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The masks are gifts, simple and beautiful and the mark of a new era, where men shall paint this new world with the glory of their gods.
It is Paarthurnax who delivers these blessings to the chosen ten: Krosis, Morokei, Nahkriin, Otar, Rahgot, Vokun, Volsung, Hevnoraak, Miraak, and Vahlok. These were not their birth-names, their man-names. These were the names that these ten great shamans had found in their meditations and sacrifices and walkabouts. These are the names from the Words of the Dovah, the god-born, greatest of all living beings. These are names made from Words that know no past and no future, merely forever, Words of power and glory, god-words that form god-names.
The great pale Dov rumbles in approval as the ten bare their chests to him and his attendant kindred. Each bears his god-name carved into his chest in the slashing, lovely Words of the Dovah. It is a clumsy attempt, they know, but no Word of fire or fury is spoken.
"The Firstborn knows your faith," Paarthurnax says, speaking man-words, "It pleases him you have carried it from bleak Atmora to this new land, where all may know the might and glory of the Dovah." He draws back, as if to strike, and the ten cringe in devout terror. "For that is your duty, to spread word of our might and glory, to worship us until Alduin decides it is the end of time! Do not forsake us!"
The ten lay facedown in the snow, well within the reach of those killing talons.
The Dovah are terrifyingly still and silent for heartbeats beyond count.
"Rise. Your fear is sufficient."
They stand, not too tall, and gaze in awe upon the brother of Alduin. Few have stood so near a Dov and lived to tell the tale.
One of the other Dovah leaps into the air, dropping something before landing again.
Paarthurnax shifts what looked like stones in the snow. He nods after a moment. "Come closer, Joor."
They step even nearer, beneath the half folded shadow of the wings. "First, Vahlok."
A talon lifts a stone-no, a piece of wood- settles it upon the face of Vahlok. The man stumbles back, places his hands to the new mask. The others watch with wide eyes as he falls limply to his knees. Paarthurnax is laughing. Vahlok shudders, is still, then rises, so proud. They can see something new in him, something of the Dovah.
He drops to one knee before Paarthurnax, who lifts another mask. One by one, he shoves them upon the faces of the shamans. The masks are cloying and cold, most wrought of metal, all heavy with the ancient magic of the Dovah. They hit the men's faces like a thrown boulder, and the power enters their blood like lightning bolts, and all know they shall never let the masks go. Never, never, never, not even in death.
When it is done, when the gifts are all given, Paarthurnax looks down at them. "Serve us well, priests of the Dovah, servants of Alduin."
His wings open wide, and then he soars into the sky in a whirlwind of snow. His kin follow with a sound like a thunderstorm, all caged in this small canyon at the edge of the world. The god-born are soon beyond sight.
Then the ten look at each other through their identical eye-slits. Each bears the same face now, a man's face as seen by one who is not a man. It is emotionless and strong, the kind of man that the Dovah require, that the men living this new elf-ridden land need.
Each mask is still different, though, each created from a different form of god-blood-- god-blood native to different parts of their new home. It is the order of Alduin, written more plain than even man-words.
All the world must know the glory of the Dovah.