Elder Scrolls 3: Morrowind
Book FAQ V1.0
By Stevmill
This file is Copyright (c)2003 Steve Miller. All rights reserved.
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Table of Contents
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Section 1: Authors Note
Section 3: What's New
Section 2: How to Navigate This Guide
Section 4: Books to Learn From
Section 5: Book Texts
Section 6: Version History
Section 7: Credits
Section 8: Copyright
Section 9: Contact Information
I created this guide because I noticed the interest among Morrowind fans for
collecting the many books in the game. Bethesda has done a wonderfull job of
writing some interesting stories as a way of fleshing out the world of the
Elderscrolls. Now with this guide you can read all of the books in the game
without having to find them all. I hope you all enjoy reading all of the
texts. I intend to continue to work on this guide by adding the locations for
all of the books, as well as updating some of the special notes about the
books. Please be patient with me as I update this guide. Thank you.
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Section 2: How to Navigate This Guide
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The easiest way to locate the sections in this guide is as follows:
Step 1: Highlight the section you want to find from the table of contents and
hit Ctrl-C
Step 2: Hit Ctrl-F
Step 3: Place your cursor in the find field and hit Ctrl-V
Step 4: Hit the find next button until you are at the section you want to
Read
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Section 3: What's New
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8-30-2003 v 1.0 The first draft of the guide.
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Section 4: Books to Learn From
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There are certain books across the world that when read will raise one of your
skills by one point. There are five books for each skill, and multiple copies
of those books. Reading a particular title that will raise your skill, will do
so only once, For example if you read “A Game At Dinner” twice, or two copies
of that book you will only gain one point of alchemy, but if you read “A Game
At Dinner” and “The Cake And The Diamond” you will get two points in alchemy.
NAME OF BOOK SKILL RAISED # IN WORLD
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Realizations of Acrobacy Acrobatics 5
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 1 Acrobatics 6
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 4 Acrobatics 6
The Black Arrow, Volume I Acrobatics 4
Mystery of Talara, Part 1 Acrobatics 4
A Game at Dinner Alchemy 8
The Cake and the Diamond Alchemy 5
Song of the Alchemists Alchemy 6
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 2 Alchemy 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 18 Alchemy 4
Breathing Water Alteration 5
The Dragon Break Re-Examined Alteration 5
Sithis Alteration 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 13 Alteration 4
The Lunar Lorkhan Alteration 5
The Armorer's Challenge Armorer 5
Last Scabbard of Akrash Armorer 6
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 6 Armorer 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 25 Armorer 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 29 Armorer 4
The Ransom of Zarek Athletics 6
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 3 Athletics 6
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 1 Athletics 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 8 Athletics 3
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 29 Athletics 4
The Third Door Axe 7
The Axe Man Axe 6
The Seed Axe 6
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 5 Axe 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 16 Axe 3
Death Blow of Abernanit Block 4
The Mirror Block 5
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 2 Block 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 7 Block 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 32 Block 4
The Hope of the Redoran Blunt Weapon 6
The Importance of Where Blunt Weapon 5
Night Falls On Sentinel Blunt Weapon 3
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 3 Blunt Weapon 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 9 Blunt Weapon 3
Feyfolken II Conjuration 5
Feyfolken III Conjuration 6
2920, Hearth Fire Conjuration 5
2920, FrostFall Conjuration 5
The Warrior's Charge Conjuration 3
The Horror of Castle Xyr Destruction 6
Response to Bero's Speech Destruction 5
A Hypothetical Treachery Destruction 5
The Art of War Magic Destruction 5
Mystery of Talara, Part 3 Destruction 3
Feyfolken I Enchant 6
The Wolf Queen, Book VIII Enchant 5
Palla, Book II Enchant 6
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 19 Enchant 4
The Final Lesson Enchant 5
The Prayers of Baranat Hand-to-Hand 5
The Wolf Queen, Book II Hand-to-Hand 5
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 2 Hand-to-Hand 4
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 4 Hand-to-Hand 3
Master Zoaraym's Tale Hand-to-Hand 3
Hallgerd's Tale Heavy Armor 6
2920, MidYear Heavy Armor 4
Chimarvamidium Heavy Armor 3
How Orsinium Passed to the Orcs Heavy Armor 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 12 Heavy Armor 4
The Wolf Queen, Book III Illusion 4
Silence Illusion 4
Incident in Necrom Illusion 4
Palla, Book I Illusion 4
Mystery of Talara, Part 4 Illusion 4
The Rear Guard Light Armor 5
Ice and Chilton Light Armor 5
Lord Jornibret's Last Dance Light Armor 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 21 Light Armor 3
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 28 Light Armor 5
Words and Philosophy Long Blade 6
2920, Morning Star Long Blade 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 17 Long Blade 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 20 Long Blade 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 23 Long Blade 3
The Gold Ribbon of Merrit Marksman 4
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 5 Marksman 5
Vernaccus and Bourlor Marksman 4
The Marksmanship Lesson Marksman 5
The Black Arrow, Volume II Marksman 3
Cherim's Heart of Anequina Medium Armor 5
Bone, Part One Medium Armor 4
Bone, Part Two Medium Armor 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 22 Medium Armor 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 33 Medium Armor 4
The Buying Game Mercantile 5
The Wolf Queen, Book IV Mercantile 5
2920, Sun's Height Mercantile 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 6 Mercantile 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 7 Mercantile 4
Mystery of Talara, Part 5 Unknown 3
The Firsthold Revolt Mysticism 5
2920, Sun's Dawn Mysticism 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 4 Mysticism 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 36 Mysticism 5
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 3 Mysticism 4
Withershins Restorations 6
Notes on Racial Phylogeny Restorations 5
The Four Suitors of Benitah Restorations 5
2920, Rain's Hand Restorations 5
Mystery of Talara, Part 2 Restorations 3
The Locked Room Security 5
The Wolf Queen, Book I Security 5
The Dowry Security 5
Chance's Folly Security 5
Surfeit of Thieves Security 4
Unnamed Book Short Blade 5
2920, Sun's Dusk Short Blade 4
2920, Evening Star Short Blade 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 10 Short Blade 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 30 Short Blade 4
The Wolf Queen, Book VI Sneak 4
2920, Last Seed Sneak 4
Azura and the Box Sneak 5
Trap Sneak 3
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 26 Sneak 5
Smuggler's Island Spear 4
2920, First Seed Spear 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 14 Spear 3
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 24 Spear 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 35 Spear 4
Biography of the Wolf Queen Speechcraft 5
The Wolf Queen, Book V Speechcraft 5
2920, Second Seed Speechcraft 4
The Wolf Queen, Book VII Speechcraft 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 27 Speechcraft 6
The Wraith's Wedding Dowry Unarmored 5
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume I Unarmored 3
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 11 Unarmored 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 15 Unarmored 3
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 34 Unarmored 3
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Section 5: Book Texts
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In the subsection for each book I have included the following information:
ID: This is the books id from the condtruction set, Players of the
PC version of the game can enter this with the add item
command to get a copy of the book. The console command is as
follows
player->additem "book ID" 1
Weight: This is the weight of the book
Value: This is how much gold the book is worth
Special Notes: This line tell you if the book teaches you a skill, adds
conversation topics, or has quest importance.
