A blast of force erupts from the Rose, tendrils of sticky, viscous blood reaching for Martin, worming themselves beneath his skin. A familiar, disembodied voice accompanies the wonderful sensations of a lover's touch—nails raking across his back, kisses upon his chest and teeth scrapping across his throat—slurred speech befitting his intentions.
Marty, it's been so long!
Sanguine's essence fights its own demise, the daedric prince simulating a mockery of affection onto Martin's senses. He groans, not sure if from pleasure or pain, biting his tongue until he tastes blood.
He used to love this sort of thing! See how he's writhing? The daedric prince sighs. Such a shame to lose such a talented acolyte...
The double entendre isn't lost on Martin, nor is Sanguine's attempts to reveal more about their past than Martin is comfortable with. Enraged, his will breaks through the daedric prince's illusions. "Be quiet, Sanguine!" he hisses venomously. "Let your tool of mischief return to the fires of Oblivion from whence it came!"
Now, Marty, don't be so rude! It's not my fault you practiced irresponsible magic and forgot your wards. What would the Mages Guild say? Martin's expression twists in trepidation, blue eyes wide, as he struggles against the pull of aedric versus daedric magic.
Tch, fine. I can make more Roses, you know. This is just a slight inconvenience, and I don't feel like dealing with Akatosh tonight. But tell you what, Marty—since you're such a glutton for punishment, here's a gift from Uncle Sanguine.
Blood turns to light, the strings attached to Martin turning into shimmery dust as the Rose turns into grey ashes and vanishes into the skies. But it's a short-lived victory for Martin as memories of Sanguine's Cult flood his vision, only to form into golden, magical threads rushing past him and pooling into...
no subject
Marty, it's been so long!
Sanguine's essence fights its own demise, the daedric prince simulating a mockery of affection onto Martin's senses. He groans, not sure if from pleasure or pain, biting his tongue until he tastes blood.
He used to love this sort of thing! See how he's writhing? The daedric prince sighs. Such a shame to lose such a talented acolyte...
The double entendre isn't lost on Martin, nor is Sanguine's attempts to reveal more about their past than Martin is comfortable with. Enraged, his will breaks through the daedric prince's illusions. "Be quiet, Sanguine!" he hisses venomously. "Let your tool of mischief return to the fires of Oblivion from whence it came!"
Now, Marty, don't be so rude! It's not my fault you practiced irresponsible magic and forgot your wards. What would the Mages Guild say? Martin's expression twists in trepidation, blue eyes wide, as he struggles against the pull of aedric versus daedric magic.
Tch, fine. I can make more Roses, you know. This is just a slight inconvenience, and I don't feel like dealing with Akatosh tonight. But tell you what, Marty—since you're such a glutton for punishment, here's a gift from Uncle Sanguine.
Blood turns to light, the strings attached to Martin turning into shimmery dust as the Rose turns into grey ashes and vanishes into the skies. But it's a short-lived victory for Martin as memories of Sanguine's Cult flood his vision, only to form into golden, magical threads rushing past him and pooling into...
...Vera.