Prologue

The Priest Faces Hell

The candle flames flickered against the chapel walls, disturbed by a breeze that was not there; it caught his attention only for a second before he busied himself again with his duties: cleaning the tarnished silver of his offering cup, pouring the wine, reading through the chosen passages for his midnight service... trying to ignore the gnawing feeling of insecurity that was gradually spreading through his veins. Beads of sweat swelled, rolled down his strained face, he swatted them away.

Brother Martin looked up and eyed his familiar surroundings: the cold stone pillars of his chapel, the intricate details carved into his Nine shrines, the vibrant stained glass windows that were now taking on a deep crimson hue – sunset already?

The candle flames flickered again, this time Martin noticed.

His insecurities gradually turned to something a lot more like fear. It was as though there was a great pressure building in the air, threatening to suffocate him, to blow the windows from their steel frames. It was a feeling that had once been all too familiar with him, a feeling from his youth when his sins had reigned free over his actions and the consequences had been too high a price for him to pay. Something was lurking in the shadows, watching him, waiting.

The darkness began to swell. The candles dimmed, the flames no longer flickering but beginning to die, the light being stolen from them.

Something is coming.

The ground was trembling; Martin reached for his altar, desperately searching for the shrine of Akatosh, to seek the comfort of his chosen Divine. But as his fingers came in contact with the rough, chiselled stone of the dragon avatar, a sudden piercing pain split through his skull and the priest's world went black.

The earth beneath his hands was burning, its ashen texture like that of a charred corpse. He pushed himself up, staggered to his feet and felt the air be taken from his lungs as he tried to cry out. Martin stood for a moment, trying to breathe, trying to understand where he was and how he had got there, trying to ignore the feeling that he had been here before, that deep down, he knew this place well. The flesh on his hands that had come into contact with the scorched soil was already blistering, peeling away to reveal red raw sores beneath – an attempt to heal his wounds did nothing, his spells failed him.

He stumbled towards a lump of boulders perched precariously at the edge of what was a gigantic cliff face, tripping over tree roots that looked too much like the limbs of men and women who had been consumed by the ground. Above his head, the sky burned, fires blazed in the distance and a river of molten lava boiled and bubbled beneath him. The rocks that Martin leaned against were no cooler, he could feel them warming his body through his stiff robe, the heat making his skin prickle and jolt. But their sturdiness provided him with and odd sense of comfort: he had not lost his mind, all of this was real.

Though with that realisation, he slipped back into panic: he had rediscovered hell.

And then – footsteps, coming towards him. With no weapon, no spells, no potions and no clarity of mind, Brother Martin prepared to die.

From behind a mound of charred earth, a figure dressed head to toe in blackened, damaged armour appeared and approached him with purpose, stopping only a few metres from him. Martin's heart quickened in pace, he felt the fear threatening to suffocate him once again. The stranger raised a hand to the mangled helmet that obscured their face and began to remove it. The priest watched with a morbid fascination, desperate to look upon the face that was hiding behind the metal and all the while battling with the same thoughts raging through his mind: I know who you are...

The darkness was taking him over again, he could feel it creeping about the corner of his eyes, trying to blind him, drown him. But before he was lost again to the night, he caught sight of her eyes and the helmet came away – her eyes? – Yes, her eyes.

He'd seen those eyes before, in nightmares just like this one but he couldn't make out her face: it was blanketed by the shadows that were wrapping around him, stealing him. But those eyes stayed with him as he fell away: eyes of deepest, darkest violet, eyes of a Divine – or a demon.

And a voice - her voice perhaps – a voice that spoke to him as he slipped away...

"These things now belong to you..."

And then he was lost once more.

Cold marble and a screaming headache welcomed Martin to the mortal land, his trembling fingers found clotted blood on the top of his scalp, clinging to his hair. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear screaming – or was that simply his ears ringing? Staggering to his feet, he turned to the avatar of Akatosh.

"What are the implications of such a vision?"

He was searching his memory, running through all that he had seen: the fire, the ash, the burning skies, the woman... that woman. Her eyes. Their intensity, so dark that they were almost black. But who was she? Why did Martin feel as though he had met her once before?

He did not have long to dwell on these worries, however, for the doors of his chapel were thrown open without warning and Lenka, an Imperial who had been plagued with many unfortunate troubles throughout her years, fell through them, her face a mask of terror. She stumbled towards him.

"Dead, they're all dead! Dead, dead! Akatosh, protect me! Holy ground, pray that I am safe! Save me! Martin, brother... "

He ran forwards, catching her as her legs collapsed and her limbs crumbled. Her body was shaking, she was covered in soot and splattered with warm, sticky blood. Martin noted somewhere in his mind that it was not hers: though her skin was marked with cuts and grazes, there were no injuries that caused alarm. This blood was the blood of another, though the priest dare not imagine to whom it belonged. Beyond the open doors of his beloved chapel, he could hear screaming; the light that spread across the floor was scarlet, staining the stonework.

The doors leading from to the undercroft slammed open, and Oleta was soon alongside Martin, helping him to support Lenka to her feet. "I heard the screams," she breathed, pushing her greying locks from her sweaty brow, "brother, what is happening?"

Martin could only shake his head, the Divines only knew what was going on outside the safe walls of the chapel, but someone had to do something; he found his free hand wrapping around his Dagger of Sparks, an old friend he had hoped he would no longer have use for. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Oleta watching him, her tanned face strained.

"Brother..." she began, stopping when he shook his head.

"Look after her, Oleta," he commanded, his voice steady, hiding the fear that bubbled just beneath the surface. Lenka continued to babble and shake as he released her to the Redguard's capable care; Oleta stood firm beneath the weight.

"Do you intend to fight?" She eyed him knowingly, calmly and silently accepting that her church leader had been carrying a concealed weapon beneath his garments.

"I hope not to, but if required to defend the people of Kvatch, then fight I must. Once Lenka is taken care of, Oleta, I urge you to find as many bedrolls and supplies as possible from the vaults – I intend to bring back as many survivors as I can."

"You don't know what you are facing out there."

"That is irrelevant, my duty is to act in the name of Akatosh: to protect and to guide all those in need. Whatever awaits me outside of these walls... I will ask Akatosh to guide and strengthen me in my endeavours. Close the doors after I leave, trust in your judgement of who to allow in..."

With that, he strode away, leaving his healer standing forlorn by the Altar of the Nine. He reached the great oak doors and felt his courage falter as he looked out upon the battlefield that awaited him. The sky was burning; the city skyline was no longer recognisable; great monstrosities were parading the streets, chasing those who still survived, hunting them down. Those who had not been so lucky were strewn over the road, only a few distinguishable as people.

As Martin prepared to rush into the fray, he suddenly knew where he had been what seemed like only moments ago, what he was now looking out upon: the planes of Oblivion had come to Mundus, Daedra now walked amongst men. The priest turned back to his chapel, just for a moment, and made one final prayer to Akatosh, before launching himself into hell.