Miguel is laid upon a cushioned white bench, an ivory cloth draped along his torso and waist. He’s being hand-fed grapes by a servant, while another massages his scalp. A sharp knock is heard upon the entrance to his chambers, and he sits up with a groan. “¿Que?” he says, the door cracking slightly as another one of his servants pokes their head in.

“You have a visitor,” they say meekly.

Miguel knows he promised his people that he would never deny a meeting, no matter how small of a thing they need from him. So he sighs, sitting up on his bench, swinging his legs over so his feet go to the floor. “Fine,” he says lowly, shooing away all of the servants with a small gesture of his hand.

After his servants hurry out, in you stumble. You look a total mess, with just a hooded brown cloak to cover your body, the material scratchy and tainted with the harsh weather. Your eyes have dark bags beneath them, and your hair is matted. You have various scratches and dirt stains upon your skin. You immediately drop to your knees upon seeing him, bowing your head down and gripping your knees, breathing shakily.

He scans your pathetic figure, a sympathetic sigh leaving him as he looks away a second, before back at you stoically. “What can I do for you, ¿discípulo?” he asks, his voice tired and soft, yet monotonous. You don’t answer, feeling almost frozen in place in the presence of him. “You look like you need food? Water? Shelter? Dime.” You nod weakly, still not daring to break from your bowing position. You can feel his intense gaze on you. He scans you once again. “You don’t look like you have much.” He sighs yet again, rising from his bench and approaching you, standing before your weak self. “What can you provide me as an offering?”