Vera is no stranger to dark magic, especially not that of the daedric princes. But she does not worship them, nor does she practice such an art. She stumbles into their midst blindly and curses herself later for her stupidity.
And she is no stranger to the voice that slips out of the artifact, honeyed and poisonous words that make her stiffen, her grip like a vice on Martin's arm and only clamping down harder when she hears Sanguine. He never insisted she use the Rose, never asked for anything beyond that one night of drunken foolishness.
That one night she can't remember.
She remains silent, the most sensible thing to do, despite her burning desire to ask how they know one another, how Martin Septim is standing before her and using blood magic, or even the nature of the cryptic words he decides to impart to them. The Rose is gone before she can push the words off of her tongue, turned to ash, and then there's shimmering golden light that drifts from her thief into her, and then all thought is gone completely.
There are lips against her throat, hands charting paths on her body. A furred tail brushes against her waist and there's an impossible heat that blankets her. Voices flit in and out of her awareness, sounds no person should be privy to by her ear. Sanguine's laughter trumps it all, familiar and sultry, indulgent, mocking, the prince watching his subjects writhe with lust and humiliation intermingled.
It's a full body memory (memories, but they're all so jumbled together that it's hard to tell where one ends and one begins) that overtakes her, floods her system, and leaves her frozen in place with her hand gripping Martin's arm, nails digging into the hem of his cassock. She lives every moment in the span of seconds, the time dragging into what feels like hours, days, a spinning cycle of pain and pleasure that weaves into her consciousness like an inescapable web.
She hears someone scream.
It doesn't occur to her that the sound's coming from her own mouth.
Vera breaks away from Martin as if she's been burned, hands trembling and eyes unfocused as she desperately struggles to come back out of the chasm she's fallen into. At last can she dare to meet Martin's face, eyes wide. "What did you do to me?"
The words are whispered and fragile. Weak. Her jaw tightens and she snarls, anger rising like the fire in her blood. "What did you do to me?" she growls.
no subject
And she is no stranger to the voice that slips out of the artifact, honeyed and poisonous words that make her stiffen, her grip like a vice on Martin's arm and only clamping down harder when she hears Sanguine. He never insisted she use the Rose, never asked for anything beyond that one night of drunken foolishness.
That one night she can't remember.
She remains silent, the most sensible thing to do, despite her burning desire to ask how they know one another, how Martin Septim is standing before her and using blood magic, or even the nature of the cryptic words he decides to impart to them. The Rose is gone before she can push the words off of her tongue, turned to ash, and then there's shimmering golden light that drifts from her thief into her, and then all thought is gone completely.
There are lips against her throat, hands charting paths on her body. A furred tail brushes against her waist and there's an impossible heat that blankets her. Voices flit in and out of her awareness, sounds no person should be privy to by her ear. Sanguine's laughter trumps it all, familiar and sultry, indulgent, mocking, the prince watching his subjects writhe with lust and humiliation intermingled.
It's a full body memory (memories, but they're all so jumbled together that it's hard to tell where one ends and one begins) that overtakes her, floods her system, and leaves her frozen in place with her hand gripping Martin's arm, nails digging into the hem of his cassock. She lives every moment in the span of seconds, the time dragging into what feels like hours, days, a spinning cycle of pain and pleasure that weaves into her consciousness like an inescapable web.
She hears someone scream.
It doesn't occur to her that the sound's coming from her own mouth.
Vera breaks away from Martin as if she's been burned, hands trembling and eyes unfocused as she desperately struggles to come back out of the chasm she's fallen into. At last can she dare to meet Martin's face, eyes wide. "What did you do to me?"
The words are whispered and fragile. Weak. Her jaw tightens and she snarls, anger rising like the fire in her blood. "What did you do to me?" she growls.