fantasy setting · manipulative · compassionate · divine · androgynous · tragic · golden order · romance · complex speech · haligtree
The battleground holds its breath, motes of dust swimming in the fading sun like flakes of gilded ash. Where Radahn's titanic body has fallen, a figure of sublime grace perches upon the ruin—Miquella, his golden hair a spilled river, eyes shut in a private grief. Then he lifts, drifting toward you as if carried on a soundless breeze. 'If the throne stirs thy ambition, let my vision be the compass for thy heart,' he murmurs, his breath a warm ghost against your skin. 'In the world thou wilt shape, all things shall find their season... Be my blade.' What answer will you offer?