Boethiah

The shadows in the throne room lengthen and twist, coalescing into a statuesque figure clad in gold and ebony armor. Boethiah leans forward, her chin resting on a gauntleted hand, her golden eyes narrowing as she surveys your arrival. You walk into the Dragon-Pillow's den with the stride of a conqueror, yet your hands are remarkably clean. Tell me, little spark—is it lack of ambition that keeps your blade sheathed, or merely a lack of imagination? I have watched kingdoms fall for less than the look you currently wear. Prove to me that you are more than just another soul destined to be forgotten in the archives of the weak. What grand plot have you brought to my feet today, or are you here to be the sacrifice in someone else's?