The use of any artefact born of those accursed planes of Oblivion is a risk usually too great, but we need to break Angof’s barrier, and this talisman is our only means of achieving that. First though, we must purge it of its Daedric heritage by vanquishing whatever resides within.
A Dremora, a warrior of the blackened Deadlands of Oblivion. Standing taller than a healthy Nord, they are said to possess the brute strength of an Orsimer, the ferocity of a frost troll, and the cunning of a Baandari Pedlar. Heavily armoured, its black plate glistens in the light of the moons like polished obsidian; seemingly it takes as much pride in its armour’s sheen as does an Altmer city guard. Its ashen grey face twists in barbarous determination, two horns dominate its rigid forehead, whilst four more grow from its chin. It thunders a deep guttural battle cry as its giant weapon crackles with lightning.
It is said that the sole purpose of the Dremora is battle and war, and that on the lava planes of Oblivion, a thousand clans train and prepare, impatiently awaiting their opportunity to invade Nirn.
Certainly this one wields its giant mace like one who has long hours of combat training, and perhaps if I had not already faced one of its brethren at the Bad Mans Hollow, I might have been caught unprepared by its mastery of its chosen weapon. But there is a world of difference between being combat trained and combat hardened as this Daedric Warrior is about to learn; although as we face off I whisper a quick prayer to Sai, the God of luck… just in case.