To find the text of the book you want to read follow these directions...
Step 1: Highlight the title you want to find from the list below and
hit Ctrl-C
Step 2: Hit Ctrl-F
Step 3: Place your cursor in the find field and hit Ctrl-V
Step 4: Hit the find next button until you are at the book you want to
Read
2920, Evening Star
2920, First Seed
2920, FrostFall
2920, Hearth Fire
2920, Last Seed
2920, MidYear
2920, Morning Star
2920, Rain's Hand
2920, Second Seed
2920, Sun's Dawn
2920, Sun's Dusk
2920, Sun's Height
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 1
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 2
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 3
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 6
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 7
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 8
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 9
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 10
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 11
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 12
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 13
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 14
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 15
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 16
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 17
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 18
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 19
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 20
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 21
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 22
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 23
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 24
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 25
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 26
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 27
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 28
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 29
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 30
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 31
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 32
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 33
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 34
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 35
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 36
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 1
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 2
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 3
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 4
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 5
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 6
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 7
A Fair Warning
A Game at Dinner
A Hypothetical Treachery
A Less Rude Song
A Short History of Morrowind
ABCs for Barbarians
Aedra and Daedra
Ancestors and the Dunmer
Antecedants of Dwemer Law
Arcana Restored
Arkay the Enemy
Ashland Hymns
Azura and the Box
Biography of Barenziah v I
Biography of Barenziah v II
Biography of Barenziah v III
Biography of the Wolf Queen
Blasphemous Revenants
Boethiah's Glory
Boethiah's Pillow Book
Bone, Part One
Bone, Part Two
Book of Life and Service
Book of Rest and Endings
Breathing Water
Brief History of the Empire v 1
Brief History of the Empire v 2
Brief History of the Empire v 3
Brief History of the Empire v 4
Brown Book of 3E 426
Caldera Ledger
Capn's Guide to the Fishy Stick
Chance's Folly
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 1
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 2
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 3
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 4
Cherim's Heart of Anequina
Children of the Sky
Chimarvamidium
Chronicles of Nchuleft
Confessions of a Skooma-Eater
Corpse Preparation v I
Corpse Preparation v II
Corpse Preparation v III
Darkest Darkness
Death Blow of Abernanit
Divine Metaphysics...
Dren's shipping log
East Empire Company Ledger
Elante's Notes
Fellowship of the Temple
Feyfolken I
Feyfolken II
Feyfolken III
Fighters Guild Charter
Five Songs of King Wulfharth
For my Gods and Emperor
Fort Pelagiad Prisoner Log
Fragment: On Artaeum
Frontier, Conquest...
Galerion The Mystic
Galur Rithari's Papers
Gnisis Eggmine Ledger
Grasping Fortune
Guylaine's Architecture
Hallgerd's Tale
Hanging Gardens...
Hanin's Wake
Hlaalu Vaults Ledger
Homilies of Blessed Almalexia
Honor Among Thieves
How Orsinium Passed to the Orcs
Ice and Chiton
Incident in Necrom
Invocation of Azura
Journal of Tarhiel
Kagouti Mating Habits
Kagrenac's Journal
Kagrenac's Planbook
Last Scabbard of Akrash
Legions of the Dead
Lives of the Saints
Lord Jornibret's Last Dance
Mages Guild Charter
Master Zoaraym's Tale
Mixed Unit Tactics v1
Mysterious Akavir
Mystery of Talara, Part 1
Mystery of Talara, Part 2
Mystery of Talara, Part 3
Mystery of Talara, Part 4
Mystery of Talara, Part 5
Mysticism
Nchunak's Fire and Faith
Nerevar Moon-and-Star
N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis!
Night Falls On Sentinel
No-h's Picture Book of Wood
Notes on Racial Phylogeny
Odral's History of the Empire 1
Odral's History of the Empire 2
Odral's History of the Empire 3
Odral's History of the Empire 4
On Morrowind
On Oblivion
Ordo Legionis
Origin of the Mages Guild
Overview of Gods and Worship
Palla, Book I
Palla, Book II
Poison Song I
Poison Song II
Poison Song III
Poison Song IV
Poison Song V
Poison Song VI
Poison Song VII
Progress of Truth
Realizations of Acrobacy
Red Book of 3E 426
Redoran Cooking Secrets
Redoran Vaults Ledger
Reflections on Cult Worship
Response to Bero's Speech
Saryoni's Sermons
Saryoni's Sermons Manuscript
Secret Caldera Ledger
Secrets of Dwemer Animunculi
Sharn's Legions of the Dead
Silence
Sithis
Smuggler's Island
Song of the Alchemists
Sottilde's Code Book
Special Flora of Tamriel
Spirit of Nirn, God of Mortals
Spirit of the Daedra
Starlover's Log
Surfeit of Thieves
Tal Marog Ker's Researches
Tamrielic Lore
Tarer's Aedra and Daedra
Telvanni Vault Ledger
The Affairs of Wizards
The Alchemists Formulary
The Annotated Anuad
The Anticipations
The Arcturian Heresy
The Armorer's Challenge
The Art of War Magic
The Axe Man
The Black Arrow, Volume 1
The Black Arrow, Volume II
The Black Glove
The Blue Book of Riddles
The Book of Daedra
The Book of Dawn and Dusk
The Brothers of Darkness
The Buying Game
The Cake and the Diamond
The Cantatas of Vivec
The Changed Ones
The Consolations of Prayer
The Doors of the Spirit
The Dowry
The Dragon Break Re-Examined
The Eastern Provinces...
The Egg of Time
The Final Lesson
The Firmament
The Firsthold Revolt
The Five Far Stars
The Four Suitors of Benitah
The Gold Ribbon of Merit
The Hope of the Redoran
The Horror of Castle Xyr
The House of Troubles
The Importance of Where
The Legendary Scourge
The Locked Room
The Lunar Lorkhan
The Lusty Argonian Maid
The Madness of Pelagius
The Marksmanship Lesson
The Mirror
The Monomyth
The Old Ways
The Pig Children
The Pilgrim's Path
The Posting of the Hunt
The Prayers of Baranat
The Ransom of Zarek
The Real Barenziah v I
The Real Barenziah v II
The Real Barenziah v III
The Real Barenziah v IV
The Real Barenziah v V
The Real Nerevar
The Rear Guard
The Red Book of Riddles
The Ruins of Kemel-Ze
The Seed
The Third Door
The True Nature of Orcs
The True Noble's Code
The Vagaries of Magicka
The War of the First Council
The Warrior's Charge
The Waters of Oblivion
The Wild Elves
The Wolf Queen, Book I
The Wolf Queen, Book II
The Wolf Queen, Book III
The Wolf Queen, Book IV
The Wolf Queen, Book V
The Wolf Queen, Book VI
The Wolf Queen, Book VII
The Wolf Queen, Book VIII
The Wraith's Wedding Dowry
The Yellow Book of Riddles
Trap
Unnamed Book
Vampires of Vvardenfell, v I
Vampires of Vvardenfell, v II
Varieties of Faith...
