Blackfeather Woods the way, the truth, the life

Miraak often went to the Temple to pray, in what strange way the followers of Daedric Gods prayed. He knew that his time on this plane was growing shorter with each passing day. He did not know how long he would have left, but he knew it would be soon. But when he prayed he did not ask for a revelation, or comfort from Mephala or Sithis — he knew he would get none from them, none so overt as other deities would give. He simply grew as close to them as he could, to bring himself peace when he did pass, no matter how violent the transition would be, to attempt to strengthen his bond with the Void and its inhabitants. He sometimes heard the voices — whispers, really — of long-dead family and friends. Meldresi. Morgiah and Mannimarco — his mother and father. Young Melisande and Mirnelea, who were taken when they were very young. He heard Aguta the most, a voice he had not expected to hear in the Void. He nearly burst into tears the first time he heard her gentle caressing whisper, so glad was he to know that she was, indeed, waiting for him amongst his kin and allies, rather than enslaved by some rival God, or even by Sithis and Mephala themselves.

His connection with the Void was not strong enough to allow him to hear more than faint snatches of words in familiar tones — he was no priest — so it would be easy for someone to chalk this all up to dementia brought on by old age and the too many times he had hit his head throughout the years. Perhaps that seemed more likely.

But regardless of what it truly was he continued to go to the Temple and pray. He did it daily — nightly, really. Moonless nights were the best time to pray, and the voices were loudest and clearest then. Tonight was one of those nights.

It did not seem like he would be alone for this night. At first, the sound of another, truly mortal, voice did annoy him. He did not want to be bothered by someone else as he prayed tonight. But it was smaller, younger than anyone he had known in Blackfeather Woods, which meant that it belonged to the youngest of their pack. One of them that is.

He strode towards the crippled girl, his stride smooth and silent, unwilling to break her from her own private meditation. He was getting old however, and his smooth, silent stride was not as smooth as it had once been. He could let it slide this time though — it wasn't as if he had been hunting or anything.