Those words pounded through my skull as my fingers gripped the cold stone filigree in the strange realm. The air was dank, and smelled of mouldering books. The contempt in your voice stung, and I gripped the stone beneath me so hard my fingers bruised, but consciousness left me and I awoke in your half-finished templed. Those words stung, for they were true.

But that was when I was new to this land. I've walked it for a time since then. I've conversed with some of the princes of Oblivion and even bent Azura's Star to my will. The College at Winterhold has released its secrets and I've started to heal the divided country. I've become the bane of forsworn warlords, and laid low the mighty undead corruption that blighted the countryside.

One by one, your fellow dragon priests have come to heel. The World Eater has crumpled like paper in my path. I am named Konahrik and Qahnaarin. And my vocabulary is vastly improved.

Your kin and I have met and spoken at length. Dukaan, Zahkriisos and even mighty Ahzidal - whose armor I am still clad - have succumbed to the rightness of my Thu'um.

And though, like a thief and a cheat, you have sipped at the souls of the wyrms I have slain, you have grown little since our last meeting.

So here, in your master's realm - a master who has named me champion once already - here we shall meet once more. But my knees feel stronger.