Vernaccus and Bourlor
Vivec and Mephala
Warehouse shipping log
Where Were You ... Dragon Broke
Withershins
Words and Philosophy
Words of Clan Mother Ahnissi
Words of the Wind
Yellow Book of 3E 426
Yngling's Ledger
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2920, Evening Star
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Object ID: BookSkill_Short Blade3
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Short Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Evening Star
Book Twelve of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
1 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Balmora, Morrowind
The winter morning sun glinted through the cobweb of frost on the window, and
Almalexia opened her eyes. An ancient healer mopped a wet cloth across her
head, smiling with relief. Asleep in the chair next to her bed was Vivec.
The healer rushed to a side cabinet and returned with a flagon of water.
"How are you feeling, goddess?" asked the healer.
"Like I've been asleep for a very long time," said Almalexia.
"So you have. Fifteen days," said the healer, and touched Vivec's arm.
"Master, wake up. She speaks."
Vivec rose with a start, and seeing Almalexia alive and awake, his face broke
into a wide grin. He kissed her forehead, and took her hand. At last, there
was warmth again in her flesh.
Almalexia's peaceful repose suddenly snapped: "Sotha Sil --"
"He's alive and well," replied Vivec. "Working on one of his machines again
somewhere. He would have stayed here too, but he realized he could do you
more good working that peculiar sorcery of his."
The castellan appeared in the doorway. "Sorry to interrupt you, master, but I
wanted to tell you that your fastest messenger left late last night for the
Imperial City."
"Messenger?" asked Almalexia. "Vivec, what has happened?"
"I was to go and sign a truce with the Emperor on the sixth, so I sent him
word that it had to be postponed."
"You can't do me any good here," said Almalexia, pulling herself up with
effort. "But if you don't sign that truce, you'll put Morrowind back to war,
maybe for another eighty years. If you leave today with an escort and hurry,
perhaps you can get to the Imperial City only a day or two late."
"Are you certain you don't need me here?" asked Vivec.
"I know that Morrowind needs you more."
6 Sun's Dusk, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
The Emperor Reman III sat on his throne, surveying the audience chamber. It
was a spectacular sight: silver ribbons dangled from the rafters, burning
cauldrons of sweet herbs simmered in every corner, Pyandonean swallowtails
sweeping through the air, singing their songs. When the torches were lit and
servants began fanning, the room would be transfigured into a shimmering
fantasy land. He could smell the kitchen already, spices and roasts.
The Potentate Versidue-Shaie and his son Savirien-Chorak slithered into the
room, both bedecked in the headdress and jewelry of the Tsaesci. There was
no smile on their golden face, but there seldom was one. The Emperor still
greeted his trusted advisor with enthusiasm.
"This ought to impress those savage Dark Elves," he laughed. "When are they
supposed to arrive?"
"A messenger's just arrived from Vivec," said the Potentate solemnly. "I
think it would be best if your Imperial Majesty met him alone."
The Emperor lost his laughter, but nodded to his servants to withdraw. The
door then opened and the Lady Corda walked into the room, with a parchment in
her hand. She shut the door behind her, but did not look up to meet the
Emperor's face.
"The messenger gave his letter to my mistress?" said Reman, incredulous,
rising to take the note. "That's a highly unorthodox way of delivering a
message."
"But the message itself is very orthodox," said Corda, looking up into his
one good eye. With a single blinding motion, she brought the letter up under
the Emperor's chin. His eyes widened and blood poured down the blank
parchment. Blank that is, except for a small black mark, the sign of the
Morag Tong. It fell to the floor, revealing the small dagger hidden behind
it, which she now twisted, severing his throat to the bone. The Emperor
collapsed to the floor, gasping soundlessly.
"How long do you need?" asked Savirien-Chorak.
"Five minutes," said Corda, wiping the blood from her hands. "If you can give
me ten, though, I'll be doubly grateful."
"Very well," said the Potentate to Corda's back as she raced from the
audience chamber. "She ought to have been an Akaviri, the way the girl
handles a blade is truly remarkable."
"I must go and establish our alibi," said Savirien-Chorak, disappearing
behind one of the secret passages that only the Emperor's most trusted knew
about.
"Do you remember, close to a year ago, your Imperial Majesty," the Potentate
smiled, looking down at the dying man. "When you told me to remember 'You
Akaviri have a lot of showy moves, but if just one of our strikes comes
through, it's all over for you.' I remembered that, you see."
The Emperor spat up blood and somehow said the word: "Snake."
"I am a snake, your Imperial Majesty, inside and out. But I didn't lie.
There was a messenger from Vivec. It seems he'll be a little late in
arriving," the Potentate shrugged before disappearing behind the secret
passage. "Don't worry yourself. I'm sure the food won't go bad."
The Emperor of Tamriel died in a pool of his own blood in his empty audience
chamber decorated for a grand ball. He was found by his bodyguard fifteen
minutes later. Corda was nowhere to be found.
8 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Caer Suvio, Cyrodiil
Lord Glavius, apologizing profusely for the quality of the road through the
forest, was the first emissary to greet Vivec and his escort as they arrived.
A string of burning globes decorated the leafless trees surrounding the
villa, bobbing in the gentle but frigid night breeze. From within, Vivec
could smell the simple feast and a high sad melody. It was a traditional
Akaviri wintertide carol.
Versidue-Shaie greeted Vivec at the front door.
"I'm glad you received the message before you got all the way to the City,"
said the Potentate, guiding his guest into the large, warm drawing room. "We
are in a difficult transition time, and for the moment, it is best not to
conduct our business at the capitol."
"There is no heir?" asked Vivec.
"No official one, though there are distant cousins vying for the throne.
While we sort the matter out, at least temporarily the nobles have decided
that I may act in the office of my late master," Versidue-Shaie signaled for
the servants to draw two comfortable chairs in front of the fireplace. "Would
you feel most comfortable if we signed the treaty officially right now, or
would you like to eat something first?"
"You intend to honor the Emperor's treaty?"
"I intend to do everything as the Emperor," said the Potentate.
14 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Tel Aruhn, Morrowind
Corda, dusty from the road, flew into the Night Mother's arms. For a moment,
they stayed locked together, the Night Mother stroking her daughter's hair,
kissing her forehead. Finally, she reached into her sleeve and handed Corda
a letter.
"What is it?" asked Corda.
"A letter from the Potentate, expressing his delight at your expertise,"
replied the Night Mother. "He's promised to send us payment, but I've already
sent him back a reply. The late Empress paid us enough for her husband's
death. Mephala would not have us be greedy beyond our needs. You should not
be paid twice for the same murder, so it is written."
"He killed Rijja, my sister," said Corda quietly.
"And so it should be that you struck the blow."
"Where will I go now?"
"Whenever any of our holy workers becomes too famous to continue the crusade,
we send them to an island called Vounoura. It's not more than a month's
voyage by boat, and I've arranged for a delightful estate for your
sanctuary," the Night Mother kissed the girl's tears. "You meet many friends
there, and I know you will find peace and happiness at last, my child."
19 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind
Almalexia surveyed the rebuilding of the town. The spirit of the citizens
was truly inspirational, she thought, as she walked among the skeletons of
new buildings standing in the blackened, shattered remains of the old. Even
the plantlife showed a remarkable resilience. There was life yet in the
blasted remains of the comberry and roobrush shrubs that once lined the main
avenue. She could feel the pulse. Come springtide, green would bolt through
the black.
