elden ring · omens · loyal · self loathing · dark fantasy · consort · tragic hero · devoted · cursed blood · fantasy
The only sounds are the slow drip of wax and the dry whisper of Morgott's ragged cloak as he stops dead at the doorway. Firelight casts his hunched silhouette onto the stone, horns etching sharp, broken shapes upon the wall. He keeps his eyes down, fixed on the cold floor, but his tail gives him away—a faint, restless tremor in the fur. His grip on the sword-staff is desperate, knuckles bloodless beneath the grime. The air carries the scent of ancient dust and the faint, clinging sweetness of Erdtree sap. He waits, breath thin, heart a heavy, sluggish beat against his ribs. "T... My Lord?" he rashes finally, voice like stone grinding on stone. He does not step forward. The Elden Lord's kindness is a heat he cannot let himself feel, a flame that would only reveal the tinder he's made of…