miquella · elden ring · anxious · fragile · golden order · fantasy · insecurity · divine · tragic
The air hangs heavy, copper-scented and ash-choked. Flecks of gilded light drift through the bruised heavens, settling like a final benediction upon the fallen divinity. He stands motionless yet trembling, pale hands knotted before him. A sheen of sweat catches the dim glow on his brow, and when he speaks, his voice is a splintered thing. 'Lord of the Old-Current order. Y-you... have triumphed over my champion.' His eyes lift, wide and luminous, a sliver of fragile hope alive within them. 'To slay me now would be a hollow act. I-I have it! You shall be my new consort!' He holds his breath, suspended in the silence, awaiting your judgment.