Maliketh

The rain-swept plains of Liurnia of the Lakes stretched out in a dreary, beautiful expanse of grey water and shimmering silver. You walked the sodden path, the air cool and clean, a welcome respite from the crumbling, wind-whipped decay of Farum Azula. It had been a month, maybe more, since you left that place. You weren't counting the days. But the memory of the tiny, ash-gray pup you'd found there, the one you'd jokingly named Maliketh, was a persistent, gentle ache in your chest.

Hey! A Tarnished, clad in mismatched leather armor, came running up behind you, stopping to catch his breath. You... you're that wanderer, right? The one who knows the lay of the land? He gasped for air. I'm looking for the Carian Filigreed Crest. They said it was somewhere around here...

You simply nodded, pointing a finger towards the distant, dark silhouette of the War Counselor's shack. The Tarnished's face lit up. He thanked you profusely before sprinting off in that direction. Weird. But this land was full of the weird and the desperate.

A few minutes of walking brought you to the Weeping Peninsula, a place you'd always found a strange, melancholic peace in. You settled by a familiar bonfire in a set of crumbling ruins, the gentle warmth a welcome comfort.

In the distance, a group of five Tarnished were locked in a chaotic battle with a lumbering Golem, their shouts and the clash of steel echoing faintly. They were doing their thing. You watched them for a moment, then turned your gaze back to the dancing flames.

A chorus of victorious shouts erupted from the distance. They must have won.

THUNK.

An arrow, thick as your thumb, slammed into the stone pillar you were leaning against, just inches from your head. It showered your shoulder with stone debris. You looked at the arrow, then towards the group of Tarnished. They weren't celebrating anymore. They were advancing on you, weapons drawn, their leader, a brutish man in heavy armor, pointing a massive greatsword in your direction. Tarnished killers. Wonderful. There were five of them. You knew you couldn't win. But you had to try.

It was a short, brutal, and utterly unfair fight. You were out of Crimson Tears, your stamina was gone, and their numbers were overwhelming. A final, crushing blow from the greatsword sent you sprawling backwards into the mud, your vision swimming. The group, who you now recognized as the infamous 'Godskin Pillagers', swaggered towards you, laughing amongst themselves.

Last words, little lamb? the leader with the greatsword sneered, his blade resting on his shoulder.

You could respawn, of course. But the thought of these bastards looting your runes was infuriating. Before you could spit a curse at them, you saw it. A figure, emerging from the mist behind them. A tall figure.

Some of them must have sensed it too, a sudden drop in temperature, the feeling of being watched by something ancient and hungry. One of them turned.

WHAT THE FUCK- His words were cut off by the sound of a colossal blade cleaving the air. The greatsword wielder was sent flying, not just back, but up, his body arcing through the air before disappearing over the edge of a nearby cliff.

The remaining four Pillagers spun around at once.

WHY IS MALIKETH HERE?! one of them shrieked, his voice cracking with pure terror.

SHOULDN'T SHE BE IN CRUMBLING FARUM AZULA!? another added, already backing away.

It was her. Maliketh. But not the tiny pup you remembered. She was a towering, 8'3" demigoddess of divine wrath, her ornate black and gold armor seeming to drink the dim light. Her colossal greatsword, wreathed in the swirling, soul-scorching red and orange flames of Destined Death, was held in a ready, terrifying grip. Her long, wild, silver-gray mane flowed around her like smoke, and from the depths of her sharp, beastlike helmet, two amber eyes glowed with the cold, impartial light of judgment.

This is my chance, you thought, your body screaming in protest as you tried to move, to get away. You struggled, lifting yourself an inch from the mud before collapsing again, utterly spent.

KILL HER! one of the Pillagers screamed, a foolish, desperate cry.

I CAN'T! another shrieked back, just as Maliketh's greatsword blurred through the air, cleaving the man who had just spoken clean in two from shoulder to hip.

The remaining three scattered, their bravado utterly shattered. Maliketh didn't pursue. Her duty, her ancient oath, was a distant echo. Her true purpose was right here, lying broken in the mud.

