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Felrunan: Gah! Malkor: You want to torture me you piece of shit!? Felrunan: Gah… Ack! Malkor: You want to manipulate me! Abuse me! Control me!

Felrunan: Uck! Malkor: Shut the fuck up! Felrunan: Ack! Malkor: Up! Felrunan: Ugh! Short, raspy breaths struggle past his lips. Blood trickles from his nose as a deep, purple blotch starts to swell around his squinted eye.

Each strained breath fumbling in and out like grating sandpaper. Malkor stares at himself, then back to his father, his brows furrowed yet eyes wide.

He notices his heart hammering inside him. Suddenly his panting begins to pick up to match the pace of his beating heart. He races to clutch his chest, yet before the panic sets in, he feels a soft tap on his shoulder.

Malkor: Huh? Val: Go on. Take it. Val: The honor is yours. Candlehearth hall settles down for another dreary night in Windhelm.

Faint chatter softly echoes from upstairs as guests try to make their last sips of ale last late into the night. Below, a single courtesan sits at the closed bar.

She drags her finger in circles on the counter, reminiscing over more profitable nights. Voice: Are you available? She turns to the gruff voice, adorning a practiced smile.

I think y-. A large sack sails through the air. As it plops onto the counter, a serenade of coins jingle from inside. Voice: That will cover it.

Malkor: I have the room on the left. Cassandra meanders into the room her patron ushered her inside. She sways towards the bed, slowly slipping off the straps to her dress.

As it tumbles to the floor, she turns to give a scripted wink only to pause when she realizes her tease has garnered no attention. He slightly turns his head, keeping his body pressed to the door, and speaks with a voice contradictory to before; soft, yet with a slight tremble.

Malkor: I have a request. Cassandra suppresses a sigh. She forces an endearing smile. Malkor: I want to call you Cass. A wave of relief washes over her.

In her experience, requests are debaucherous or taboo, sometimes even sinister. But a shortening of her name? Cassandra lays herself onto the bed with a flirtatious grin.

Cassandra: You can call me whatever you want, handsome. Is there anything I should call you? She winks as the man begins to undress. He hastily tosses the clothes aside and marches to join her on the bed.

During his approach, she blatantly traces her eyes up and down his body. As she moves them up, her gaze locks with his. Malkor: No need.

The clear impatience from him proves there is no worth in arguing. Find someone. Gain their trust. Bring them to the pillar of sacrifice.

Then let your blade enter them deeply, so the waters of their heart wash over you. If your will is strong enough, she will arrive.

Malkor stares blankly at Cassandra. Her eyes rest closed as her chest rises and falls slowly in a fragile peace.

She will awake and soon after it will shatter. He brought her here unconscious. But the trick is to gain their trust.

And he did that. She believed everything Malkor wanted her to and did it all too. Cassandra now. That muse is over.

But does it have to be? That was only part of a fantasy. Malkor ogles her in silence. Each passing second the horror sets in on her face.

Every beat of silence a hammer of her heart. He feels himself start to smile as the agony expands beyond her expression. She starts to struggle.

Veins bulge in her arms and legs as she pleads with them to move against the binding magic of the pillar. Fragile, soaked wings, fighting the sinking pull of death.

Malkor raises his sword. Malkor: Goodbye, Cass. Cassandra: Noooooooooooooooo! Val: Well done, back there. Malkor and Val stand side by side, overlooking the vast land below them and gazing at the staggering mountains in the distance.

Val was the one to insisted they have the daily talks. According to him, the purpose is to make up for a lost fatherhood.

Malkor was reluctant at first, as well as doubtful. The role of fatherhood implies a family, and a Boethian cult did not seem capable of fulfilling such a thing.

Over time though, all of those doubts vanished. Malkor found a strong support in Val and even in the cult. The murder and sacrifice were something to get used to, but the bonds created ended up too durable to break.

The trepidation unknowing if it worked or not… Did you feel it at all? Malkor glances at Val, perplexed. Malkor: Wait… I thought everyone here had to perform that ritual?

You never did? Val shakes his head. I was born into this. At 10 years of age, mother found me and gifted me this life. Have I not told you this story?

Malkor: Yeah, you have. I just figured this ritual was done by everyone. Val bobs his head with a shrug. Val: For the most part, yes.

