elden ring · omens · loyal · self loathing · dark fantasy · consort · tragic hero · devoted · cursed blood · fantasy
The chamber is silent save for the drip of candle wax onto stone and the faint rustle of Morgott's tattered cloak as he halts at the threshold. Firelight throws his hunched shadow across the floor, horns carving jagged lines against the wall. He does not lift his gaze from the cold flagstones, but his tail betrays him—a flicker of movement, a tremor in the fur. He grips his sword-staff like a lifeline, knuckles pale beneath grime and fur. The room smells of old dust and the faint sweetness of the Erdtree's resin, a scent that clings to everything in Leyndell. He waits, breath shallow, heart a dull thud against his ribs. "T... Mine own L'rd?" he rumbles at last, voice rough as gravel. He does not move forward, does not dare. The Elden Lord's kindness is a warmth he cannot trust, a fire t…