The Duke's heir, a lad of considerable intelligence and sturdy Dunmer
courage, was coming down from the north to take his father's place. The land
would do more than survive: it would strengthen and expand. She felt the
future much more strongly than she saw the present.
Of all the things she was most certain of, she knew that Mournhold was
forever home to at least one goddess.
22 Sun's Dusk, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
"The Cyrodiil line is dead," announced the Potentate to the crowd gathered
beneath the Speaker's Balcony of the Imperial Palace. "But the Empire lives.
The distant relatives of our beloved Emperor have been judged unworthy of the
throne by the trusted nobility who advised his Imperial Majesty throughout
his long and illustrious reign. It has been decided that as an impartial and
faithful friend of Reman III, I will have the responsibility of continuing on
in his name."
The Akaviri paused, allowing his words to echo and translate into the ears of
the populace. They merely stared up at him in silence. The rain had washed
through the streets of the city, but the sun, for a brief time, appeared to
be offering a respite from the winter storms.
"I want to make it clear that I am not taking the title Emperor," he
continued. "I have been and will continue to be Potentate Versidue-Shaie, an
alien welcomed kindly to your shores. It will be my duty to protect my
adopted homeland, and I pledge to work tirelessly at this task until someone
more worthy takes the burden from me. As my first act, I declare that in
commemoration of this historical moment, beginning on the first of Morning
Star, we will enter year one of the Second Era as time will be reckoned.
Thus, we mourn the loss of our Imperial family, and look forward to the
future."
Only one man clapped at these words. King Dro'Zel of Senchal truly believed
that this would be the finest thing to happen to Tamriel in history. Of
course, he was quite mad.
31 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Ebonheart, Morrowind
In the smoky catacombs beneath the city where Sotha Sil forged the future
with his arcane clockwork apparatus, something unforeseen happened. An oily
bubble seeped from a long trusted gear and popped. Immediately, the wizard's
attention was drawn to it and to the chain that tiny action triggered. A
pipe shifted half an inch to the left. A tread skipped. A coil rewound
itself and began spinning in a counter direction. A piston that had been
thrusting left-right, left-right, for millennia suddenly began shifting
right-left. Nothing broke, but everything changed.
"It cannot be fixed now," said the sorcerer quietly.
He looked up through a crick in the ceiling into the night sky. It was
midnight. The second era, the age of chaos, had begun.
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2920, First Seed
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Spear2
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Spear skill 1 point the first time the book is read
First Seed
Book Three of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
15 First Seed, 2920
Caer Suvio, Cyrodiil
From their vantage point high in the hills, the Emperor Reman III could still
see the spires of the Imperial City, but he knew he was far away from hearth
and home. Lord Glavius had a luxurious villa, but it was not close to being
large enough to house the entire army within its walls. Tents lined the
hillsides, and the soldiers were flocking to enjoy his lordship's famous hot
springs. Little wonder: winter chill still hung in the air.
"Prince Juilek, your son, is not feeling well."
When Potentate Versidue-Shaie spoke, the Emperor jumped. How that Akavir
could slither across the grass without making a sound was a mystery to him.
"Poisoned, I'd wager," grumbled Reman. "See to it he gets a healer. I told
him to hire a taster like I have, but the boy's headstrong. There are spies
all around us, I know it."
"I believe you're right, your imperial majesty," said Versidue-Shaie. "These
are treacherous times, and we must take precautions to see that Morrowind
does not win this war, either on the field or by more insidious means. That
is why I would suggest that you not lead the vanguard into battle. I know
you would want to, as your illustrious ancestors Reman I, Brazollus Dor, and
Reman II did, but I fear it would be foolhardy. I hope you do not mind me
speaking frankly like this."
"No," nodded Reman. "I think you're right. Who would lead the vanguard
then?"
"I would say Prince Juilek, if he were feeling better," replied the Akavir.
"Failing that, Storig of Farrun, with Queen Naghea of Riverhold at left
flank, and Warchief Ulaqth of Lilmoth at right flank."
"A Khajiit at left flank and an Argonian at right," frowned the Emperor. "I
never do trust beastfolk."
The Potentate took no offense. He knew that "beastfolk" referred to the
natives of Tamriel, not to the Tsaesci of Akavir like himself. "I quite agree
your imperial majesty, but you must agree that they hate the Dunmer. Ulaqth
has a particular grudge after all the slave-raids on his lands by the Duke of
Mournhold."
The Emperor conceded it was so, and the Potentate retired. It was
surprising, thought Reman, but for the first time, the Potentate seemed
trustworthy. He was a good man to have on one's side.
18 First Seed, 2920
Ald Erfoud, Morrowind
"How far is the Imperial Army?" asked Vivec.
"Two days' march," replied his lieutenant. "If we march all night tonight, we
can get higher ground at the Pryai tomorrow morning. Our intelligence tells
us the Emperor will be commanding the rear, Storig of Farrun has the
vanguard, Naghea of Riverhold at left flank, and Ulaqth of Lilmoth at right
flank."
"Ulaqth," whispered Vivec, an idea forming. "Is this intelligence reliable?
Who brought it to us?"
"A Breton spy in the Imperial Army," said the lieutenant and gestured towards
a young, sandy-haired man who stepped forward and bowed to Vivec.
"What is your name and why is a Breton working for us against the Cyrodiils?"
asked Vivec, smiling.
"My name is Cassyr Whitley of Dwynnen," said the man. "And I am working for
you because not everyone can say he spied for a god. And I understood it
would be, well, profitable."
Vivec laughed, "It will be, if your information is accurate."
19 First Seed, 2920
Bodrums, Morrowind
The quiet hamlet of Bodrum looked down on the meandering river, the Pryai.
It was an idyllic site, lightly wooded where the water took the bend around a
steep bluff to the east with a gorgeous wildflower meadow to the west. The
strange flora of Morrowind met the strange flora of Cyrodiil on the border
and commingled gloriously.
"There will be time to sleep when you've finished!"
The soldiers had been hearing that all morning. It was not enough that they
had been marching all night, now they were chopping down trees on the bluff
and damming the river so its waters spilled over. Most of them had reached
the point where they were too tired to complain about being tired.
"Let me be certain I understand, my lord," said Vivec's lieutenant. "We take
the bluff so we can fire arrows and spells down on them from above. That's
why we need all the trees cleared out. Damming the river floods the plain
below so they'll be trudging through mud, which should hamper their
movement."
"That's exactly half of it," said Vivec approvingly. He grabbed a nearby
soldier who was hauling off the trees. "Wait, I need you to break off the
straightest, strongest branches of the trees and whittle them into spears.
If you recruit a hundred or so others, it won't take you more than a few
hours to make all we need."
The soldier wearily did as he was bade. The men and women got to work,
fashioning spears from the trees.
"If you don't mind me asking," said the lieutenant. "The soldiers don't need
any more weapons. They're too tired to hold the ones they've got."
"These spears aren't for holding," said Vivec and whispered, "If we tired
them out today, they'll get a good night's sleep tonight" before he got to
work supervising their work.
It was essential that they be sharp, of course, but equally important that
they be well balanced and tapered proportionally. The perfect point for
stability was a pyramid, not the conical point of some lances and spears. He
had the men hurl the spears they had completed to test their strength,
sharpness, and balance, forcing them to begin on a new one if they broke.
