In fact you fear your weak neck might snap like a twig soon. It is done, you are now the reigning monarch, the heavy weight of what you can only hope is indeed the crown weighing down your head. You can only hope you will prove them wrong. Your parents are dead, both the victims of a plot, no doubt some ambitious nobles wished to place their much more pliable cripple child on the throne. Indeed, it is without arrogance that you say your power approaches that of the Daedric Lords themselves, if not your experience in using that power, and that you may be the most skilled mage currently alive on Tamriel.īut now a disturbing message has been placed before you by the servants of the castle. You are confident that should you repeat your earlier mistake, you would succeed where your earlier self had failed. And now after many hard years of hard work your patience is finally paying off. A crude transmutation that made letters jut out from a page, allowing you to read with your remaining hand. The most difficult part was developing a spell that allowed you to read. Your remaining foot is a misshapen thing, so even with a masterwork enchanted prosthetic you find it difficult to walk.īut despite this misfortune that has befallen you, you have persevered. Your back has become hunched, your growth stunted, and your foolishness has cost you a arm and a leg. Struck blind, deaf and mute, you were suddenly plunged into a world of silent darkness, and unable to even cry out at your fate, your tongue a mangled mess. You ended up a deformed, crippled mockery of your former self, your sister dead. With far more power than sense, you meddled in things far beyond your level in a silly attempt to impress your little sister who you doted on. You were eight at the time, a magical prodigy the likes of which had never been seen before.

You remember it well, your last memory of sight, of sound.

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