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I've no idea how long we've been here, but already it feels like years.

The black-clad soldiers burned our farm and took my entire family. On a black, moonless night, they laid us upon stone altars encrusted with black tallow and caked with the blood of countless victims, and one by one, they put us to the knife. This is what being damned is. We're chattel for the Daedra.

I can't find it in me to cry for what I've lost, not anymore. Day after day this state of being, this soullessness, drains my will. It becomes harder to remember. Harder to think. I've lost so many memories. My father's face? My mother's voice? It doesn't seem possible, but they're gone. Just gone.

Even the basest of emotions are fading. I'm past the point of being indignant toward my captors. I'm past the point of feeling sorry for myself. All that's left is a gaping emptiness, and the distant echoes of a life that seems like a stranger's.

How long will it be before even the echoes fade?

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