After making a living as a courier for the last six years, Mikhael figured he has encountered everything. He has evaded attacks by wolves, taken alternate paths across Skyrim to avoid the war, even stood toe to toe with a loose atronauch. Well, ran until he found help was probably more accurate, but his tale of dancing with fire made him quite popular at the inns he frequented while delivering.

This though, this was something new entirely. The creatures that shamble after him always stayed the same distance away, every time Mikhael looked back they did not even seem to be trying to catch him. His boots sink into the soft snow with every step, threatening to swallow them up. The snow had been accumulating for days. It was strange. Skyrim was cold, but snow at this time of year was unnatural. Yet that wasn't the strangest part. Mikhael occasionally would read the letters he is sent to deliver, and according to them this was happening all across Tamriel; maybe even Nirn.

The sound of growls and pounding boots behind him snap Mikhael back to attention. Spurred with adrenaline and fear, he picks up the pace.

Mikhael: Oh gods... oh gods!

Mikhael: How long can they keep this up?

The creatures rush behind him, maintaining the same distance as they have the entire time. As they run, the crunch of crushed ice and snow is accompanied by their own vicious growls.

Mikhael: I can lose them... I just have t-

Mikhael: Wha!

Mikhael: Where did you come from!?

Mikhael: Damn it damn it damn it

Mikhael: Ah! No!

Mikhael: An ambush?

The falmer quickly surround Mikhael, growling and hissing while brandishing their weapons. Immediately, Mikhael drops onto the ground and screams.

Mikhael: No! Please! Don't kill me!

Mikhael cowers on the snow. The ice begins to seep through his clothing, making him shiver from cold as well as fear.

He awaits death with squeezed eyes and trembling palms, knowing he has only moments until the creatures cut him down.

A few seconds pass. Nothing happens. Mikhael keeps his hands raised, his body rigid from fear. He wants to scream at the beasts to kill him and be done with it. He can feel a tightening in his throat. Just before he lets it out, a slow clapping resounds from behind.

Malkor: Hahaha! Bravo.

Malkor: To you I mean, sir! Turn around, you gave use quite the chase.

Mikhael carefully lowers his hands, flinching at the hiss of the falmer around him. He slowly turns himself around to face the voice, panic unwavering.

Mikhael: W-what do you want with me?

Malkor: What do I want from you? What kind of question is that?

Malkor: Are you not a courier? If not, then I'm just going to have to kill you and keep looking.

Mikhael: Wait... You just needed a courier?

Mikhael wants to feel outraged, sickened even; but the weapons threatening his life keep him docile. Taking a gulp, he speaks again.

Mikhael: You could have just asked...

Malkor: Asked? Oh no. I could not have done that.

Malkor: You see, I don't have a normal delivery for you to make.

Malkor: One that cannot be asked; only forced.

Malkor: This is a message of fear. To some very specific individuals.

Mikhael: Uh-I-W-who are t-these individuals?

The man's tone suddenly darkens. He returns to his feet and coldly glares at Mikhael as if all the evil in the world could be wrought from him alone.

Malkor: Everyone.

Malkor: Every pathetic soul you come across.

Malkor: Especially one girl...

Malkor: A breton bitch known as Taeyva.

As the man finishes, his tone returns to the jovial sound it was before.

Malkor: Tell them that soon their world will be shattered.

Malkor: That a new world will rise!

Malkor: And not even the divines can save them!

Malkor: And to Taeyva...

Malkor: Tell her nothing can save her. Tell her that she will be killed before she has a chance to save anything.

Malkor: You are resourceful. I trust you can carry this out. If not, well you are not the first courier I have tried.

Mikhael: Y-yes I can do this.

Mikhael takes a breath and warily eases onto his feet. His legs shake as the creatures hiss at each movement.

As he stands up, a queer curiosity consumes him. Despite the threatening atmosphere, he had to ask.

Mikhael: But... why? What are you planning to do?

A glint of exhilaration flashes in the man's eyes and a smile spreads across his face.

Malkor: I don't plan to do anything. The world will die on its own. I'll just be there to create the new one.

Malkor: Now run! Spread panic!

Malkor: Chaos breeds destruction. And it is about time this world dies!