On that evening of Fredas the sky fluttered with many sky flakes, the brisk bitter breeze gnawed at the bare skin. And the many Pariah of the Fourth cycle stood tall, bold, unwavering to their Highest than all Chieftain, who's code they wrote their very lives by. the Shaman clad in ceremonial robes, the only one clothed danced around an Anvil with a slain Bakaal Troll and the axe that slew it embedded in its skull.

"Omh Kolok Da'has Jumwe, Omh sha'gra Mauloch! Omh jum'ke ja Mora, Omh Sha'ga Mauloch!"

With her Calls the offering is engulfed in Daedric summoning glyphs, they disappear in a torrent of light. one on looker young with budding tusks shuddered slightly, it would be his first time taking part in this ritual. a moment later a pale amber orb appears where the offerings once stood erupting shortly after into a torrent of smoke, ash, crackling lightning arc among the plums flooding the gathering. the young warrior forgetting his earlier warnings chokes on the soot, his poor attempt at standing tall are crushed as the ground shakes with two concurrent thuds before the precession, two mighty hooves leading up to the firm formidable dusk shadowed form of their great Patron, a stench fills the air.

He stares down with his fierce vermillion goat wined eyes, the young warrior looked up, overwhelmed with fear he had no time gasp as the beings hoof came crashing down on his skull. "NO!" another called out in terror, breaking ranks he came to the maimed form of his blood "I should have never brought you back!"

"Right" his voice rumbled above them, "You shouldn't have, you were told not to bring the Honor-less brigand back here, and yet you did you have been away for to long...you have forgotten the way". "Please! bring him back to me, I'll do wha..." and he was silenced by the crushing boom of the Pariah's Hoof, "you get nothing".

The other warriors stood their ground, some with the spray of blood across their bare bodies. the Prince turned his gaze to the front of the gathering "Chieftain" he called out, as the Shaman evoked fire to a nearby pyre.

"yes my Lord" responded the Lead warrior, "This is the last time you summon me with weakness in your gathering"

"Yes my Lord" was his response once more "there is no perseverance in weakness, no advance in despair, no strength in timid, no Honor in the frail!. "Omh Sha'gra Maloch!" his worshipers filled the air with their chants

"How boastful you are in private company, you do not flap so much among your brothers...why is that?" a disembodied voice filled the sky in a patronizing tone, catching the attention of all, the warriors look around perplexed.

the Air above Mauloch's Statue is torn asunder by a viscous tear of smoke, it parts wider as the form of a bare chested woman with a mans face exits i and rests on the head of the statue, clad in ebony and black/red cape.

"Boethia...." grumbled Malacath

You still hold the old pride from a time you no longer are, you utter perseverance and moving forth no matter the cost and yet here you are..clinging to faded glory that never was....such Hubris. With such words, with such actions you encroach on my realm filth...

"Begone wench" the Pig faced prince uttered in annoyance, "I preside over these souls, through Strength and Honor comes glory!" "Omh Sha'gra Maloch!" his faithful chanted.

"Silence!" Boethiah's voice boomed sending the many bare backed warriors off their feet...

"Honor? you know what honor afforded you filth. Betrayed, abandoned, once full of himself now left like the stinking pile you are, you've no place among us, our vile sister holds the station of disgust, filth and outcasts quite fine" S/he speaks, emoting a sinister grin.

"none would know the outcasts as I, and through me they will become stronger, mightier none will oppose them" Malacath boasted with bravado

"Ha ha ha" her/his voice chuckled echoing through the air "I have brought a band of mortals into a thriving civilization, yours have been stepped on repeatedly, do you take such pride in such punishment? I guess diffusing yourself would be one way to end that stench? must be the Aedra in you, still willing to mutilate yourself, I could never understand why you beings were so suicidal

"YOU are the cause of me being this way! and at every moment you seek to cause me no end in anguish! but I will persevere, I will out last you snake. and the day will come where I shall surpass you!" Malacaths voice boomed through the heavens as he smashed the statue Boethiah rested on. effortlessly evading his swing, s/he rested on the hovel not far from were the statue once stood.

Yes in a sense I am your maker, you presume strength and might but we both know I am and always will be your greater, you speak of fearlessness and lack of weakness, yet my pungent brother you quiver in my presence Mortals call us fickle, but in your case the truncated ones were no less aloof to your plight, mope in your mire all you desire Pariah, for you are the weakest of them all. you are like the moist refuse from which you are attributed to, no matter how much of a front you try to put forth.

"Raaagh! why are you hear! you were not summoned!" Malak growled in great anger"

In those you showed no mercy to, you unwittingly invited me here Pariah, that and your Shaman isn't as faithful as you believe, she is aware of true strength...." S/he casually replied, with that Malacath could only flee back to Oblivion shamed in front of his worshipers. Boethiah then appeared beside the Shaman as the warriors looked about not fully grasping the gravity of what just occured, "Kill them all" Boethia stated out as s/he disappeared in the shuddering portal. In her/his stead, the shaman with the Ebony Blade in hand, glowing fierce as the new dawn.

"With pleasure"