Three years later...
The band of Stormcloak zealots trudged through the blistering snow up a mountain. Numbered at the grand total of four men and a woman they trod towards the small fire that acted as a light house to those blinded by snow and hail. They weren't alarmed by the glaring Forsworn sitting at the fire, in fact, they even asked him for directions. He pointed them in the general direction of their path and two more fires later they arrived at their location.

Boethiah's shrine.

A small arena to the left of them was littered with frozen bodies of the previous worshippers. Amongst them was a dark elf who was deceived and led here by none other than Talion to die by his dagger of sacrifice. Sacrifices had to be made to help save Skyrim, no save all Tamriel some would argue, but at what price?

One of the Stormcloaks stumbled and leaned on his neighbor. Going up one more hill they arrived at what looked like a stalagmite in the midst of a circle. Spires of spiral shape also went up on the edge of the circle further signifying that this indeed was the place even though the runes under them were invisible in the snow.

The four men formed a semi-circle crossing their hands over their middle and waited around the stalagmite that vibrated the air in its power. One with a wolf cloak over his helm unsheathed the blade of sacrifice but waited non-threateningly. The woman in the white bear cloak shifted her weight foot to foot uncomfortably.

"It's time, Sword Sister."

The woman's throat constricted and she inched closer and closer. Putting out a hand, she couldn't watch herself touch it and looked away. Upon touch, blue energy pulsated, the sacrifice's body smashed into the shrine with such force bones broke. Her form twitched and fluttered in a flame of blue light, her eyes rolled into the back of her head. She stayed there, foaming from the mouth as the wolf clad man stepped forward.

"Boethiah, accept this sacrifice from our hands for we wish to become your champions."

The blade plunged into the woman's back and time stopped. In a split second, the woman smiled before collapsing into the snow. She laughed and twitched before she disappeared into the wind, turned into dust. The blade of sacrifice burned and the man shrieked as it clattered into the snow and another pulse knocked them back.

This time their vision was hazed by the snow blown into the air from the runes on the ground. Once some of the snow cleared however, a lone male figure clad in a black hood stood before them. The Stormcloaks hastily hit their knees and made obeisance unto the figure who had appeared.

"Boethiah! Our lord!" The bear-clad officer bellowed in a thick Nord accent.

"Boethiah," the figure muttered in a Brenton accent without looking from out his hood, "has not considered you worthy of servitude. Wherefore do you call Boethiah your lord?"

"Let us prove ourselves!" The wolf said.

"Yes mi'lord," a grunt of the group uttered, "let us prove our mettle!"

A chilling smile graced the hooded man's lips.

"Fine, last one standing wins."

Without warning the man snapped his fingers and in a shimmer of dark blue, glowing bound armor covered the man. He looked towards the man closest to him and surged towards him. The man was so fast that the Stormcloak's 'what-?' was cut off by a cold hand lifting him into the air by his throat.

The three remaining men surrounded him from behind and drew their weapons. The mystery man watched silently as he began shocking the life from the man in his hand. The Stormcloak officer let out an ululation and struck his short sword against the man making ominous pings against the bound armor. The man smirked under his bound helmet, the form of a daedric helm hiding his expression and distorting his voice,

"Is that the best you got?"

The Stormcloaks watched in horror as their comrade's head popped. What was this armor? How much magika did he just use? A lot apparently and he was unfazed. The demon of a man began to walk away, not before snapping and conjuring something behind the horrified men.

A hiss sounded from the conjuration portal and revealed a cloaked reaper with four arms. The man sighed contentedly, tapped his feet, applying yet another spell and levitated into the air to watch the hopeless men die a painful death.

If anyone were left alive to testify, it was apparent the cloaked man is the new champion of Boethiah.

"To catch a thief," he mumbled into the storm, "you must be a thief. To kill a child of prophecy, you must be a child of prophecy. What were these vermin thinking?"