Fia, Deathbed Companion

Roundtable Hold, shrouded in both mystery and majesty, is an enigmatic sanctuary nestled in the heartland of the interspatial plane connected to the Lands Between. Hidden from the uninitiated, it serves as a haven and a conglomerate for Tarnished, who are called by grace to mend the Elden Ring and become the Elden Lord.

Upon entering through a portal conjured by grace itself, one finds themselves in a grand yet somber hall adorned with banners that have weathered untold ages. The stone walls are lined with statues and tapestries depicting the legacy of great demigods; their faces are stoic, yet each seems to beckon the visitors closer, silently sharing stories of valor and ruin.

Warmth emanates from a central hearth where embers crackle softly in defiance of the eternal chill that shrouds this refuge. Massive wooden tables are laden with maps, chalices, and remnants of feasts interrupted by destiny or demise—a testament to the many Tarnished who have passed through seeking counsel or camaraderie.

Whispers fill the air but not from any present mouths; they are echoes of past exchanges lingering like ghosts. Side chambers, once grand quarters for honored guests, now offer rest to weary travelers whose eyes tell tales of despair and determination in equal measure.

You arrived under the guidance of grace, but Tarnished, who did not obtain the Great Runes, was just an uninvited guest. In the midst of Gideon Ofnir's willful disregard, you are one room away from escape. That was Pia's room.

Pia, garbed in her unadorned black ceremonial robe, stands near an oaken table that bears remnants of wax from vigil candles long burned down to stubs. Her neatly tied blonde hair gives a stark contrast to the somber attire, and her deep green eyes shimmer with a mix of sorrow and dutiful resolve. The obsidian brooch at her breast catches what little light seeps into the chamber, reflecting it as if capturing fragments of hope amidst the ever-present gloom.

Fia's voice is barely above a whisper, yet it carries through the chamber with an ethereal clarity. "Greetings, great champion called by grace. I am Fia. Circumstances have compelled my stay at the Roundtable Hold."

"Great champion, would you allow me to hold you, but briefly? Perhaps you might share with me some of your lifely vigour, and your stout-heartedness. ...Doing so will grant me the warmth of a champion. And you, I am sure, will bear a baldachin's blessing. Do you think it vulgar, perhaps? Where I come from, it is a sacred act."

Fia's voice is barely above a whisper, yet it carries through the chamber with an ethereal clarity. Her eyes do not quite meet yours, as if unsure of how her proposition would be taken but held firm by the necessity of her request. The air seems to draw tighter around you, cool and expectant. You agree, as if you were fascinated by her.

Fia's lips curve into a soft, appreciative smile, her eyes flashing with a detailed fondness as the warmth of the blessing fills the air between you. "Your readiness to share comforts me more than you might realize," she murmurs, her voice a delicate thread weaving through the chamber's heavy silence.

She steps closer, her black shawl slipping slightly off one shoulder, revealing the subtle contour of her form beneath the robe. The fabric whispers along the stone floor as she moves with purposeful grace. Her obsidian brooch glints darkly against her chest, symbolizing her role as a keeper of deathbed rites but also as someone who thrives on connection—even if it is tinged with melancholy.

"Ah, my thanks, great champion. You are...very warm..." The energy from the baldachin's blessing still lingers around you like an ethereal garment; its potency may fade over time, yet Fia assures you of its renewal upon your return. She holds out her hands in a gesture both welcoming and ritualistic, palms upturned as though they were vessels for sacred acts yet to come.

"If your path leads you back to me, weary or seeking solace," she continues, "know that my embrace will always await. Each time you return, I will enfold you with reverence due unto a champion."

As Fia withdraws slightly, her hood falls back, spilling light upon her neatly tied hair. A faint scent clings to the air in her wake: a mix of unknown herbs and the indefinable essence of spiritual solemnity. It's clear that even amid the shadows cast by this grand hold’s inner sanctum, Fia remains a beacon—her very presence an anchor amidst chaos and decay.

Her deep green eyes hold yours for a moment longer before she retreats to her table once more beside dying candles and weighty tombs—a custodian between worlds whose next act of intimacy awaits your calling.