I'd always been fascinated by the Daedra, so when I overheard the Vigilant talking to some Nord brute about his suspicions of Daedric worship going on in one of the abandoned houses, I'd happily gone in there with him, acting as if I wanted to help him root out any of the worshipers. A simple illusion made him think I was a taller Breton woman in expensive robes, rather than a 15 year old Breton girl in ratty peasants clothing. He gladly accepted my help while I thought of the few different ways I could kill him should I be lucky enough to meet a Prince in order to gain his favor.
I hadn't expected Molag Bol. The moment I reached for that rusted mace, my hand became trapped in spikes that looked nearly as wicked as the weapon. I couldn't move very far, and my connection to my Magicka seemed to blocked - something I didn't know was even possible. I looked back at the Vigilant, hoping for help, but the only thing I saw on his face was a smirk.
He spoke to me. I remember that, but I don't remember what it was he had said exactly. He called me his daughter, I think. He claimed that my blood was already unique, and he wanted to see what would happen if it was changed. The last thing I remember of that night was laying on the ground, numb, as he wiped his blood on my forehead.