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A life begins with a seed, planted deep into the earth. It takes root, holds itself firm to the ground, and grows. How it got there is not relevant, what it does given the gift of life and opportunity is what matters. But you are a plant, and there isn't much to do other than live and be eaten by an elk or something of the like.

Fate could have made you a rose, beautiful and bright, but it could have just as easily made you a wilting weed in a dense swamp. Instead, you are neither, but of a different sort; a deathbell. True to your name, you kill if ingested, and so most people steer clear of you.

You might not have the outright beauty of a rose or orchid, but when you look closely enough, beauty can be found almost anywhere. Your petals glow a dull amethyst, edges tinged with the murky waters of the marsh you grow in. A rich sangria, the color of an aged wine made of only the finest grapes is visible on your inner petals, if anyone would approach enough to see your true colors.

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One day, a woman approaches you. And if the robes were any indication, she was a herbalist as well. You have seen many people in your time, unruly children splashing in the knee high waters of the swamp, the occasional lost traveller, and the creatures of the night that emerge from the caves and trees looking for an unfortunate victim to come their way. But never someone whose job it was to pluck your roots from your earth and brew you into god knows what.

She extracts you from your home with little effort; a penknife severing your stem and she stuffs you into a satchel.

When light reenters your vision, you are unceremoniously tossed on a table, and the herbalist wastes no time in plucking your petals and discarding your stem. There are no other plants near you; it seems she ventured out into a dangerous swamp just for you. It could almost be considered flattering, if your petals weren't being grounded into a powder and every other part of you similarly thrown out like trash.

Now a fine powder, your vision has spread out into a million perspectives, but it will not be long til you die out now. A faint static has settled in the back of your mind.

A faint breeze blows through the room you are in as the door opens; it scatters some of you, leaving you to settle in the darkest corners of the room.

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The alchemist, she is talented. She treats a multitude of plants the same as you, with a speed and efficiency only gifted by years of practice. She sees a number of customers every day, some casually strolling in to ask for a cure disease or a health potion, while others carefully scan their surroundings before leaning over the counter to whisper their order. She never disappoints though, and more than a few times does she reach over to where you lay to use you in her concoctions.

The first time, you remember, she takes a pinch of powder, and mixes it with another ground plant with a visible green hue.

𝘕𝘪𝘳𝘯𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘵, it whispers, ethereal and mysterious, followed by a faint chiming of bells.

𝘐 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘋𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺, it replies to your unasked question. 𝘉𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩.

𝘋𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴? they whisper. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘯.

What is the Dragonborn doing, playing shopkeep and alchemist, when there is a world in need of saving?

𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸, they whisper back. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘍𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦, 𝘧𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘐 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

We will see.

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The walls are lined with shelves full of potions.

Glass bottles, adorned by tags and labels and the Dragonborn's spidery handwriting sit all pretty, decorating the shop and waiting for someone to need them.

Things like you are kept a secret until needed.

But they call to you, telling you their story, and you tell them yours. You learn much from them.

It's almost a blessing, being taken from your home into a strange new world, only to find yourself more at home than ever before.

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She does this many times, taking more and more of you until there is little left in the bowl. She mixes you with a myriad of ingredients, all made for the same purpose.

Now you know what your purpose is. The people, so secretive in their orders, they want you to hurt others. 𝘈 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯, you hear one hiss under the cover of night and shadow. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘴 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺.

𝘔𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵, they add.

You saw many other… ingredients find their way into the same bowl as you. It hurt to call yourselves that, but it could be denied no more.

A purple mountain flower, once. You're sure they would have been beautiful, had they not have found themselves in the Dragonborn's line of sight at that moment.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭, the flower murmurs, mourning what could have been. 𝘗𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘺, 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸? 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘴𝘰 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘴.

Another time it was bone meal. You do not know whether she found the powder ground up, or did so herself-

𝘕𝘰, it hisses. 𝘕𝘰, 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴? 𝘈 𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵. 𝘋𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘐 𝘢𝘮?

Yes, you are bone meal, to be used in some wicked poison or the like.

𝘐 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘋𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘈𝘩𝘻𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘭. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥. 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘠𝘴𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘳'𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱, 𝘐 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.

Interesting.

After a moment of silence, Azhidal mutters to himself. 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘧, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘚𝘢𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘭.

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It is strange, being conscious in so many different areas at once. The other plants are abuzz with energy you have never known, shelves always being emptied and restocked so there was always new blood within them.

The first part of you to go is the one mixed with the purple mountain flower. You are sold to a man hidden in shadows. You do not get a good glimpse of him til he takes you out of his pocket and places you on another table.