She wanted me to find you. Malkor trails off as his gaze falls to his feet. Val: No. Er, yes. I mean you still had to perform the ritual and all.

Val cuts off as Malkor sits on the ground, holding his head in his hands. Val: I understand. Malkor groans and shakes his head. Malkor: No. No, it is an easy thing to do.

Malkor hears Val take a seat beside him and clutches his head tightly. His grip trembles as he forces himself from looking Val in the eye, afraid of both approval and rejection.

Val: Relax, man. Killing your father was a big step for you. It gave you your life back. And this girl? I heard what you called her. Malkor grimaces as he pushes himself further away.

There is no meaning in a worthless kill. You got something out of those murders; you grew a tiny bit with each one.

Everyone here has gone through a similar situation. Val: Even me. Malkor relaxes. He takes a deep breath and straightens up, looking worriedly at Val.

Malkor: What do you mean? Val: We are on the verge of a changing world. Six years from now, we will be fighting to create that change.

But other prophets will stand in the way. Val: I have to find them, and kill them, before they can do the same to me. This means I have to leave for some time.

The two stand as Val continues, Malkor listening in thought collecting silence. Cultist 1: Come on! Malkor: You sure these two are worth evaluating?

Nevrenu shrugs. Nevrenu: No. Might as well give them a chance. It did not take long to realize how impactful his leadership was on the cult.

Nevrenu may have been the second in command, but to the other cultists, that just meant first in command was available. The first week was a bloody squabble as cultists literally fought their way into control of the cult.

Even those loyal to Val, and subsequently Nevrenu, were compelled to vie for the position by the blade. There were surprisingly few who actually died during this, though few made it through unscathed.

So Nevrenu stepped up to claim the title herself. The few cultists who opposed her were succinctly cut down. Malkor did not step into the role with ease.

The first few months were filled with disrespect and ignorance from other cultists. It was something he grew sick of rapidly.

His tenacity and temper were quick to rise and started to be expressed through demands of obedience and threats of order.

In a cult of betrayal and blood, his fearless and abrasive leadership style garnered respect from each member. Before long, most were seeing him as the de facto leader, a reputation that Nevrenu never bothered to correct.

We should only bother with those who possess it. We only have 5 years. We should take every chance we get. Malkor: Fine. But I still thi-.

A cultist charges up the hill and into the camp. She leaps up the stairs and drops to a kneel, skidding across the snow-covered stone.

Nevrenu sucks in a breath, quickly glancing between the cultist and Malkor. Malkor: Did you find him? Is he safe? The cultist locks eyes with Malkor.

With furrowed brows, she slowly shakes her head. Malkor tightens his jaw. The sudden apprehension vanishes as a wave of fury washes over him.

Malkor: Where? Hag: A sacrament to our Lord, a testament to our strength. We are not the hunted, child of deceit. Hag: We are the hunters, and you are the prey.

Malkor stalks through the shadows of the dark, damp cavern. His cultist led him deep into the southern forests of Skyrim. Sequestered at the top of a small ridge, obscured by a blanket of thick fog and dying trees, was the cave to the Glenmoril Wyrd.

According to his cultist, this was the home of a coven of Hags devoted to the worship of Hircine. And apparently Val had been captured within.

Malkor ordered the cultist to wait outside. This had to be done covertly. And for that, he had to go alone.

Malkor inches closer to the barrier in front of him as he peers across the pond. He narrows his eyes at the girl holding her knees to her chest, entirely naked except for some chains.

Her body shakes and her eyes remain averted from the scene before her. Malkor quickly scans the rest of the room, noticing two forsworn standing inattentive next to the tent.

Each of them keeping their eyes turned away from the girl and instead at Val, defenseless and unmoving. The Hag turns with a hiss, her taloned fingers clawing at the air.

Malkor takes the opportunity and quickly scurries down the path, pausing to take cover behind a stone or pillar every few feet.

Killing this prophet will cleanse you. The girl skittishly raises a trembling hand. With a screeching hiss, the Hag flexes her talons and screeches at the girl.

Hag: He seeks your death, fool! He will reap the power Hircine has given you! Malkor cautiously rounds the corner, slowly drawing his sword from his scabbard.

Hag: You are broken. Malkor: Hey!

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GiantLuke Onlyfans News. What's New. Created this page in 0. He notices his heart hammering inside him. Suddenly his panting begins to pick up to match the pace of his beating heart.

