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I wish Father would bring me the tastier morsels from this boring, little hamlet. I fear the herd has been culled past its prime and the finest cuts of meat are already my thralls. That is fine for now, though I don't want to grow bored of the finer blood under my control.
Arandar tastes of the finest Altmer wine aged in oak barrels, though he was much too gaunt the last time I fed on him.
Vanderion had a piquant flavor of moldy cheese and dung, but I guess that's what you'd expect from a man raised in a backwater village knee-deep in manure since the time he could walk.
I sorely miss Menelcare's bittersweet flavors. Her soft, hushed cries as I tasted her flesh were a delectable garnish to the feast she provided. It's unfortunate that I can no longer revel in her essence; I must decide what to do with her desiccated corpse.
I requested that Father bring me more refined and proper meat to savor. Perhaps someone of the more noble blood like Eryeril or Nelulin. Perhaps even the delicious body of Velatosse herself. Though the way he looks at me when I make these requests unsettles me. Does he not love his son enough to indulge him in these requests? Does he not want me to stay healthy and vibrant? Why does he look at me with those sad, baleful eyes? I am not a monster; I am his son.