohg's manners. This is the guy who sicced all those bloody fingers on her? He's so polite! “Hey, hey there,” is her scintillating attempt at a greeting, “good evening!”
The Lord of Blood's one eye settles on her. His face lights up with a very toothy smile. “Ahh, greetings, good lady. I am pleased to meet you at last.”
She perks up a bit. “Oh…? Has Morgott talked about me?”
Knowing it's futile, Morgott tries to interject: “Mohg–”
“But of course!” Mohg ignores him. “Allow not his prickly nature to fool you, he is smitten.”
A dumb grin spreads on her face. “Heh…huhu…is that right?”
Morgott pointedly looks away.
“Speaking of being smitten! Let me introduce you to my own dearest half. Ansbach, beloved–”
Willow is still grinning like an idiot when a man who had hitherto been standing unobtrusively in the back of the room walks up to them. Every bit the looks of a fine gentleman about him, the man greets them with a gallant bow. “An honor to meet you both. I am Ansbach.”
“Ah,” Willow wrenches herself back to reality, “nice to meet you! You're a knight, right? Should I call you sir?”
Humming and flashing an affable smile, the knight answers, “Ansbach will do. And how should I address you?”
Morgott watches them as they exchange pleasantries, then his eye flits up to Mohg. ‘ I didn't know we both had a taste for humans less than half our size’ is the message his stare imparts.
Mohg responds by making the following face: (─‿‿x)
Oblivious to their silent conversation, Ansbach and the Tarnished continue talking among themselves. “I know my Lord is glad of your presence, and for that, you have my gratitude.”
“Please, don't mention it! I would've happily done it sooner, but this one,” she jabs her thumb towards Morgott, “didn't tell me he had a brother. I found out through your dinner invitation.”
Ansbach tempers his surprise, eyes widening just slightly, while an aghast Mohg tosses his brother a look of pure disbelief.
“You little stinker! Why would you keep me a secret?”
It's a bit funny to hear Morgott be referred to as little, is the inane thought that crosses Willow's mind as the brothers gear up for an argument. Morgott does appear to be about a head shorter than Mohg. She files the information away for when Morgott makes passive asides about her height.
“Thou might wish to extend thine question to the followers sent to kill her.”
“Like you didn't try to kill her a solid hundred times, Margit the Fell ,” Mohg sneers and lifts his eye to the ceiling.
“Twas justified. I believed the Tarnished a danger to the Lands Between. Thy followers are motivated by naught but thine bloodthirst,” Morgott pours a big helping of contempt on that last word.
“Ugh, here we go again…I was waiting for you to pass judgment on my lifestyle.”
“Lifestyle? Pfah! A fine thing to call it. Tis said in jest, I hope?”
“Of course you would think that–you were essentially born an old codger!”
Willow casts a panicked glance over at Ansbach. She didn't expect her comment to lead to an argument, let alone such a protracted one. Ansbach looks far more collected, but she swears she detects an eagerness to jump in defence of his Lord in the set of his jaw. When he notices her looking, he flashes a reassuring smile that says, Fret not, I will handle this.
“My dear Lord,” he speaks softly, and places a hand on Mohg's arm. “Please remember yourself. This is not polite conversation.”
Glowering and hissing at Morgott one moment, Ansbach's gentle voice pacifies Mohg in the next. Mohg blinks down at his knight, the vitriol draining out of his expression. He begins to purr. “Mmrng…You are right. I am better than this.”
“Without question.”
From murderlord to big fuzzy cat in less than sixty seconds. Willow has to admire Ansbach's skill. She doesn't hold nearly the same amount of power over her own Omen. She should probably still try though.
Seeing Mohg be talked down from their argument, Morgott scoffs and grumbles until Willow, imitating Ansbach, wraps an arm around his.
“Now, now, grandpa, you know this kind of behavior is beneath you too, right?”
“Bah…”
“Look, it doesn't matter that Mohg's followers were out to kill me. Everything in the Lands Between was out to kill me. Besides, I lived, didn't I? And I haven't been chased by a bloody finger in weeks.”
Morgott suffers to look at her, then at his brother. “...Is that true?”
Mohg rolls his eye. “I am not going to try to have your consort killed, am I?”
Wide-eyed both, Willow and Morgott stare back at him.
“C-consort…?” Willow repeats.
“Yes…? Why do you look like–Morgott, why does she have no idea what I am talking about?”
Morgott looks like he's considering murdering his twin again. “I have yet to ask her…I told thee as much.”
The Lord of Blood has the decency to look slightly sheepish. “Ah. Whoopsie.”
“ Whoopsie?” Morgott echoes. “By the Erdtree, I will end thee today, brother. ”
Willow has to set aside her shock to help Ansbach once again keep their Omen paramours from coming to blows. Something tells them that should they even make it to dinner, it won’t be the last murder attempt they’ll have to thwart.