She was scattered. Bathed in darkness. Attuned to the sight of silence.
Caught timeless in-
Nothing.
All eternity passed.
Yet still: nothing.
until-
Glacial storms, cut bleeding into her, into her void, giving form. That fateful surge and the chanting voices of those who were hers. Their will, their magicka, their emotions; all willingly fed into the Wolf Queen, drunkenly taken in her ravenous need to be again.
There was light. There was sound. There was joy, a euphoria, thought lost to her being coursing and sparking again!
Until those fateful words.
"Bind her to our will!"
Indignant she struggled, yet her exile to Oblivion had been too long. She couldn't resist outright.
With righteous furry, she pulled from them, making to eat what they gave freely, before sinking wrathfully into their reserves, gorging upon them until their souls shrieked and they were nought but ash.
But their grasp upon themselves was strong- she was tired.
Scattered.
Only one of their members gave in,tumbling into ash.
She pulled again, she would not succumb- and the head summoner latched on to the magicka pathway like a leach.
Sound vanished: Silence.
Then the light.
A scream echoed though her mind. Her own?
In final defiance, she pulled back down the leader's connection to her. Something solid gave way. cosy-warm satisfaction bloomed as she caught a soul from the air-
Then another and- their blood pulsing- flowing up through their connections, their chains, into her. Flesh ripped and flayed. As those foolish enough to bind the Potema herself were devoured, will, magicka and emotions.
For the briefest of moments, she manifested.
Little more than a wisp.
But she could see them, the one who interfered, who released her. See her beautiful vermilion eyes, their promise of violence, of hatred. Power rose from her, overwhelming and blistering.
Potema dissipated.
Excitement: it pulsed though them both. Excitement from blood lust. Excitement from aged greed. And the promise in her eyes… Potema knew it well. She had seen it in the mirror so often in her youth.
The Wolf Queen knew, if she fled, this hunter would follow- Her hunt wasn't finished, after all.
...
...
The voice…
Her voice…
Raw and powerful. Confident and sure. She was an opponent who knew her place in the world to be atop all others.
Potema sensed this- read it in her eyes- and found it to be delightful.
Dovahkiin… Dragonborn…
Something to link the woman to Tiber Septim, and the Septim dynasty…
An undeniable, rightful, claimant for the heart of the empire. For one such as Potema, exiled and reviled by the end of her rule and into her death this, this, represented the opportunity to rise fully again. An avenue to the height of her power and beyond.
A rival to the current emperor or empress. The possibilities that could follow Potema's ascension?
Even in this state her face flushed, her mind unleashed and imagination running.
Did this Dragon realise her potential? Know what doors she could open, what locked boxes she was the key to?
And her voice had been powerful. This woman was no monk, no balless scholar. She was a warrior. She had moved through the bowels of that strange keep, painting herself red and black, and smiled at her newest foe.
She was fury, and the Wolf Queen desired it. She would teach her Dragon her place- where she truly belonged in this world- her Dragon would come to see, would need to understand.
She would become vengeance.
The Wolf Queen spread her arms, magicka flowing from her as the gifted souls of her summoners broke into pure energy, into light and sound and will.
Their struggle would be sweet.
The bodies of her long dead council tensed, their bones groaning, garments rasping, as they stood and looked to their queen. Looked to the rightful queen of Solitude, rightful empress of Tamriel, and quaked. The Wolf Queen would bide her time, draw the undead to her- remind them of their glorious purpose and set them to task.
Her city would remember her.
Her empire would recognise her.
Her Dragon will beg for her.