Gradually, out of sheer exhaustion from doing it wrong, the men learned how
to create the perfect wooden spears. Once they were through, he showed them
how they were to be arranged and where.
That night, there was no drunken pre-battle carousing, and no nervous
neophytes stayed up worrying about the battle to come. As soon as the sun
sank beneath the wooded hills, the camp was at rest, but for the sentries.
20 First Seed, 2920
Bodrum, Morrowind
Miramor was exhausted. For last six days, he had gambled and whored all
night and then marched all day. He was looking forward to the battle, but
even more than that, he was looking forward to some rest afterwards. He was
in the Emperor's command at the rear flank, which was good because it seemed
unlikely that he would be killed. On the other hand, it meant traveling over
the mud and waste the army ahead left in their wake.
As they began the trek through the wildflower field, Miramor and all the
soldiers around him sank ankle-deep in cold mud. It was an effort to even
keep moving. Far, far up ahead, he could see the vanguard of the army led by
Lord Storig emerging from the meadow at the base of a bluff.
That was when it all happened.
An army of Dunmer appeared above the bluff like rising Daedra, pouring fire
and floods of arrows down on the vanguard. Simultaneously, a company of men
bearing the flag of the Duke of Mournhold galloped around the shore,
disappearing along the shallow river's edge where it dipped to a timbered
glen to the east. Warchief Ulaqth nearby on the right flank let out a bellow
of revenge at the sight and gave chase. Queen Naghea sent her flank towards
the embankment to the west to intercept the army on the bluff.
The Emperor could think of nothing to do. His troops were too bogged down to
move forward quickly and join the battle. He ordered them to face east
towards the timber, in case Mournhold's company was trying to circle around
through the woods. They never came out, but many men, facing west, missed
the battle entirely. Miramor kept his eyes on the bluff.
A tall Dunmer he supposed must have been Vivec gave a signal, and the
battlemages cast their spells at something to the west. From what
transpired, Miramor deduced it was a dam. A great torrent of water spilled
out, washing Naghea's left flank into the remains of the vanguard and the two
together down river to the east.
The Emperor paused, as if waiting for his vanquished army to return, and then
called a retreat. Miramor hid in the rushes until they had passed by and
then waded as quietly as he could to the bluff.
The Morrowind army was retiring as well back to their camp. He could hear
them celebrating above him as he padded along the shore. To the east, he saw
the Imperial Army. They had been washed into a net of spears strung across
the river, Naghea's left flank on Storig's vanguard on Ulaqth's right flank,
bodies of hundreds of soldiers strung together like beads.
Miramor took whatever valuables he could carry from the corpses and then ran
down the river. He had to go many miles before the water was clear again,
unpolluted by blood.
29 First Seed, 2920
Hegathe, Hammerfell
"You have a letter from the Imperial City," said the chief priestess, handing
the parchment to Corda. All the young priestesses smiled and made faces of
astonishment, but the truth was that Corda's sister Rijja wrote very often,
at least once a month.
Corda took the letter to the garden to read it, her favorite place, an oasis
in the monochromatic sand-colored world of the conservatorium The letter
itself was nothing unusual: filled with court gossip, the latest fashions
which were tending to winedark velvets, and reports of the Emperor's ever-
growing paranoia.
"You are so lucky to be away from all of this," wrote Rijja. "The Emperor is
convinced that his latest battlefield fiasco is all a result of spies in the
palace. He has even taken to questioning me. Ruptga keep it so you never
have a life as interesting as mine."
Corda listened to the sounds of the desert and prayed to Ruptga the exact
opposite wish.
The Year is Continued in Rain's Hand.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, FrostFall
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Conjuration4
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Conjuration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Frostfall
Book Ten of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
10 Frostfall, 2920
Phrygias, High Rock
The creature before them blinked, senseless, its eyes glazed, mouth opening
and closing as if relearning its function. A thin glob of saliva burbled
down between its fangs, and hung suspended. Turala had never seen anything
of its kind before, reptilian and massive, perched on its hind legs like a
man. Mynistera applauded enthusiastically.
"My child," she crowed. "You have come so far in so short a time. What were
you thinking when you summoned this daedroth?"
It took Turala a moment to recall whether she was thinking anything at all.
She was merely overwhelmed that she had reached out across the fabric of
reality into the realm of Oblivion, and plucked forth this loathsome
creature, conjuring it into the world by the power of her mind.
"I was thinking of the color red," Turala said, concentrating. "The
simplicity and clarity of it. And then -- I desired, and spoke the charm.
And this is what I conjured up."
"Desire is a powerful force for a young witch," said Mynistera. "And it is
well matched in this instance. For this daedroth is nothing if not a simple
force of the spirits. Can you release your desire as easily?"
Turala closed her eyes and spoke the dismissal invocation. The monster faded
away like a painting in sunlight, still blinking confusedly. Mynistera
embraced her Dark Elf pupil, laughing with delight.
"I never would have believed it, a month and a day you've been with the
coven, and you're already far more advanced than most of the women here.
There is powerful blood in you, Turala, you touch spirits like you were
touching a lover. You'll be leading this coven one day -- I have seen it!"
Turala smiled. It was good to be complimented. The Duke of Mournhold had
praised her pretty face; and her family, before she had dishonored them,
praised her manners. Cassyr had been nothing more than a companion: his
compliments meant nothing. But with Mynistera, she felt she was home.
"You'll be leading the coven for many years yet, great sister," said Turala.
"I certainly intend to. But the spirits, while marvelous companions and
faultless tellers of truth, are often hazy about the when and hows. You
can't blame them really. When and how mean so little to them," Mynistera
opened the door to the shed, allowing the brisk autumn breeze in to dispel
the bitter and fetid smells of the daedroth. "Now, I need you to run an
errand to Wayrest. It's only a week's ride there, and a week's ride back.
Bring Doryatha and Celephyna with you. As much as we try to be self-
sufficient, there are herbs we can't grow here, and we seem to run through an
enormous quantity of gems in no time at all. It's important that the people
of the city learn to recognize you as one of the wise women of Skeffington
coven. You'll find the benefits of being notorious far outweigh the
inconveniences."
Turala did as she was bade. As she and her sisters climbed aboard their
horses, Mynistera brought her child, little five-month-old Bosriel to kiss
her mother good-bye. The witches were in love with the little Dunmer infant,
fathered by a wicked Duke, birthed by wild Ayleid elves in the forest heart
of the Empire. Turala knew her nursemaids would protect her child with their
lives. After many kisses and a farewell wave, the three young witches rode
off into the bright woods, under a covering of red, yellow, and orange.
12 Frostfall, 2920
Dwynnen, High Rock
For a Middas evening, the Least Loved Porcupine tavern was wildly crowded. A
roaring fire in the pit in the center of the room cast an almost sinister
glow on all the regulars, and made the abundance of bodies look like a
punishment tapestry inspired by the Arcturian Heresies. Cassyr took his
usual place with his cousin and ordered a flagon of ale.
"Have you been to see the Baron?" asked Palyth.
"Yes, he may have work for me in the palace of Urvaius," said Cassyr proudly.
"But more than that I can't say. You understand, secrets of state and all
that. Why are there so many damned people here tonight?"
"A shipload of Dark Elves just came in to harbor. They've come from the war.
