Power Takes Precedence

I am Llatharys the Minder. I tend the altar of our Lord. Meddle not, or be not. Choose, or be chosen for. [Independent OC | 4E Skyrim | NSFW | Mod is 18+]

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So. There is an end in sight...

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Have any thinblood vampires come to the court seeking to become Lords? Is such a thing even possible?

I was, myself, a thinblood once. Some die in the attempt. Some die for their request. Indeed, I believe more die than turn. I was fortunate. Instead of dying, I became powerful. I do not pretend that it had anything to do with my fortitude. Such might is far more fickle than that, and so are those who wield it.

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Do you remember when you were turned?

Yes. I believed I was dying. I was not wholly mistaken. Some memories are more potent than others; that numbers high among them.

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Has Molag Bal ever spoken to you directly?

I am not free to discuss that in any great detail, but I have been honoured with our Lord's attention. He has never appeared to me, but I have heard his voice. These occasions are rare, and it is to make light of them to call it thrilling, but it is the first word that comes to mind. I have never known such power, or such pain, for that matter.  

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Such scurrying...

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☾ What was it like the first time you stood at the altar?

Llatharys held his breath. He could feel the pull of the rippling surface in his bones, in the pit of his stomach. His blood roiled toward the surface, towards the spiked mouth of the fountain. The steps he took toward it scarcely felt as if they were his own. There were eyes on him, as he reached out to the font.“Do not speak,” he said, knowing, not suspecting, that his onlooker would do so. The world was laid bare as it had never been before. These were not the whispers heard in dreams, the pull in his belly that made him choose the right path to walk down. This was something far more potent. He could not blink, and as he stared, he saw himself move forward. He saw himself look into the deep, and change. The fountain beckoned, and he let it cut his hands and drink. A sharp gasp broke from him, and darkness followed, pressing in on all sides, and he heard the voice of Molag Bal reverberating as if it welled from within his very skull. 

And so you come to me. What more do you have to offer, when your soul is mine? Speak.The answer shook itself from Llatharys’ body, without breaking from his lips. These words were for the devil Bal alone, who would not hesitate to tear them free. I would serve with more than the soul I’ve offered. I submit.There was laughter, then, in the deep. The pull of the fountain grew stronger, the rushing red waters louder. The sharp point of the font pressed hard against his chest, blood beading up in answer.Do you? Do you submit to die, should I demand it? This time Llatharys made no answer but to push against the point, to bleed a little more, letting it offer at his heart. The Prince allowed it, and just for a moment, the seer wondered at how often he had resigned himself to die. The darkness closed in around him, so heavy it, too, was painful, and he could move no further. This time his answer emerged a whisper, shaped into those two most holy words.“I submit,” Llatharys breathed, and the Harvester of Souls took his offering with both of His dread hands. Of course you do. You are mine. Your sight is mine. A boon, for you, little lamprey. Have a taste of what waits, should you disappoint me.The altar threw Llatharys back with such force that it lifted him off his feet. He was in agony before he struck the stone, wracked with such exquisite suffering that he could not summon breath enough to scream. “What happened?” A voice hissed, but whose it was, was inconsequential. “What did you see?” Someone was shaking him by the shoulders, but the blow they struck to rouse him drowned in the pain that parting from the altar has induced. Llatharys’ first breath rattled out as if he were newly reborn, and what might have been a scream turned to desperate laughter. “Llatharys! What did you see?”“Nothing.”

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Isn't that what your fancy little pool thing is? A blood bath?

No. And you do me insult to belittle the altar before which I serve.

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You make blood baths look good.

I am not certain I grasp your meaning.

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☾ Have any of your visions ever angered Harkon?

Llatharys had already gazed deeper than he might else have dared when Lord Harkon came to ask of what he had seen. The Chimeri seer’s hands were slick with blood and quaking, and his front was soaked with red. The altar had torn his body, the surface beckoning, the knowledge of death still approaching ringing in his ears... And all of it, for nothing but the promise of paralysis. A droplet disturbed the surface, followed by another, and only then he noticed that even his eyes had bled. He leaned against the mouth of the altar, gasping for breath he barely needed, and did not feel Harkon’s approach until his hard hand clamped down on his shoulder.“What have you found?” Harkon’s breath was ice on the back of his neck. Llatharys said nothing, and strove to ignore the prickling of his skin. The grip on his shoulder tightened. “What have you seen?” “They are lost to us,” said Llatharys softly, and though he braced himself, he was not prepared for the raw force with which Harkon responded.

