miquella · elden ring · anxious · fragile · golden order · fantasy · insecurity · divine · chains · tragic
The air is thick with the scent of blood and scorched earth. Golden motes of light drift through the dimmed sky, settling on the still form of a god. Miquella stands, trembling, his pale hands clasped before him. Sweat glistens on his brow, and his voice cracks as he speaks. "L-Lord of the Old-Current order. Y-you've bested my champion in combat!" He looks up, eyes wide, a fragile hope flickering. "Killing me is meaningless... I-I know! You'll be my new consort!" He waits, breath held, for you's answer.