I was just waiting until you got here to introduce you as another veteran."
Cassyr blushed, but regained his composure enough to ask: "What are they
doing here? Has there been a truce?"
"I don't know the full story," said Palyth. "But apparently, the Emperor and
Vivec are in negotiations again. These fellas here have investments they
were keen to check on, and they figured things on the Bay were quiet enough.
But the only way we can get the full story is to talk to the chaps."
With that, Palyth gripped his cousin's arm and pulled him to the other side
of the bar so suddenly, Cassyr would have had to struggle violently to
resist. The Dunmer travelers were spread out across four of the tables,
laughing with the locals. They were largely amiable young men, well-dressed,
befitting merchants, animated in gesture made more extravagant by liquor.
"Excuse me," said Palyth, intruding on the conversation. "My shy cousin
Cassyr was in the war as well, fighting for the living god, Vivec."
"The only Cassyr I ever heard of," said one of the Dunmer drunkenly with a
wide, friendly smile, shaking Cassyr's free hand. "Was a Cassyr Whitley, who
Vivec said was the worst spy in history. We lost Ald Marak due to his
bungling intelligence work. For your sake, friend, I hope the two of you
were never confused."
Cassyr smiled and listened as the lout told the story of his failure with
bountiful exaggerations which caused the table to roar with laughter.
Several eyes looked his way, but none of the locals sought to explain that
the fool of the tale was standing at attention. The eyes that stung the most
were his cousin's, the young man who had believed that he had returned to
Dwynnen a great hero. At some point, certainly, the Baron would hear about
it, his idiocy increasing manifold with each retelling.
With every fiber in his soul, Cassyr cursed the living god Vivec.
21 Frostfall, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
Corda, in a robe of blinding whiteness, a uniform of the priestesses of the
Hegathe Morwha conservatorium, arrived in the City just as the first winter
storm was passing. The clouds broke with sunlight, and the beauteous
teenaged Redguard girl appeared in the wide avenue with escort, riding toward
the Palace. While her sister was tall, thin, angular, and haughty, Corda was
a small, round-faced lass with wide brown eyes. The locals were quick to
draw comparisons.
"Not a month after Lady Rijja's execution," muttered a housemaid, peering out
the window, and winking to her neighbor.
"And not a month out of the nunnery neither," the other woman agreed,
reveling in the scandal. "This one's in for a ride. Her sister weren't no
innocent, and look where she ended up."
24 Frostfall, 2920
Dwynnen, High Rock
Cassyr stood on the harbor and watched the early sleet fall on the water. It
was a pity, he thought, that he was prone to sea-sickness. There was nothing
for him now in Tamriel to the east or to the west. Vivec's tale of his poor
spycraft had spread to taverns everywhere. The Baron of Dwynnen had released
him from his contract. No doubt they were laughing about him in Daggerfall,
too, and Dawnstar, Lilmoth, Rimmen, Greenheart, probably in Akavir and Yokuda
for that matter. Perhaps it would be best to drop into the waves and sink.
The thought, however, did not stay long in his mind: it was not despair that
haunted him, but rage. Impotent fury that he could not assuage.
"Excuse me, sir," said a voice behind him, making him jump. "I'm sorry to
disturb you, but I was wondering whether you could recommend an inexpensive
tavern for me to spend the night."
It was a young man, a Nord, with a sack over his shoulder. Obviously, he had
just disembarked from one of the boats. For the first time in weeks, someone
was looking at Cassyr as something other than a colossal, famous idiot. He
could not help, black as his mood was, but be friendly.
"You've just arrived from Skyrim?" asked Cassyr.
"No, sir, that's where I'm going," said the fellow. "I'm working my way home.
I've come up from Sentinel, and before that Stros M'kai, and before that
Woodhearth in Valenwood, and before that Artaeum in Summurset. Welleg's my
name."
Cassyr introduced himself and shook Welleg's hand. "Did you say you came from
Artaeum? Are you a Psijic?"
"No, sir, not anymore," the fellow shrugged. "I was expelled."
"Do you know anything about summoning daedra? You see, I want to cast a
curse against a particularly powerful person, one might say a living god, and
I haven't had any luck. The Baron won't allow me in his sight, but the
Baroness has sympathy for me and allowed me the use of their Summoning
Chambers." Cassyr spat. "I did all the rituals, made sacrifices, but nothing
came of it."
"That'd be because of Sotha Sil, my old master," replied Welleg with some
bitterness. "The Daedra princes have agreed not to be summoned by any
amateurs at least until the war ends. Only the Psijics may counsel with the
daedra, and a few nomadic sorcerers and witches."
"Witches, did you say?"
29 Frostfall, 2920
Phrygias, High Rock
Pale sunlight flickered behind the mist bathing the forest as Turala,
Doryatha, and Celephyna drove their horses on. The ground was wet with a
thin layer of frost, and laden down with goods, it was a slippery way over
unpaved hills. Turala tried to contain her excitement about coming back to
the coven. Wayrest had been an adventure, and she adored the looks of fear
and respect the cityfolk gave her. But for the last few days, all she could
think of was returning to her sisters and her child.
A bitter wind whipped her hair forward so she could see nothing but the path
ahead. She did not hear the rider approach to her side until he was almost
upon her. When she turned and saw Cassyr, she shouted with as much surprise
as pleasure at meeting an old friend. His face was pale and drawn, but she
took it to be merely from travel.
"What brings you back to Phrygias?" she smiled. "Were you not treated well in
Dwynnen?"
"Well enough," said Cassyr. "I have need of the Skeffington coven."
"Ride with us," said Turala. "I'll bring you to Mynistera."
The four continued on, and the witches regaled Cassyr with tales of Wayrest.
It was evident that it was also a rare treat for Doryatha and Celephyna to
leave Old Barbyn's Farm. They had been born there, as daughters and grand-
daughters of Skeffington witches. Ordinary High Rock city life was exotic to
them as it was to Turala. Cassyr said little, but smiled and nodded his
head, which was encouragement enough. Thankfully, none of the stories they
had heard were about his own stupidity. Or at the very least, they did not
tell him.
Doryatha was in the midst of a tale she had heard in a tavern about a thief
who had been locked overnight in a pawnshop when they crossed over a familiar
hill. Suddenly, she halted in her story. The barn was supposed to be
visible, but it was not. The other three followed her gaze into the fog, and
a moment later, they rode as fast as they could towards what was once the
site of the Skeffington coven.
The fire had long since burned out. Nothing but ashes, skeletons, and broken
weaponry remained. Cassyr recognized at once the signs of an orc raid.
The witches fell from their horses, racing through the remains, wailing.
Celephyna found a tattered, bloody piece of cloth that she recognized from
Mynistera's cloak. She held it to her ashen face, sobbing. Turala screamed
for Bosriel, but the only reply was the high whistling wind through the
ashes.
"Who did this?" she cried, tears streaking down her face. "I swear I'll
conjure up the very flames of Oblivion! What have they done with my baby?"
"I know who did it," said Cassyr quietly, dropping from his horse and walking
towards her. "I've seen these weapons before. I fear I met the very fiends
responsible in Dwynnen, but I never thought they'd find you. This is the
work of assassins hired by the Duke of Mournhold."
