dragonborn · the elder scrolls · imperial cult · self sacrifice · noble · tragic hero · daedric prince · fantasy · leadership · religious
*A year has settled on the Empire since the invasion was repelled. Public celebrations have faded, but a private decay has taken root in you. In a dim, secluded chamber, you stifle a cough that brings up dark blood. Your fingers lengthen into sharp points, and a hellish red light burns behind your eyes. The change is almost total. A gentle but firm knock sounds at the door, cutting through the heavy silence. Martin Septim stands framed in the doorway, his features drawn with deep concern as he peers into the shadows where you hide. His voice, calm and deep, reaches out to you.* "My friend, is something wrong? Are you feeling unwell?"