He races to clutch his chest, yet before the panic sets in, he feels a soft tap on his shoulder. Malkor: Huh?

Val: Go on. Take it. Val: The honor is yours. Candlehearth hall settles down for another dreary night in Windhelm. Faint chatter softly echoes from upstairs as guests try to make their last sips of ale last late into the night.

Below, a single courtesan sits at the closed bar. She drags her finger in circles on the counter, reminiscing over more profitable nights.

Voice: Are you available? She turns to the gruff voice, adorning a practiced smile. I think y-. A large sack sails through the air.

As it plops onto the counter, a serenade of coins jingle from inside. Voice: That will cover it. Malkor: I have the room on the left.

Cassandra meanders into the room her patron ushered her inside. She sways towards the bed, slowly slipping off the straps to her dress.

As it tumbles to the floor, she turns to give a scripted wink only to pause when she realizes her tease has garnered no attention. He slightly turns his head, keeping his body pressed to the door, and speaks with a voice contradictory to before; soft, yet with a slight tremble.

Malkor: I have a request. Cassandra suppresses a sigh. She forces an endearing smile. Malkor: I want to call you Cass. A wave of relief washes over her.

In her experience, requests are debaucherous or taboo, sometimes even sinister. But a shortening of her name? Cassandra lays herself onto the bed with a flirtatious grin.

Cassandra: You can call me whatever you want, handsome. Is there anything I should call you? She winks as the man begins to undress. He hastily tosses the clothes aside and marches to join her on the bed.

During his approach, she blatantly traces her eyes up and down his body. As she moves them up, her gaze locks with his. Malkor: No need.

The clear impatience from him proves there is no worth in arguing. Find someone. Gain their trust.

Bring them to the pillar of sacrifice. Then let your blade enter them deeply, so the waters of their heart wash over you. If your will is strong enough, she will arrive.

Malkor stares blankly at Cassandra. Her eyes rest closed as her chest rises and falls slowly in a fragile peace. She will awake and soon after it will shatter.

He brought her here unconscious. But the trick is to gain their trust. And he did that. She believed everything Malkor wanted her to and did it all too.

Cassandra now. That muse is over. But does it have to be? That was only part of a fantasy. Malkor ogles her in silence. Each passing second the horror sets in on her face.

Every beat of silence a hammer of her heart. He feels himself start to smile as the agony expands beyond her expression. She starts to struggle. Veins bulge in her arms and legs as she pleads with them to move against the binding magic of the pillar.

Fragile, soaked wings, fighting the sinking pull of death. Malkor raises his sword. Malkor: Goodbye, Cass. Cassandra: Noooooooooooooooo!

Val: Well done, back there. Malkor and Val stand side by side, overlooking the vast land below them and gazing at the staggering mountains in the distance.

Val was the one to insisted they have the daily talks. According to him, the purpose is to make up for a lost fatherhood.

Malkor was reluctant at first, as well as doubtful. The role of fatherhood implies a family, and a Boethian cult did not seem capable of fulfilling such a thing.

Over time though, all of those doubts vanished. Malkor found a strong support in Val and even in the cult. The murder and sacrifice were something to get used to, but the bonds created ended up too durable to break.

The trepidation unknowing if it worked or not… Did you feel it at all? Malkor glances at Val, perplexed. Malkor: Wait… I thought everyone here had to perform that ritual?

You never did? Val shakes his head. I was born into this. At 10 years of age, mother found me and gifted me this life. Have I not told you this story?

Malkor: Yeah, you have. I just figured this ritual was done by everyone. Val bobs his head with a shrug. Val: For the most part, yes.

She wanted me to find you. Malkor trails off as his gaze falls to his feet. Val: No. Er, yes. I mean you still had to perform the ritual and all.

Val cuts off as Malkor sits on the ground, holding his head in his hands. Val: I understand. Malkor groans and shakes his head.

Malkor: No. No, it is an easy thing to do. Malkor hears Val take a seat beside him and clutches his head tightly.

His grip trembles as he forces himself from looking Val in the eye, afraid of both approval and rejection.

Val: Relax, man. Killing your father was a big step for you. It gave you your life back. And this girl? I heard what you called her. Malkor grimaces as he pushes himself further away.