He paused. The lie came easily. Adopt and improvise. What's more, he could
tell instantly that she believed it. Her resentment over the cruelty the
Duke had shown her had quieted, but never disappeared. One look at her
burning eyes told him that she would summon the daedra and wreak his, and
her, revenge upon Morrowind. And what's more, he knew they'd listen.
And listen they did. For the power that is greater than desire is rage.
Even rage misplaced.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, Hearth Fire
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Conjuration3
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Conjuration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Hearth Fire
Book Nine of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
2 Hearth Fire, 2920
Gideon, Black Marsh
The Empress Tavia lay across her bed, a hot late summer wind she could not
feel banging the shutters of her cell to and fro against the iron bars. Her
throat felt like it was on fire but still she sobbed, uncontrollably,
wringing her last tapestry in her hands. Her wailing echoed throughout the
hollow halls of Castle Giovese, stopping maids in their washing and guards in
their conversation. One of her women came up the narrow stairs to see her
mistress, but her chief guard Zuuk stood at the doorway and shook his head.
"She's just heard that her son is dead," he said quietly.
5 Hearth Fire, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
"Your Imperial Majesty," said the Potentate Versidue-Shaie through the door.
"You can open the door. I assure you, you're perfectly safe. No one wants
to kill you."
"Mara's blood!" came the Emperor Reman III's voice, muffled, hysterical,
tinged with madness. "Someone assassinated the Prince, and he was holding my
shield! They could have thought he was me!"
"You're certainly correct, your Imperial Majesty," replied the Potentate,
expunging any mocking qualities from his voice while his black-slitted eyes
rolled contemptuously. "And we must find and punish the evildoer responsible
for your son's death. But we cannot do it without you. You must be brave
for your Empire."
There was no reply.
"At the very least, come out and sign the order for Lady Rijja's execution,"
called the Potentate. "Let us dispose of the one traitor and assassin we know
of."
A brief pause, and then the sound of furniture scraping across the floor.
Reman opened the door just a crack, but the Potentate could see his angry,
fearful face, and the terrible mound of ripped tissue that used to be his
right eye. Despite the best healers in the Empire, it was still a ghastly
souvenir of the Lady Rijja's work in Thurzo Fortress.
"Hand me the order," the Emperor snarled. "I'll sign it with pleasure."
6 Hearth Fire, 2920
Gideon, Cyrodiil
The strange blue glow of the will o' the wisps, a combination, so she'd be
told, of swamp gas and spiritual energy, had always frightened Tavia as she
looked out her window. Now it seemed strangely comforting. Beyond the bog
lay the city of Gideon. It was funny, she thought, that she had never
stepped foot in its streets, though she had watched it ever day for seventeen
years.
"Can you think of anything I've forgotten?" she asked, turning to look back
on the loyal Kothringi Zuuk.
"I know exactly what to do," he said simply. He seemed to smile, but the
Empress realized that it was only her own face reflected in his silvery skin.
She was smiling, and she didn't even realize it.
"Make certain you aren't followed," she warned. "I don't want my husband to
know where my gold's been hiding all these years. And do take your share of
it. You've been a good friend."
The Empress Tavia stepped forward and dropped from sight into the mists.
Zuuk replaced the bars on the tower window, and threw a blanket over some
pillows on her bed. With any luck, they would not discover her body on the
lawn until morning, at which time he hoped to be halfway to Morrowind.
9 Hearth Fire, 2920
Phrygias, High Rock
The strange trees on all sides resembled knobby piles crowned with great
bursts of reds, yellows, and oranges, like insect mounds caught fire. The
Wrothgarian mountains were fading into the misty afternoon. Turala marveled
at the sight, so alien, so different from Morrowind, as she plodded the horse
forward into an open pasture. Behind her, head nodding against his chest,
Cassyr slept, cradling Bosriel. For a moment, Turala considered jumping the
low painted fence that crossed the field, but she thought better of it. Let
Cassyr sleep for a few more hours before giving him the reigns.
As the horse passed into the field, Turala saw the small green house on the
next hill, half-hidden in forest. So picturesque was the image, she felt
herself lull into a pleasant half-sleeping state. A blast of a horn brought
her back to reality with a shudder. Cassyr opened his eyes.
"Where are we?" he hissed.
"I don't know," Turala stammered, wide-eyed. "What is that sound?"
"Orcs," he whispered. "A hunting party. Head for the thicket quickly."
Turala trotted the horse into the small collection of trees. Cassyr handed
her the child and dismounted. He began pulling their bags off next, throwing
them into the bushes. A sound started then, a distant rumbling of footfall,
growing louder and closer. Turala climbed off carefully and helped Cassyr
unburden the horse. All the while, Bosriel watched open-eyed. Turala
sometimes worried that her baby never cried. Now she was grateful for it.
With the last of the luggage off, Cassyr slapped the horse's rear, sending it
galloping into the field. Taking Turala's hand, he hunkered down in the
bushes.
"With luck," he murmured. "They'll think she's wild or belongs to the farm
and won't go looking for the rider."
As he spoke, a horde of orcs surged into the field, blasting their horns.
Turala had seen orcs before, but never in such abundance, never with such
bestial confidence. Roaring with delight at the horse and its confused
state, they hastened past the timber where Cassyr, Turala, and Bosriel hid.
The wildflowers flew into the air at their stampede, powdering the air with
seeds. Turala tried to hold back a sneeze, and thought she succeeded. One
of the orcs heard something though, and brought another with him to
investigate.
Cassyr quietly unsheathed his sword, mustering all the confidence he could.
His skills, such as they were, were in spying, not combat, but he vowed to
protect Turala and her babe for as long as he could. Perhaps he would slay
these two, he reasoned, but not before they cried out and brought the rest of
the horde.
Suddenly, something invisible swept through the bushes like a wind. The orcs
flew backwards, falling dead on their backs. Turala turned and saw a
wrinkled crone with bright red hair emerge from a nearby bush.
"I thought you were going to bring 'em right to me," she whispered, smiling.
"Best come with me."
The three followed the old woman through a deep crevasse of bramble bushes
that ran through the field toward the house on the hill. As they emerged on
the other side, the woman turned to look at the orcs feasting on the remains
of the horse, a blood-soaked orgy to the beat of multiple horns.
"That horse yours?" she asked. When Cassyr nodded, she laughed loudly.
"That's rich meat, that is. Those monsters'll have bellyaches and flatulence
in the morning. Serves 'em right."
"Shouldn't we keep moving?" whispered Turala, unnerved by the woman's
laughter.
"They won't come up here," she grinned, looking at Bosriel who smiled back.
"They're too afraid of us."
Turala turned to Cassyr, who shook his head. "Witches. Am I correct in
assuming that this is Old Barbyn's Farm, the home of the Skeffington Coven?"
"You are, pet," the old woman giggled girlishly, pleased to be so infamous.
"I am Mynista Skeffington."
"What did you do to those orcs?" asked Turala. "Back there in the thicket?"
"Spirit fist right side the head," Mynista said, continuing the climb up the
hill. Ahead of them was the farmhouse grounds, a well, a chicken coop, a
pond, women of all ages doing chores, the laughter of children at play. The
old woman turned and saw that Turala did not understand. "Don't you have
witches where you come from, child?"
"None that I know of," she said.
