That power would soon be his, thanks to what waited for him at his destination.
The very man that had inspired him to begin his quest into the dark art that was necromancy and the magics of manipulating souls was but a bump in the road in his quest for power. Even Malyn Veren and his so-called students fell before him. He'd taken what had just been theory back at the College and practiced it, mastered it. It had been a few years, but Arrelus was so close to getting back at them. Exiled for studying what they deemed forbidden. The College had taken from him the place he called home. In the same way his adornments radiated Magicka, his eyes did nothing to hide the death he'd wrought for his own goals. One foot in the Doors of Death and one hand reaching in to steal from the Reaper, Arrelus was a necromancer. He was a man with a tight grip on those who fell before him. It had made moving in the northern Holds significantly more difficult, but a fight won was a fight that gave him both greater insight into magic and one which gave him additional soldiers. With the Civil War heating up, however, he'd been able to blend in more. When Arellus had first arrived in Skyrim to study under the masters in Winterhold, his had been a very rare face indeed. Anyone with even the barest knowledge of the Arcane Arts could tell that they were enchanted, from cowl to boots.īeneath that cowl was a face that bore the familiar features of an Imperial. The resemblance was superficial though, as they glowed dangerously with Magicka. Instead, he appeared more like a hunter in skins and furs. This man, this mage, was known by few outside the College of Winterhold, but they knew him as Arrelus the Exile.Īrrelus did not don the usual robes that wizards tended towards. He strode with the confidence of a man who knew exactly where he was going, with the purpose of a man who was completing an arduous task. And still, one lone traveler continued his journey north from Falkreath. Even the farmers and merchants had not yet risen. Chapter I: Power, or Why You Don't Interrupt a RitualĪs the sun rose over Whiterun, the roads east of the citylay empty of any travelers.