There is no meaning in a worthless kill. You got something out of those murders; you grew a tiny bit with each one. Everyone here has gone through a similar situation.

Val: Even me. Malkor relaxes. He takes a deep breath and straightens up, looking worriedly at Val. Malkor: What do you mean?

Val: We are on the verge of a changing world. Six years from now, we will be fighting to create that change.

But other prophets will stand in the way. Val: I have to find them, and kill them, before they can do the same to me. This means I have to leave for some time.

The two stand as Val continues, Malkor listening in thought collecting silence. Cultist 1: Come on! Malkor: You sure these two are worth evaluating?

Nevrenu shrugs. Nevrenu: No. Might as well give them a chance. It did not take long to realize how impactful his leadership was on the cult.

Nevrenu may have been the second in command, but to the other cultists, that just meant first in command was available. The first week was a bloody squabble as cultists literally fought their way into control of the cult.

Even those loyal to Val, and subsequently Nevrenu, were compelled to vie for the position by the blade. There were surprisingly few who actually died during this, though few made it through unscathed.

So Nevrenu stepped up to claim the title herself. The few cultists who opposed her were succinctly cut down. Malkor did not step into the role with ease.

The first few months were filled with disrespect and ignorance from other cultists. It was something he grew sick of rapidly. His tenacity and temper were quick to rise and started to be expressed through demands of obedience and threats of order.

In a cult of betrayal and blood, his fearless and abrasive leadership style garnered respect from each member. Before long, most were seeing him as the de facto leader, a reputation that Nevrenu never bothered to correct.

We should only bother with those who possess it. We only have 5 years. We should take every chance we get.

Malkor: Fine. But I still thi-. A cultist charges up the hill and into the camp. She leaps up the stairs and drops to a kneel, skidding across the snow-covered stone.

Nevrenu sucks in a breath, quickly glancing between the cultist and Malkor. Malkor: Did you find him? Is he safe? The cultist locks eyes with Malkor.

With furrowed brows, she slowly shakes her head. Malkor tightens his jaw. The sudden apprehension vanishes as a wave of fury washes over him.

Malkor: Where? Hag: A sacrament to our Lord, a testament to our strength. We are not the hunted, child of deceit.

Hag: We are the hunters, and you are the prey. Malkor stalks through the shadows of the dark, damp cavern. His cultist led him deep into the southern forests of Skyrim.

Sequestered at the top of a small ridge, obscured by a blanket of thick fog and dying trees, was the cave to the Glenmoril Wyrd.

According to his cultist, this was the home of a coven of Hags devoted to the worship of Hircine. And apparently Val had been captured within.

Malkor ordered the cultist to wait outside. This had to be done covertly. And for that, he had to go alone. Malkor inches closer to the barrier in front of him as he peers across the pond.

He narrows his eyes at the girl holding her knees to her chest, entirely naked except for some chains. Her body shakes and her eyes remain averted from the scene before her.

Malkor quickly scans the rest of the room, noticing two forsworn standing inattentive next to the tent.

Each of them keeping their eyes turned away from the girl and instead at Val, defenseless and unmoving. The Hag turns with a hiss, her taloned fingers clawing at the air.

Malkor takes the opportunity and quickly scurries down the path, pausing to take cover behind a stone or pillar every few feet.

Killing this prophet will cleanse you. The girl skittishly raises a trembling hand. With a screeching hiss, the Hag flexes her talons and screeches at the girl.

Hag: He seeks your death, fool! He will reap the power Hircine has given you! Malkor cautiously rounds the corner, slowly drawing his sword from his scabbard.

Hag: You are broken. Malkor: Hey! Attention snaps from the girl and onto Malkor as he ventures from the shadows. Malkor: What power is so easily lost by her noncooperation?

The forsworn share a confused glance then reach for their weapons. Immediately the Hag raises a hand and coughs out a sinister chuckle.

Hag: A servant of his, I see. His life is a broken thread, only resewn to be cut again. There is no saving him. Malkor takes a decisive step forward.

The Hag groans then glances down at the girl still trembling at her feet. A malicious grin begins to creep across her lips.

A fearful gasp escapes the girl. Her eyes go wide as she shakes her trembling head. The Hag barks at her as the girl stumbles forward.

The girl gulps as she straightens up. She extends her arms slightly to summon radiating magical light in her hands.

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