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Today there was a wind—a fiery wind, above Red-Zeal Keep. I thought it was more of the Deadlands' wretched weather, but a massive form emerged from it, much taller than man or even mer, its great form trailing ash. It hung from nothing in the air.
Some kind of procession followed, of all kinds of Daedric creatures, towards the Keep. They walked straight through pools of lava. Some couldn't survive the heat, but they marched on, burning and crackling as they went, prostrating themselves at the feet of that celestial object. There, they smoldered like a hundred miniature suns until they were no longer there. Days ago, this would have pleased me, but I believe these creatures do not wholly perish. I have seen too many of the same faces after I have smashed them, over and over again.
Then came the Titan, landing in a crushing mass, and with it a rain of fire so fierce I swear the cave mouth, where I stood watching above, burned wider. I withdrew into darkness for a desperate pause, thinking my end had come. When it didn't, I emerged to find the Titan hunched to the ground, the ruby carbuncles on its hide flaring an angry red. It stared up, almost defiantly, at the being of ash and fire and slag, and a plume of smoke issued from the holes in its skull.
I thought a blazing spell was coming, but the Titan only raised its head to lower it again. In deference? Begrudging respect? It was only then that the molten god—whatever it was—touched the dirt with its feet.