He is a balding Breton, with a squared jaw and weary eyes, black leather armor with pockets everywhere.

"Fit for a jarl," he mumbles to himself, and pours you into an alcoholic beverage. It is of a very high quality, spices imported from Hammerfell and liquor from a special distillery in Cyrodiil. They whisper to you their story, but the potent alcohol creates a pleasant buzz as all is drowned out in static and you lose the first part of yourself.

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You long to be more than a deathbell, but you find soon that everyone longs to be more. The pretty red mountain flower longed to be a dartwing, buzzing through the sky, and the frost salts lamented their existence as a byproduct of a failed atronach.

There was no pleasing anyone, it seemed.

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The second time, the nirnroot goes.

You are sold to the vengeful woman, who had wanted to make someone hurt.

𝘈 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘮𝘢𝘣𝘺𝘦.

𝘈𝘯 𝘦𝘹-𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘸.

It is not a lover, as it turns out.

She coats her arrows in you, and stalks off in search of her unfortunate victim. She stops at a mouldering ruin, infested by bandits.

Nocking the first arrow, it hits one square in the chest. The poison spreads rapidly, you turn his limbs to lead and stop his heart. Similarly, you also stop existing in him, your purpose served.

She screams her rage, and keeps on firing.

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She pours you into little glass bottles, ready for sale.

Only a little of you is left now, a sprinkle of dust occupying a mostly empty bowl.

𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵?

Your question is answered however, when one night she lifts you from the table you have laid on for your entire stay at her shop, and pours you into a new bowl. A shape momentarily darkens your few dozen perspectives, as a new powder is mixed in with you.

𝘑𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘵.

The words came flat, monotonous and unbothered by its predicament.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵-

𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘴 𝘔'𝘒𝘢𝘪. 𝘠𝘰𝘶, 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘺, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦.

Beautiful. It's the first and last time anyone ever calls you that.

… 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘐𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭.

… 𝘛𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.

The root chuckles, a deep, reverberating sound in your mind.

𝘔𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘩𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦. 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘦 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘤𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘬.

𝘞𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘭𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘴, 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘶𝘴. 𝘛𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘶𝘯𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘰𝘧. 𝘖𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵.

We'll see.

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She packs you away, in an inconspicuous bottle, donning a chef's hat and apron. The trek to your destination is long and arduous. You can feel the tension from the depths of her saddlebag.

But you can no longer feel the other parts of you, used in lesser poisons. They slip away, further and further, til even the tiniest pinpricks of consciousness you held there are gone.

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦, 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦, the other plants chorus. They know you will never return. They do not know if she will return either.

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"I'm the Gourmet," you hear later, now tucked in an inner pocket of her apron.

More walking. More talking as well.

"I'm sure the Emperor and his guests are dying to meet you."

𝘞𝘢𝘪𝘵-

The jarrin root roars with laughter, echoing in an unpleasant way from inside the bottle.

Suddenly, the cork is pulled free, and she pours you into a stew. The ingredients greet you with the warmth of a dish prepared only moments ago.

𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰, 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰, they whisper, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘌𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘳 𝘛𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘴 𝘔𝘦𝘥𝘦 𝘐𝘐.

… 𝘞𝘦'𝘳𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘶𝘱𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯.

𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦?, snorts the root.

… 𝘠𝘦𝘴, 𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦.

============================================

Only the finest silverware for the Emperor, it seems.

From a cast iron pot to an ornamented silver bowl, you take in what will probably be your last moments, as well as his.

Stained glass windows, carved mahogany furniture, heavily armored guards at every corner. A silver vase, freshly picked roses and dragon's tongue.

𝘈 𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘺, the jarrin root murmurs, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵? 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘢 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦, 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴?

𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦, the root simply states, 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺, 𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘰, 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭. 𝘞𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺.

𝘏𝘮.

The time has come. The Emperor, an aging man, stares down at you, contemplating his last supper. From across the table, you hear a woman, the one from before, speak highly of the "Gourmet".

The Emperor reaches down, grasping a spoon in withered hands. You fill the concave hollow of it, knowing soon it will be over for you as well.

𝘈 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥.

He swallows easily. You fall, eclipsed by darkness, spreading, spreading-

𝘚𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺, 𝘴𝘰 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺-

They never hear you. True to its reputation, the jarrin root kills almost instantaneously.

A great commotion follows; the Dragonborn vaults the table and a moment later she is gone, the soldiers in hot pursuit.

You feel your consciousness fading, the dead body of an Emperor your final resting place.

𝘞𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘪𝘵, 𝘸𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘌𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘳.

𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘴𝘰, the root replies, but anything else is drowned out by the static growing louder by the second.

𝘈 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥, 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘥.