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They have become very different men, these ten priests of Alduin.
Nine priests, now. Miraak...Miraak has forsaken all faith and sanity for darker powers.
Herma-Mora, accursed coward's patron, demon more than god. That is Miraak's master now. Vahlok cannot articulate his rage. The shattered mask of the traitor, sitting on his abandoned council seat, must do it. Miraak had cleaved the gift in twain when he threw it at Vahlok's feet the day he announced his new loyalties, and in his fury the priest had crumbled the now useless hunk of metal into smaller pieces on his journey to Bromjunaar.
The other eight look anywhere but at the empty seat. Vahlok can hardly look away.
They have lived long, now, blessed by the secrets the gods taught them. They have helped their people raise cities. Their faith gave men the strength to send both Snow Elves and Deep Elves howling in defeat. No ritual has been fowled, no sacrifice neglected. The altars are painted red with blood, and tribute flows bountifully to Alduin and his lesser kin.
Yet now, after so long, after so much accomplishment, now it might all be torn to pieces by one man. One of their own.
"The whole temple, slaughtered," Morokei said, "not just by his own power, but by one of our lords. One of the Dovah, enthralled! He rode upon the back of a Dov!" His voice alternated between hollow and panicked, echoing behind his mask.
"We will all be slaughtered when the World-Eater returns!" Otar shouts, "There is no chance of mercy! Not even if we brought him Miraak's head!"
The others descend into similar laments, rotting with fear.
Have they fallen so far, so selfish, as to be worried about themselves in the face of this? Vahlok is disgusted. He hasn't realized what had become of his brethren, sitting in their splendid temples, directing the acts of kings and chieftains. Lords, rather than priests.
"Enough!" he shouted, silencing them, "Our fate is of little consequence. What has been done, this blasphemy, that is what matters. You know he will not stop. He has fled to gather his strength."
"For what purpose?" Rahgot asked.
"He serves Herma-Mora. You know what he wants."
The other priest slumped into his chair. "To overtake the gods, and harvest us without obstacle."
"So we must do something. Let Alduin take us if he feels it just. But we must still serve."
They fall silent. Vahlok's mind churns. They must act, but how? The power Miraak demonstrated is beyond all of them. Yes, they knew he was dovahkiin, but they did not understand fully what that meant.
The room shakes suddenly, and they hear leathern wings settle. They all look up at the open roof of the council chamber and fall to their knees.
Odahviing, the red hunter, snorts. "Rise, joor. The Firstborn knows what has been done." They stand, shaking. The room shall be filled with fire and force, soon. It shall be the end of them, and could well be the end of men. The Dovah have little need for mortals. "You are wise to fear. There is no longer reason to trust you."
Vahlok opens his hands in supplication. "Please, my lord, do not slaughter all men. Take us, take Bromjunaar, but please leave the rest. It is our folly to answer for, not men's."
"Alduin knows." Vahlok drops his head, grateful. He should know better than to doubt the World-Eater's wisdom. "And he deems that you, our favored ones, will end your own failure."
"How, my lord?" Rahgot asks.
"Choose the best of your number to lead the fight."
They look at each other. There are rivalries here, and games of power. Who should serve the High King, or have a domain in the fertile south? They have been at this a long time, and none wishes to deem another the best.
Morokei suddenly points to Vahlok. "You." The all stare at him, then at Vahlok. "I will not call you the best, but if this is to be a war against a demon, then we must pick the...most incorruptible. That is you, Vahlok."
The rest nod slowly. "Very well," says the Dovah, seeming bored, "Stand, Vahlok." He does, looking right into Odahviing's eyes. The walls he perches on are low, designed that way just in case a Dovah should wish to attend the council. The great red talons rest just above head height. One of them clutches a gleaming golden something. "Remove your mask, priest."
Vahlok hesitates. The mask, the gift, the source of power granted by the gods and the symbol of his authority...he obeys slowly. He must. The Dovah are his lords. The wooden mask clatters to the ground.
Odahviing lifts the gleaming object and slams it onto Vahlok's face. The magic is more potent in this gift, almost choking him as it burns into his being and forces him to the ground.
When it passes, he feels the mask carefully. Like the power it has granted him, it settles strange and new on his face, heavier than the wooden mask laying pathetically before him. Great tusks extend from the mask, and the design is different.
"Vahlok is now Konahrik," Odahviing declares. The others gasp. Warlord. The Dovah looks to the newly anointed leader. "Stop Miraak. Call upon our aid if you must." And then he leaps into the air and is gone.
Vahlok looks to his fellows. The power is a boon, and with it comes confidence and clarity. "I will take the fight to Miraak. And I will win."
After victory upon the northern isle of Solstheim, Vahlok who became Konahrik ruled well there for many years. The more savage northerners respected and revered him, and his reign bore no echo of the horrors coming from his brethren. They thought him naive and pathetic, but none dare contest the reign of one called Konahrik by the Dovah.
The long fight against Miraak had left him drained, however, and he died a natural death, to the horror of the priests and the lament of all men. One of the blessed of the Dovah, the most powerful, die?
But the horror of the former is short lived. They want the mask, and will kill over it. A new, quiet war begins, a war of thievery and poison, desperate as only the greedy and powerful can be.
The High King, the throne having grown in power over the long years, manages to capture the artifact through his own thievery and poison. He orders a monument, an altar , constructed in Bromjunaar. It will hold the golden mask beneath the image of a Dov's head, and only be accessible when the eight other priests all place their masks upon busts on the altar. A fitting honor to what all men agreed was the most valiant, the bravest, of the Dragon Priests, yes?
They cannot argue, not right then. They all know that none will remove his mask. The gifts are too precious, and removal leave them too vulnerable, to each other and others. The altar is constructed, and becomes a hallowed place in Bromjunaar. The High King dies almost a year later, and the throne is rendered as irrelevant as possible.
The old wooden mask, forgotten by many, is placed nearby on a table, and the world continues to move.