Eight Of Heroes *Skyrim*

Prologue: Boethiah

"Lord of Plots, Deceiver of Nations, Devourer of Trinimac. The Queen of Shadows, Goddess of Destruction, He-Who-Destroys and She-Who-Erases...Many are our lord's lofty names, but they befit only us mortals. Intone her mighty names from now until the end of time - it is for naught. Names mean nothing to our Lord. She cares for those who care for themselves, whose hearts are full of purpose, whose lives are full of deeds." - Priestess of Boethiah

The evening sky above was as red as the blood staining the rocks below. Skyrim's weather was harsh tonight, those without masks or helmets were greeted with the brisk stinging slap of breeze. It nipped at rough and grime covered faces of the figures stood around the shrine. The air was suffocatingly filled with the stench of death, ash and decay. Smouldering and claustrophobic, the lingering taste of blood was everywhere. Burnt corpses were scattered around the area, shrivelled and charred. Decomposing bodies were impaled on spikes, a grim display of the artful horrors transpiring upon the shrine. Maggot infested bones and ragged remains of clothes were plastered to the rocky ground with dried blood, sitting in little piles as an abhorrent reminder of the life previously inhabiting the cadaverous remains.

The shrine sat on top of a steep mountain, its pathway framed with sharpened spikes exhibiting a morbid showcase of decapitated heads as their cold, accusing eyes stared off glumly at passers by. Laying about the shrine were broken pots filled with trinkets and offerings, but they were frozen and dulled by many nights of cold showers. Yet they were presented as gifts to the Daedric prince statue before them. Blooming amongst the horrors was the proud sacrificial circle; decorated with pulsing blue swirls and alight with magical energy. Words were scrawled into the smooth stone in between each spiral, it was the language of the Daedra but everyone knew what this ominous sentence translated to;  "I am alive because that one is dead. I exist because I have the will to do so."  The words of the Daedric Prince herself. 

Surrounding the pillar of sacrifice was a crowd of figures. Obediently, they parted without uttering a word or needing an instruction as a man approached the deadly circle followed by two cloaked guards flanking each side. They were towing the remaining members of a bandit camp raided not so long ago. The leading man wore a unique set of armour; from a distance it would appear to be Ebony armour, but up close it was obvious something was different about it. It was polished black but the metal had a strange green sheen to it, obviously inhabiting some kind of magical presence; witnesses had seen enemies fall to the ground in agony as they approached the wearer. 

His helmet was not a part of the set. The object was crafted from a metal that seemed ancient, though it had managed to maintain its smooth gleam over time. Grime was stuck in between each carved line and fold of the mask, and up close it was easy to tell that it had been work down in some areas. Yet it was a marvellously craft piece, covering the entire surface of both the man's head face, and neck. The sculpture was carved to resemble the face of a warrior, his skin marked with swirls and strange symbols, a pair of long curved horns protruding greatly from the forehead. A face created to give a sense of power and authority, eyes set straight forward, and the mouth upturned into a frown. A figure of both beauty and pride. No one had ever seen the face of the wearer beneath this mask.

He approached the circle with short, long strides, each step having the same gracefulness and elegance of a man who clearly had spent hours perfecting his every move. Not a word was heard from the crowd surrounding him, nothing but the whimpers and groans of their gagged and beaten prisoners. The only noise hovering in the air was the wind against their ears and the crackling of torches. The leader stopped in front of the sacrificial ring.  Gleaming blue pulses from the Sacellum reflected onto his helmet, making him look as though he were alight with magic as he stood before the statue of the Daedric Prince. 

"Your worship," he finally spoke, his voice having a calm and emotionless ring to it. "Your deed is completed. Your worthless champion is now dead, the pathetic liars who called themselves your 'followers' along with him and now I bring you back the Ebony Mail you desired to have returned to you. And I also present a gift - the the remaining members of those who swore to be your worshippers but only used your favours for their own selfish needs." The man dropped down onto one knee, but even this act of submission seemed to come with its own grace and dignity. 

A prolonged tense silence hung in the air after that. Seconds ticked by and the wind grew ever stronger against the mass of figures. Everyone seemed to have been holding their breath in that moment as the man with the mask stared down at the floor intensely. His gloved hands were gripping one knee until the knuckles underneath the material had surely turned white with pressure. Suddenly, a haunting voice rung in the air, inhuman and loud. Sudden gasp of breaths sounded amongst the crowd, the emotionless figures coming to life at the voice of their prince.

"My new champion," sounded an enchanting female voice. Daedric Princes were commonly known to have no gender but the voice of this prince was often changed throughout time to prove she had no real identity and that simple matters like gender were such a mortal thing. Greatness did not need a sexuality, it just needed a pure mind. "You have returned, do rise to your feet my follower."  The masked man nodded, pulling himself up, his cape fluttering in the growing breeze. "You have proven yourself worthy to be my new champion, you have shown fearlessness, treachery, ferocity and prowess in combat. With these gifts, I shall spill their blood at my feet. Give them too me, I wish to see those who rebel against me suffer in pain and agony." He glanced behind him, nodding curtly at his two flanking companions as they struggled to restrain the prisoners. Each one stepped forward, revealing the Prince's gifts before her. "Spill their blood my followers, spill their blood and make them pay for their treachery," the velvety voice echoed.

The first prisoner was cut loose and pushed into the circle, a middle aged Imperial wearing moth-eaten fur armour. But his ragged appearance wasn't enough to conceal the panicked fear in his bugged eyes. He was about to protest - maybe scream, but his words were suddenly blotted out as he went rigid. His eyes almost bulged out of his head with fear as his face twisted and contorted with pain before he was flung back against the pillar embedded at the centre of the circle. A transparent dome appeared over the ring, making sure he couldn't break free even. But that was doubtful whilst he was under the paralysis enchantment. 

The masked man knew what to do next, with one swift movement he had an ebony dagger in one hand. The edges were ragged but sharp, still smeared with dried blood from the last sacrifice. He stepped forward and the dome didn't stop him, drawing up to the prisoner pinned against the pillar.

"For our prince," the masked man sneered before the dagger cut through the air and hot blood poured from the prisoner's throat, oozing down the front of his chest. 

The prisoner shuddered from the attack, his whole body erupted into a spasm, spittle forming between chapped lips before he fell limp and dropped to the ground like a ragdoll.

"There is no greater gift a man could give me other than spilt mortal blood," the excited inhuman voice spat, "Now, what is it you come for my champion? I wish to see more of your gifts suffer under my wrath but first I demand you tell me what it is you desire so much." 

The masked man wiped the sacrificial blade onto the fur of the dead prisoner before sheathing it again. He looked up at the marvellous statue. The ruler of Attribution's Share, portrayed as a woman in this sculpture but that didn't make the Prince appear any less magnificent and grand.

"Boethiah," the man called, his voice rising over the surging winds and crackling of fire, "ruler of deceit, conspiracy, treachery and sedition. I ask you for a favour, a favour I desire to ask you for because I know it will bring you so much pleasure."

"What is it my champion, what is it you desire that you believe shall please me so much?"
"I wish for the destruction of Tamriel, I wish for blood, death and violence. I wish for dictatorship, power and submission. I wish for the blessing of the one true Daedric Prince so I can bring Tamriel to its knees in all its glory."