There was very little in the temple itself. The Red Mountain had spared nothing, and it seemed that not even Molag Balâs foul magic could protect his shrine. If he had even wanted to protect it, that is. Far more likely was that he had enjoyed watching his devotees, terrified and agonised, as the ash and smoke swept in through the crumbling doors and drowned all within the temple in thick, suffocating dust. The few skeletons lying decomposing on the ash-stained floor, their arms outstretched to the great statue of their Daedric lord in silent, begging prayer, seemed to have died with the sort of cruelty Molag Bal relished.
In fact, Molag Balâs statue seemed to be the only intact thing in the place. Pillars and columns were torn asunder and scattered in crumbling pieces throughout the main chamber, the altar that once drank the blood of the unworthy was cracked and broken, even the ceiling seemed to groan and crumble even now. Dust fell and settled on Lydiaâs already-dusty armour as the statue seemed to call to her, dragging her closer with a sharp claw under her chin. As she approached, whispers in her ear begged her, pleaded with her, for help. The prayers of the damned echoed in the halls, the crying and screaming of the dead a blunt reminder of all those she had slain in the name of her captor, her slaver, her master.
Finally, the whispers were drowned out by the terrible voice of the Prince of Domination. It seemed so much louder, so much more horrific and bloodthirsty, so much more daedric than it ever had within her head. It no longer creeped and skulked, hiding in the shadows of her memories, it blocked everything out and deafened her to the world.Â
âYou stand in an ancient ruin, where blood has been spilled in my name for centuries. The font now grows dry, my power forgotten in this barren land, but you will renew the vigour of my temple. You will remind the Dunmer, and their weak and pitiful ancestor-god, that the will of Molag Bal is not easily ignored.â
Suddenly, the flashes of purple and groans of soulless creatures of Coldharbour returned to Lydiaâs mind, just as they always did when her Prince invaded her subconscious. Through the hellish haze of Oblivion, an image of a burial mound appeared - ghosts swirled around it, their wispy faces permanently screaming in anguish and their arms flailing in pain.
âThis tomb holds the bones of the Ulven family, a noble and pious clan that, even in their exile, swear loyalty to the Prince of Plots who betrayed them. You are to find this tomb, you are to desecrate the remains of Boethiahâs faithful, and you are to splinter the bones and salt the ashes of all the treacherous Dunmer you find there.â
Blood began to ooze from the stone hands of Molag Balâs statue, seeping into the dust and pooling around Lydiaâs feet.
âAnoint your blade with the blood of your master, mortal, and go forth to wreak havoc in my name.â
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