Prologue:

The spelled pentagram in the corner of the room flared once, brightly. The air hummed with Magicka as purple smoke gushed from the pedestal, hanging in the air for several moments before coalescing into the shape of a man.

Ontus Vanin was still slightly dizzy as he materialized in the archmage's chambers, not having been that way for several years. His white robes caught the light of the magetallow candles, and swished around inelegantly as he made his way forward.

The chambers had darkened since the days when Hannibal Traven had occupied them. The air itself was stifled by a dark presence, though years of absence from the magical leys of the University had deprived Vanin from any refined ability to pinpoint it.

What he could see, however, were the dark tomes that lined the shelves. Their covers were inscribed with daedric runes, glistening sickly in what seemed to be blood. He murmured absently to calm himself,

"Scholarly interest, scholarly interest…"

But the feel of the shock-spelled dagger at his hip made him feel much better, and he clenched the glass tightly as he approached the archmage.

The archmage's robes were a shade of ash, the hood shrouding his sunken face. His eyes were a watery gray, and seemed to peer straight into Vanin's soul; not for the first time since entering the room, the Imperial man felt endangered.

Anglachel's thin lips moved now, forming words.

"Welcome, my friend," he rasped. His voice was barely audible from his burnt throat, and Vanin might have felt a tinge of pity for the once-great man. "Thank you for coming on… on such short notice."

"Any time, Archmage," he said carefully, silent as the Altmer broke into a hacking cough.

He took several moments to recover, but when he did, there was no hint of humor in his hoarse voice.

"What can you tell me about Daedric Shrines?"

Vanin reeled for a second, wondering what had possessed the mer to ask such a thing. The Mage's Guild's demesne was of Magicka; of Alteration, of Conjuration, of Destruction! They did not meddle in the affairs of the Daedric Princes.

But Anglachel watched him intently, waiting for his answer. It was clear that he was not joking.

"Well," Vanin mumbled, quickly spluttering out the least provocative information he could recall about the infamous inhabitants of Oblivion. "The Princes each have a shrine built by mortals in Tamriel, and a particular way of summoning them-"

The Altmer's lip curled. "That much I know. Tell me where to find one of the shrines."

Scholarly interest, scholarly interest!

"There is a shrine to Mephala, near the Silver Road, halfway to the meeting of the Orange and Red Ring Roads," he sighed in resignation. "A flower of nightshade might be sufficient for the Daedra to deign to speak with a mortal."

Anglachel smiled broadly, and rose from his chair. He had just turned to leave, when Vanin blurted out,

"With all due respect, Archmage, may I ask why you seek the Daedra?"

"No," he whispered. He whipped around, his fingers flashing with the light of a spell. A ray of green haze struck Vanin, wrapping around his body like emerald fog. The elderly man struggled, conjuring a neutralizing wall of purple light against his bonds, but the dispelling failed against the strength of the master wizard.

"You shall not remember my presence here, nor that we spoke this day." Anglachel's voice was oddly distorted, and pierced through Vanin's will; he instantly ceased struggling.

"You will awake in your quarters at the time of noon, with no memory of visiting the University today." The green smoke snaked into his nostrils, clawing into the brain and Altering his memories. The Imperial's eyes went wide, and flashed a horrifying emerald-

And then he fell to the floor, and the archmage was gone.