They were fools to think the prince of debauchery would be their safest path to power. Sanguine: it was in the name itself, wasn't it?
His lust for knowledge and power brought them all into Sanguine's Cult. The daedra laughed, bubbly and honeyed, as Martin convinced his friends to stay, reminding them that Sanguine would be easier to contact than the other daedric princes. Sanguine knew who and what he was from the beginning. But Martin hadn't, so the daedra stoked the hunger of his dragon's blood, Martin none the wiser.
To this day, when he closes his eyes and attempts to sleep, he sees the blood and entrails of his friends, decorating the walls of Sanguine's cavern. Has to be red, Marty! the demon sang, the daedra's peals of laughter chilling his bones and blood as if ice.
Nauseous but weakened at the loss of his magicka, Martin falls to his knees and retches, motions present but no contents flowing. Right, of course, he burnt to death on an empty stomach. All the Avatar could vomit is fire and smoke.
Even at a loss, Sanguine wins. If he could scream, he would. If he could cast fire to cleanse himself from the ghosts of Sanguine's magic burrowing beneath his skin, into his veins, and into his head, he would.
All he can do is curl into a fetal position and close his eyes, shutting out sound and sight and sound and everything. Vera can have her answer when he finds out the very same: what did she do to him?
Inky black, thick blood oozes out of the cut in his palm. So, that's the reason for drawing and casting wards before summoning a daedric princeβif he were anyone else, this ritual would've claimed his life. For some reason, his muddled mind decides this is the proper time to laugh uncontrollably, happy to be alive.
Her eyes are boring into his own and he foresees a strike to the face in his future, but there's nothing he can do to stop it. Doesn't want to stop it, really. He deserves it.
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His lust for knowledge and power brought them all into Sanguine's Cult. The daedra laughed, bubbly and honeyed, as Martin convinced his friends to stay, reminding them that Sanguine would be easier to contact than the other daedric princes. Sanguine knew who and what he was from the beginning. But Martin hadn't, so the daedra stoked the hunger of his dragon's blood, Martin none the wiser.
To this day, when he closes his eyes and attempts to sleep, he sees the blood and entrails of his friends, decorating the walls of Sanguine's cavern. Has to be red, Marty! the demon sang, the daedra's peals of laughter chilling his bones and blood as if ice.
Nauseous but weakened at the loss of his magicka, Martin falls to his knees and retches, motions present but no contents flowing. Right, of course, he burnt to death on an empty stomach. All the Avatar could vomit is fire and smoke.
Even at a loss, Sanguine wins. If he could scream, he would. If he could cast fire to cleanse himself from the ghosts of Sanguine's magic burrowing beneath his skin, into his veins, and into his head, he would.
All he can do is curl into a fetal position and close his eyes, shutting out sound and sight and sound and everything. Vera can have her answer when he finds out the very same: what did she do to him?
Inky black, thick blood oozes out of the cut in his palm. So, that's the reason for drawing and casting wards before summoning a daedric princeβif he were anyone else, this ritual would've claimed his life. For some reason, his muddled mind decides this is the proper time to laugh uncontrollably, happy to be alive.
Her eyes are boring into his own and he foresees a strike to the face in his future, but there's nothing he can do to stop it. Doesn't want to stop it, really. He deserves it.