“Are you ready to head out right away?” The words were speaking curtly, and barely managed to hide that the young woman was seething underneath her pleasant facade. She was the Dovahkiin, the dragonslayer, the vanquisher of the World Eater, she was the rightful heiress to the imperial throne by the blessed tradition of the dragonborn emperor sitting on the throne of the cyrodiilic empire. They rejected her, just like that, and this self-proclaimed High Queen would not even do as much as listen to her until this chore was taken care of. 

As long as this woman did not wear the jagged crown, she was nothing but a jarl trying to be more important than she really was. Still... Throwing a tantrum would do her no good. She turned to the Nord warrior tasked with accompanying her clearing out Wolf Skull Cave.

  Though his influence into the realm of the corporeal was fleeting, when mortals entered the realms of dreams, their souls out in the open, he could seize them. Echoes of her existence had reverberated within the spirits of those he'd brought under control. When she finally entered Solstheim... here, where his hands could reach her... It was a meeting announced by dreams of endless corridors and ancient whispers, the roars of fallen dragons echoing in the grand cathedrals he'd built for her mind as her hands built his shrines with the other villagers. It was all orchestrated with greatest finesse – to the Last Dragonborn he shall not reveal himself without building up the momentum that would lead up to their first meeting in the realms of the dreams he invaded and molded to his own design.

For the first time, the Dovahkiin would wander through the corridor in silence, the path lit by candles. This corridor was not endless, did not end in a locked gate – she would find it open, leading into a round chamber. An amphitheater, steps lined with countless candles that illuminated the dark that surrounded them.  Gloved hands remained clasped together as he, slowly, turned around to face the Dragonborn, or the grey shades that he saw her as – until, one day, he would know the exact outlines of her appearance.

     A bright light tore through the darkness of the cells below the temple. Occasionally, every couple of days, a guard would bring some bread and water - a prisoner should be alive, yes, but weakened, left in darkness, cold and misery. That’s what broke them: the silence, the dark, the lack of space, no way of telling the passage of time. From then on... they could be molded, if their minds and bodies could bear the destitution down in the cells.

      A brazen mask hid the tall man’s face, he could barely walk upright in the dungeons. One of his warriors carried the torch that iluminated the way for him. “I bring you a gift, odwiizaan .” Carelessly, he tossed it towards the chained woman, let it roll all the way to her. “Hold the torch closer,” he ordered, so she could see it well. His ‘present’ came with the stench of rot and decay, a severed head, wizened, half-decayed, well preserved by the biting frost of Solstheim. One of the falmer commanders who’d fought by the side of the Snow Prince in the decisive battle that marked the final downfall of the falmer on Solstheim  - and soon enough all of Skyrim.

Fate was a curious, strange thing. One day, you were a king, ready to take flight and sit on the throne of the Gods you’ve slain - the next day, you are nothing, a fallen man who depended on the goodwill of a God you could not kill with steel and spells. His Gods were mortal, and so was he - yet he persisted... to live to see another one rise at the same time as his return was being prepared. Unacceptable. Now, with this meddling on Solstheim, this new Dragonborn might ruin everything altogether, doom him to thousands of years of prolonged incarceration. 

 Through dreams he spoke to them - to all those who slept at night, minds exposed to the power from beyond the veils of Mundus. He’d seen her once before and banished her from the realm of Apocrypha - but there was no doubt: this meddlesome girl was bound to become a problem... unless he took care of it first. And so, he would speak to her, too, melding the dreams of his new rival into an image of an old temple, lit with candles, walls adorned with tapestries - nothing alike the barren, ruined temples scattered all around.

To tear through the fabric of time and space was no minor feat. The people of Solstheim and the ancient guardian stones have nourished him through the borders of Mundus and Apocrypha until he, finally, had grown powerful enough to rip apart the veil that kept him from returning home. Devouring the souls of the three dragons who’d stayed by his side the whole time, he broke through the barriers set up to keep him from leaving - and so he left one eerie, foreign realm to enter another. For a couple of minutes, Miraak did not dare moving, as though he feared Herma Mora would break through the nearest wall and devour him whole, dragging him back to Apocrypha, his prison of millennia. However, nothing of these sorts happened - and so, he finally rolled over and got up on his knees to take in his surroundings.

 Was this... a dwemer city? No. It’s energy felt entirely different. Cautiously, the atmoran man finally got up on his feet and, after a moment of thought, he pulled back the hood his mask was attached to. Whatever it stood for... could no longer bind him.  Cautiously, he proceeded forward, his hand remaining on the handle of his sword. Instead of starlight and fresh air or the familiar walls of his own temple, he found himself in a strange place entirely.

    An easy case that only roused moderate attention. Good - she liked to use these as a means of sneaking in a bit of time to unwind at least a bit. The High Chancellor would preside over this case, and even though the last word on this matter was up to her, she had no intentions of stepping in (or paying even all too close attention. It was all about being there.). A couple of councillors had assembled, the ranks of the high-standing attendees were rather empty. Unless it was about treason, or something else that concerned all of them, they did not bother. A few members of the Church as well as some mages of the University had joined them. Other than that, mostly citizens who hoped to catch a look of important people - and this so-called witch who’d be put on trial today.

    A small woman, she’d say, from her first fleeting glance to the center of the court room. Respectfully, the councillors rose from their chairs and the present soldiers saluted their empress who, slowly, took seat on the imperial chair that has been kept empty for her attendance. WIth a graceful smile, the young woman nodded. 

   “Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Dragonborn.”  The breton Lady was dainty, a woman of pale skin, soft hands and expensive fabrics, entirely out of place in the harsh winter of Skyrim. Countess Aelinore, a breton noble married to the count of Cheydinhal, who, in turn, was one of the emperor’s relatives. Being part of the extended family... of course she could not miss his cousin’s wedding.. and since she was already here...