#malacath;;

Malacath was unused to manifesting, physically, in the mortal plane. The vibrance of his surroundings, and even the warmth of the sun on his shoulders was drastically different than what he was familiar with in the Ashpit. He didn’t dislike it, but wished the sounds and light didn’t hurt his ears and eyes as much as they did. He’d much rather be home. 

Unfortunately, he has a task. The orsimer woman he’d encountered months ago and offered a place in the Forge has not been heard from since. He’s concerned - both that she’s declined his offering, or died before he had a chance to collect her soul himself. 

He is bonded with all orcs, regardless of whether they worship him, and Hithril is easy enough to track. However, instead of the orsimer, he finds an aedra waiting for him in the wilderness. 

If his surroundings were overwhelming enough to his senses, the goddess is a thousand times brighter. To Malacath’s eyes, the life surrounding them seems to flow from her. 

It was rare for Malacath to directly interfere with the affairs of mortals, even his own followers. That was just another thing that separated him from the other daedra. 

This mortal in particular had managed to catch his attention. He’d perked up the moment the blood splashed at the foot of his shrine - the blood of a cowardly, pathetic chieftain, and the blood of the giants who had defiled his sacred place. It had been months since he’d cursed the tribe of Largashbur for neglecting these caverns, and no one had sought out a solution. He’d almost forgotten about it. 

He’d seen this orc’s actions, and couldn’t help but be impressed by them. Not only had she defeated formidable opponents, but she hadn’t done it out of a desire for power, or bloodlust. She had done it to help a tribe that wasn’t even her own. Malacath supposed that she deserved to be visited for that. 

He materialized at his shrine, in a body made of stone, almost indistinguishable from the statue that stood behind him. The warrior had not yet noticed him.