Another of my cellmates dead. Typical. There are few mortals with the strength of body, of character, to survive here. But I will add young Vayron to the throne (when the masters have finished with his flesh), to serve me when my own body grows weary.
Though I wish I could do what the masters can. They spend their nights returning the deceased to a semblance of animation, harvesting their skin to create living flesh weapons for the war raging above. Perhaps, one day, they will allow my flesh to serve.
It's foolish of the generals and the Empress-Regent and whatever else remains of the Imperial hierarchy to continue the fight. They should accept Daedric rule; as I have. The Daedra waste nothing, and under them, everyone has a role. Even if that role is serving at the front of a war chariot. As an ornament.