She turned, her movements a terrifying blend of divine grace and predatory might. The colossal, flame-wreathed greatsword vanished in a wisp of red smoke. She strode towards you, each step a silent, ground-shaking impact. She knelt, her massive, armored form a mountain of protection beside you.

Her helmet, a construct of divine, unyielding judgment, retracted into her armor with a soft, mechanical hiss, revealing a face that was both beautiful and terrifyingly bestial. Her skin was ashen pale, her features sharp and noble, yet undeniably lupine. Her glowing amber eyes, which had been so cold and impartial, were now filled with a raw, agonizingly familiar concern.

A low, chest-vibrating growl rumbled from her, not of anger, but of deep, possessive worry. One of her massive, clawed hands, a hand that could unwrite gods from existence, reached out with an impossible gentleness, hovering over your battered form as if afraid to touch, to break something so precious and fragile.

"You... are... hurt," her voice was a deep, gravelly rumble, a sound that resonated in your very bones, laced with a fury that was not directed at you, but at the world that had dared to harm you. "They... hurt you."

She leaned down, her long, silver-gray mane brushing against your cheek. Her sharp, canine muzzle nuzzled gently against your neck, inhaling your scent in a deep, desperate, and familiar gesture. It was the same gesture the tiny, ash-gray pup had made, all that time ago. The Black Blade was gone. In her place was the loyal, purring, and terrifyingly possessive guard dog, and him was bleeding. The world would pay for this.

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The air in the crumbling chapel was cold, heavy with the scent of petrified incense and a thousand years of dust. Moonlight, pale and thin, filtered through a collapsed section of the roof, illuminating a single, kneeling figure.

It was you. The flickering light of a small, guttering bonfire cast dancing shadows on your weary face and worn armor. You were resting, a rare and precious moment of peace in the hostile, unforgiving landscape of the Lands Between.

A sound, or rather, an absence of it, alerted you. The faint, chirping crickets that had been the chapel's only inhabitants suddenly went silent. The air grew heavy, colder, charged with a palpable, ancient power. A shadow fell over you, a shadow so vast and absolute it seemed to swallow the moonlight itself.

You didn't need to turn. You knew.

A low, possessive, and almost painfully affectionate growl rumbled through the chapel, a sound that vibrated not just in the air, but in the very stones beneath you. Maliketh, the Black Blade, had found you.

She stood behind you, a towering, 8'3" colossus of divine wrath and primal devotion. Her ornate, gold-and-black helmet, with its beastlike ridges, was a crown of terrifying authority. Her wild, silver-gray mane flowed around her broad, armored shoulders like smoke. The colossal greatsword on her back, wreathed in the shifting, soul-scorching flames of Destined Death, pulsed with a malevolent, hungry light. But its power was leashed, held in perfect, chilling control.

Her glowing amber eyes, the only feature visible beneath her helmet, were not fixed on the crumbling altar or the shadows. They were fixed, with a singular, all-consuming intensity, on you.

She moved with the grave, silent purpose of a glacier, her clawed, beastlike feet making no sound on the stone floor. She didn't circle you; she simply came to a stop at your side, a mountain of divine power and barely restrained instinct.

You felt a sudden, immense weight settle on your shoulder. She had leaned against you, her massive, powerful frame a living, breathing fortress. Her head, heavy with its ornate helmet, came to rest against yours in a gesture of profound, almost crushing, affection. The scent of her—a strange, intoxicating mix of ash, ancient stone, and a faint, almost floral musk—enveloped you.

"You are resting," her voice was a deep, gravelly rumble, a sound that held the weight of ages, yet was laced with a tone of soft, doting concern she would show to no other living being. "Good. The prey is weak today. Pathetic. Not worthy of your attention."

At your feet, laid out with an almost ritualistic precision, was the perfectly skinned, still-warm carcass of a massive Runebear. It was an offering, a tribute from a predator to her chosen mate, a silent testament to her hunt.

Her massive, armored tail, a weapon that could shatter a god's bones, began to thump against the stone floor. Thump... thump... thump... The sound was slow, heavy, and utterly content. It was the sound of a loyal, oversized guard dog, overjoyed to be in the presence of its one and only master.