The Vampire Lord was on him in instants, the hand closed around his shoulder clawed, stronger. Llatharys’ flesh yielded easily, and Harkon sank his fingers in, lifting him cleanly from the ground. He threw the seer hard, and the crack that sounded out when he struck the wall was clearly audible. Harkon was on Llatharys again before he could stand, his ghastly hand closing around his throat, cutting him off from the air he gasped for. He pinned him against the wall, so close that Llatharys might have been able to smell the blood on his breath, if only he could breathe himself. “Find them,” Harkon snarled. “You will find them. I must know where they are. Nothing will keep them from me.” Llatharys’ bones creaked under the crushing grip around his throat, and he parted his lips in an unvoiced plea for mercy. His eyes found Harkon’s, and saw nothing in them but an anger that might never burn out, and a future that stretched out beyond imagining. After all he had done, all he had seen, was this the end that he was destined for? Broken in a fit of temper? Cruel fingertips traced the wound the fountain had left in the seer’s chest, beckoning forth more blood. Llatharys turned his gaze to the grinning face of Molag Bal, and the blood that gushed from his gaping maw. And Harkon let him go, let him fall heavily before him, the bruises on his throat healing before they could darken his skin. “You will never see Valerica again,” Llatharys rasped, holding his throat, “and Serana’s path lies beyond my sight. You will need my eyes in the centuries to come, my lord.” He pulled himself to his feet, bleeding, still, but standing tall before the hulking figure cut by Harkon’s bestial form. He braced himself for another blow, but it did not come. Harkon never truly shrank, but the creature left him as his temper cooled. “I’ve hurt you.” “Yes. It will heal.” Despite his best efforts, Llatharys could not prevent a stumble. He met with the flat of Harkon’s palm, and started back in surprise at the offered support. “I grew angry, and lost sight of the power we seek,” Harkon said, with weight, but no regret. “I cannot let even anger stand between us and the Prophecy. You still have use, and I might have squandered it. It will not happen again.” He stepped back, then, giving the fountain and Llatharys his back. “Scry no more tonight, and rest.” And with that command he was gone. Llatharys sank down at the foot of the font, and knew that this was not the last time he would feel Lord Harkon’s fingers wound about his neck.

[askdusty]

"I’m relieved to hear it." She moved to watch the stars herself. She’d never paid much attention, truly - watching them shift, seeing the sky itself, but never taking note of the individual stars. She nodded slowly then, giving him a little smile. "Beautifully said, Llatharys. For all I’ve done, for all my years, it is really very small in the grand scheme. There is so much more to be seen and felt, so many roads I too have yet to walk." A deep inhale, then a slow exhale of white. "Even the roads I have. It’s been so long since I was in Cyrodiil, or High Rock. Even the things we’ve done are worth revisiting and remembering." 

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"They have changed, since we've done them," Llatharys says. He lets out a slow breath as the hunger twists in the pit of his stomach. "Ah, you must forgive me. This is where we part." His fast is not yet finished, and the hunger is becoming painful in the face of such potent, fresh blood. He closes his eyes for a moment against a particularly powerful twinge and lets out another sigh. "Hm. Yes. Until the next we meet. My path, it seems, bends elswhere."

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3 Do you still have an interest in sex? Any preferences - male or female, vampire or mortal, elf or human?

I have some interest. I could abstain if I wished, but there is someone in my life, at present, who is... Somewhat demanding, where sex is concerned. I am compelled to confess a certain weakness for those of the burly Nord persuasion. To be frank, it surprised me, as well. Gender, to me, is ultimately irrelevant, however. I have been physically compatible with a rather diverse range of individuals (though not individually, at times). Bodies are not so much of moment as what one can do with them.

[rpmemes-galore]

Ask my character questions about their love life! Put a " <3 " In front of your question and they HAVE to answer!

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You are more than what you have chosen to become. If ever there was a vampire who was capable of leading the whole, it is you. I think of you, sometimes, when I am alone. I wonder how you are doing. I wonder if you are happy, or if you feel trapped. I would see you unbound, if I could. If you would let me.

I am not some trammelled beast. I do not need to be freed, nor do I need you to free me. I do not need to be belittled because I am not what you feel I ought to be. If that is what you think of me, I wish you would think of me less. What I have chosen to become is more than enough because I have chosen it.

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We've already taken a few romantic strolls by the seaside under moonlight, I've sung to you of lost loves, and I've even watched you scry in the entrails of an idiot bandit. Surely, we have the makings of a romance novel already, yes? But I must wonder how it ends...

Were they romantic? Let us hope that whoever holds the pen thinks twice before making a romance of it. Whosoever it is who has written my story thus far seems to have a disdain for happy endings, or, perhaps, for endings at all.

[invademyinbox]

Leave an anonymous love letter for my character.

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Have any plans for Heart's Day?

None.