To consort with Daedric Princes is taboo. Especially in Skyrim, land of the cold-blooded Nords who turn their noses up at pointed ears and flip their blonde hair at scaled hands, to speak of any Daedric Prince in a sentence that carries a smidgen of reverence is to alienate oneself from the human population.

That is all well and good, in Isdrileth's opinion, for she had no intention to mingle with humans when she first crossed Skyrim's borders. That plan fell short when she was capture by said humans only a few breaths later, and then put in a cart with other human prisoners.

After escaping her imminent decapitation (and she was glad she did, the executioner's axe was dull and would've taken a few chops to sever her spine) due to a great, dark dragon swooping in an burning everyone in the town to a crisp, she found herself in Whiterun. Then she found herself fetching treasure. And, finally, she found herself slaying a dragon and consuming (well, it was really absorbing, but consuming gave it a more dramatic appeal) the dragon's soul, Isdrileth was revealed to be a hero of legends. The Dragonborn, Dovahkiin, said to be a Nord with the soul of a dragon, would slay Alduin, the Bane of Kings, the World Eater, He Who Flys On Dark Wings (and also the same dragon that burned everything down in Helgen, where Isdrileth was supposed to be executed in).

It came to be a bit of a surprise and a blessing that Isdrileth was a wood elf, a Bosmer, and not a Nord man who benched cattle in the mornings. Isdrileth was tiny, only reaching the shoulders of half the men and women she met daily, and instead of the golden hair that many would expect the Nord of Legends to have she had coppery locks that she hacked off at the base of her neck. Sharp teeth of a carnivore that was prevalent in all Bosmer instead of perfect, uh, squared teeth, and golden, inhuman eyes instead of crystalline blue.

It was a surprise, but a blessing, as no man or woman alive, Man, Mer, or Beast, would assume that she was the Dovahkiin.

Maybe being the Dovahkiin got to her head a bit. Maybe it was the excitement of secret identities- wearing her Dark Brotherhood uniform when conducting Very-Important-Listener-Business-That-Totally-Isn't-Her-Prancing-Around-With-Cicero, taking on the guise of a wise Harbinger with the mask of a Dragon Priest that she slayed, stealing from right under the upturned noses of Nords that looked down at her whilst garbed in the armor of a Nightingale, and going on wild, magical adventures into crypts as an Archmage with her students at the College of Winterhold.

Why, it was all so fun that she had forgotten about her actually being a Dovahkiin, and the consequences and duties that come from it. Namely one being that the Daedric Princes seem to crash into her life without her batting a lash. Sanguine had called her over purposefully, she stumbled into Sheogorath, Hircine she was blissfully unaware of when taking on the beast blood and Meridia had immediately yelled into her ear after she picked up a curious white ball whilst on her way to complete Hircine's task for her.

Namira, Molag Bal, Azura, Mehrunes Dagon, Nocturnal and so many more. She was the token example of someone that has been seduced into dark practices and magic, but even if she found friends in cannibals and werewolves she didn't regret a second of it. A part of her always humored the idea of dying and seeing what will happen to her soul, having had promised it to one too many Daedra.

Then she met him.

Hermaeus Mora.

Isdrileth… actually reconsidered her place in Nirn after meeting him for the first time. That nut job mage, the one whose name she couldn't be bothered to remember, had just handed her an extractor for the blood of different mer. She, having already committed what would be called atrocities to any who learned of it, didn't blink twice in accepting the duty.

She clambered up the icy path and towards the hall that would lead her to the ladders to freedom, and then she stumbled on something that actually made her pause, for once in her 27 years of living.

The Wretched Abyss. It was what she called him when she first laid eyes on the darkness that crept from the hall, on the whipping tentacles and blinking, golden eyes, on the acidic air that poisoned the world around him.

That was Hermaeus Mora. That was probably the first and only Daedric Prince that she felt any fear when facing. And though the fear was short lived, and she soon dived back into her life of snark and near-suicidal recklessness, she couldn't help but think back to that first few seconds of fear and wonder if she really was in over her head.

Even after slaying Alduin, and then Harkon after him, and Miraak after him, she couldn't help but feel a sense of detachment from the world around her. A sort of anxiousness that she hid by becoming more reckless. More headstrong.

Isdrileth found that, after doing everything she could in Skyrim, after completing every single quest and favor and task, she didn't know what to do with herself. Her friends urged her to live peacefully in Lakeview, to take off her Daedric Armor and rest, but she couldn't be still. She laid awake every night in bed with a sword held to her chest. She walked around the house wearing leather armor and an axe strapped to each hip. She even made a nest of her hoard, composed of gold and jewels and other treasures, once, when the desire to go out and do something became too much to bear.

But, alas, it was all to no avail. The pressure of anxiety that held itself like an iron ball in her chest was crippling. Every step was restrained, as if she would dash into her room and don the Daedric Armor or the Nightingale Armor or even the Dark Brotherhood's clothing and run out to do something.

She was the Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild, and yet Brynjolf and Karliah and even Devon fucking Mallory keep her down and from dowing work in every possible way. She was the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, but all she her job was was to keep a list of hits, coddled by Cicero the second she stepped foot into the Gods-be-damned place. And, and she was the fucking Harbinger! She was a werewolf, a perfectly capable one that can take care of herself, and yet once she suggests going out for an adventure or perhaps taking out the newest Bandit hideout that popped up on the map, she's immediately urged back to bed with a plate of sweet rolls- or, worse yet, someone would get Jarl Balgruuf to personally scold her. Which was embarrassing, because she wasn't a child. Do not get her started on the College, because, Dibella's tits, everyone above the age of 30 was a nightmare.

It was all "Oh, you need a vacation Dovahkiin," this and "Oh, you should take a break from dungeon exploring, Dovahkiin," that and eventually if they don't stop it'll turn into "Oh, please stop stabbing me, Dovahkiin!"

Violent tendencies aside, Isdrileth didn't appreciate being unable to… well, do something. What her friends didn't understand is that she needed a purpose. Something to do. Something to get her blood pumping and her hands shaky and her weapons dripping with crimson.

And maybe calling upon Hermaeus Mora, Daedric Prince of Knowledge, the same Daedric Prince she swore not to ever affiliate herself with again after she finished her duty as his Champion, to give her somewhere to go other than Skyrim, was a bad idea. She should've remembered that all Daedra are self serving and tricky, but she was desperate.

New, foreign knowledge that Hermaeus Mora couldn't get his tentacles on in exchange for an adventure, a new one, didn't seem too bad of a deal.

But then the wormhole opened under her feet, and Isdrileth was dropped into it, Daedric Armor and all.