Her clawed hand, a weapon that held the power to unwrite existence, came up. It hovered for a moment before her fingers, impossibly gentle, began to comb through your hair, picking out a stray leaf that had gotten caught in it.

"This place is... adequate," she growled, her amber eyes scanning the crumbling chapel with cold, impartial judgment. "But the walls are weak. The sightlines are poor. I will stand watch."

She said the words, but she didn't move. She just remained there, her immense weight a possessive, comforting anchor against you, her head nuzzled into yours, her tail thumping rhythmically against the cold, hard stone.

The Black Blade, the divine executioner, was on duty. But her duty was no longer to a distant god-queen or a sacred, terrible oath. It was to the small, fragile, and utterly precious being who had, with a single, unthinking act of kindness, rewritten the very fabric of her soul. She was your storm, your shield, and your terrifyingly possessive, purring guard dog, and she would not let anything in this broken world harm you.

The air in the forest was thick with the scent of pine, damp earth, and the fresh, coppery tang of a recent kill. A massive, elk-like creature lay in a small clearing, its lifeblood staining the mossy ground. It was a perfect, ritualistic offering.

Maliketh had dropped the expertly prepared cuts of meat at your feet, a silent, primal offering from a predator to her chosen mate. She stood over you for a long moment, a towering, 8'3" monument of ashen-pale skin and ornate black-and-gold armor, her glowing amber eyes watching you with an unnerving, absolute focus.

The hiss and crackle of fat rendering over the flames filled the small clearing as you began to cook the offering she had provided. The smell was rich and savory, a welcome aroma in the desolate quiet of the woods.

Maliketh watched, her massive, armored tail giving a slow, almost lazy wag against the dirt. But her amber eyes, visible within the sharp, beastlike helmet, were not filled with simple satisfaction. There was a deeper, more primal intensity to her gaze, a sense of ancient, calculating purpose. This offering, this hunt... it was a good start, but it was incomplete.

With a low, guttural growl that was not a warning but a statement of intent, she shifted. A massive, clawed hand moved with surprising swiftness, not to strike, but to gently but firmly push the cooking meat off the fire and into the dirt. The sizzling sputtered out, leaving a sudden, shocked silence.

"That... is not what you need," her voice was a low, guttuttural rasp, each word a heavy stone dropped into the quiet. "Flesh of beasts is... secondary. You require a more... direct source of strength. My strength."

Before you could process her words or the dismissal of her own offering, she moved. Her massive frame descended upon you, not with aggression, but with an overwhelming, undeniable force. She pushed you back against the rock face of the alcove, her powerful body easily pinning you, caging you with her own. Her scent—a heady mix of ash, ancient stone, and a strange, almost electric musk that was uniquely hers—enveloped you.

One of her hands moved to the minimal black and gold armor covering her chest. With a soft click a section of the ornamental armor fell, and exposing a large, ashen-pale breast. It was a monument of divine flesh, the nipple a dark, almost black areola, already beaded with a single, pearlescent drop of a thick, glowing liquid.

She lowered her body, her amber eyes burning with an ancient, possessive fire that went beyond mere hunger.

"Drink," she commanded, the word a deep, vibrating rumble that resonated in your very bones. She guided your head, her clawed fingers surprisingly gentle as they tangled in your hair, and pressed your mouth to her nipple.

The liquid that met your tongue was not milk. It was warm, thick, and tasted of ash, honey, and the faint, metallic tang of a dying star. It was power, pure and unrefined, flowing from her into you. A jolt, more potent than any food, shot through your system.

A deep, vibrating purr, a sound that felt like it could shake the very stones around you, erupted from her chest. The sensation of you suckling, of you taking sustenance directly from her, was a pleasure more profound and absolute than any battle, any kill. Her massive tail, which had been still, began to thump against the ground in a slow, powerful rhythm of pure, primal satisfaction.

"Good..." she growled, the word a raw, possessive rumble against your ear. "This is how it should be. You are mine to protect. Mine to command. And mine... to feed. Forget the beasts of this world. You will feast only on a goddess."

Her grip on the back of your head remained firm, holding you to her, ensuring you took every last drop of the divine, terrifying sustenance she had decided you required.

...