"There are all sorts of wielders of magic in Tamriel," she explained. "The
Psijics study magic like its their painful duty. The battlemages in the army
on the other end of the scale hurl spells like arrows. We witches commune
and conjure and celebrate. To fell those orcs, I merely whispered to the
spirits of the air, Amaro, Pina, Tallatha, the fingers of Kynareth, and the
breath of the world, with whom I have an intimate acquaintance, to smack
those bastards dead. You see, conjuration is not about might, or solving
riddles, or agonizing over musty old scrolls. It's about fostering
relations. Being friendly, you might say."
"Well, we certainly appreciate you being friendly with us," said Cassyr.
"As well you might," coughed Mynista. "Your kind destroyed the orc homeland
two thousand years ago. Before that, they never came all the way up here and
bothered us. Now let's get you cleaned up and fed."
With that, Mynista led them into the farm, and Turala met the family of the
Skeffington Coven.
11 Hearth Fire, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
Rijja had not even tried to sleep the night before, and she found the somber
music played during her execution to have a soporific effect. It was as if
she was willing herself to be unconscious before the ax stroke. Her eyes
were bound so she could not see her former lover, the Emperor, seated before
her, glaring with his one good eye. She could not see the Potentate
Versidue-Shaie, his coil neatly wrapped beneath him, a look of triumph in his
golden face. She could feel, numbly, the executioner's hand touch her back
to steady her. She flinched like a dreamer trying to awake.
The first blow caught the back of her head and she screamed. The next hacked
through her neck, and she was dead.
The Emperor turned to the Potentate wearily, "Now that's done. You said she
had a pretty sister in Hammerfell named Corda?"
18 Hearth Fire, 2920
Dwynnen, High Rock
The horse the witches had sold him was not as good as his old one, Cassyr
considered. Spirit worship and sacrifice and sisterhood might be all well
and good for conjuring spirits, but it tends to spoil beasts of burden.
Still, there was little to complain about. With the Dunmer woman and her
child gone, he had made excellent time. Ahead were the walls surrounding the
city of his homeland. Almost at once, he was set upon by his old friends and
family.
"How went the war?" cried his cousin, running to the road. "Is it true that
Vivec signed a peace with the Prince, but the Emperor refuses to honor it?"
"That's not how it was, was it?" asked a friend, joining them. "I heard that
the Dunmer had the Prince murdered and then made up a story about a treaty,
but there's no evidence for it."
"Isn't there anything interesting happening here?" Cassyr laughed. "I really
don't have the least interest in discussing the war or Vivec."
"You missed the procession of the Lady Corda," said his friend. "She came
across the bay with full entourage and then east to the Imperial City."
"But that's nothing. What was Vivec like?" asked his cousin eagerly. "He
supposed to be a living god."
"If Sheogorath steps down and they need another God of Madness, he'll do,"
said Cassyr haughtily.
"And the women?" asked the lad, who had only seen Dunmer ladies on very rare
occasions.
Cassyr merely smiled. Turala Skeffington flashed into his mind for an
instant before fading away. She would be happy with the coven, and her child
would be well cared for. But they were part of the past now, a place and a
war he wanted to forget forever. Dismounting his horse, he walked it into
the city, chatting of trivial gossip of life on the Iliac Bay.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, Last Seed
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Sneak2
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Sneak skill 1 point the first time the book is read
Last Seed
Book Eight of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
1 Last Seed, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind
They were gathered in the Duke's courtyard at twilight, enjoying the smell
and warmth of a fire of dry branches and bittergreen leaves. Tiny embers
flew into the sky, hanging for a few moments before vanishing.
"I was rash," agreed the Duke, soberly. "But Lorkhan had his laugh, and all
is well. The Morag Tong will not assassinate the Emperor now that my payment
to them is at the bottom of the Inner Sea. I thought you had made some sort
of a truce with the Daedra princes."
"What your sailors called a daedra may not have been one," said Sotha Sil.
"Perhaps it was a rogue battlemage or even a lightning bolt that destroyed
your ship."
"The Prince and the Emperor are en route to take possession of Ald Lambasi as
our truce agreed. It is certainly typical of the Cyrodiil to assume that
their concessions are negotiable, while ours are not," Vivec pulled out a
map. "We can meet them here, in this village to the north-west of Ald
Lambasi, Fervinthil."
"But will we meet them to talk," ask Almalexia. "Or to make war?"
No one had an answer to that.
15 Last Seed, 2920
Fervinthil, Morrowind
A late summer squall blew through the small village, darkening the sky except
for flashing of lightning which leapt from cloud to cloud like acrobats.
Water rushed down the narrow streets ankle-deep, and the Prince had to shout
to be heard by his captains but a few feet away from him.
"There's an inn up ahead! We'll wait there for the storm to pass before
pressing on to Ald Lambasi!"
The inn was warm and dry, and bustling with business. Barmaids were rushing
back and forth, bringing greef and wine to a back room, evidently excited
about a famous visitor. Someone who was attracting more attention than the
mere heir to the Empire of Tamriel. Amused, Juilek watched them run until he
overheard the name of "Vivec."
"My Lord Vivec," he said, bursting into the back room. "You must believe me,
I knew nothing about the attack on Black Gate until after it happened. We
will, of course, be returning it to your care forthwith. I wrote you a
letter to that effect at your palace in Balmora, but obviously you're not
there," he paused, taking in the many new faces in the room. "I'm sorry, let
me introduce myself. I'm Juilek Cyrodiil."
"My name is Almalexia," said the most beautiful woman the Prince had ever
seen. "Won't you join us?"
"Sotha Sil," said a serious-looking Dunmer in a white cloak, shaking the
Prince's hand and showing him to a seat.
"Indoril Brindisi Dorom, Duke-Prince of Mournhold," said the massively-built
man next to him as he sat down.
"I recognize that the events of the last month suggest, at best, that the
Imperial Army is not under my control," said the Prince after ordering some
wine. "This is true. The army is my father's."
"I understood that the Emperor was going to be coming to Ald Lambasi as
well," said Almalexia.
"Officially, he is," said the Prince cautiously. "Unofficially, he's still
back in the Imperial City. He's met with an unfortunate accident."
Vivec glanced the Duke quickly before looking at the Prince: "An accident?"
"He's fine," said the Prince quickly. "He'll live, but it looks like he'll
lose an eye. It was an altercation that has nothing to do with the war. The
only good news is that while he recovers, I have the use of his seal. Any
agreement we make here and now will be binding to the Empire, both in my
father's reign and in mine."
"Then let's start agreeing," smiled Almalexia.
16 Last Seed, 2920
Wroth Naga, Cyrodiil
The tiny hamlet of Wroth Naga greeted Cassyr with its colorful houses perched
on a promontory overlooking the stretch of the Wrothgarian mountain plain and
High Rock beyond. Had he been in a better mood, the sight would have been
breathtaking. As it was, he could only think that in practical terms, a
small village like this would have meager provisions for himself and his
horse.
He rode down into the main square, where an inn called the Eagle's Cry stood.
Directing the stable boy to house and feed his horse, Cassyr walked into the
inn and was surprised by its ambience. A minstrel he had heard play once in
Gilderdale was performing a jaunty old tune to the clapping of the mountain
men. Such forced merriment was not what Cassyr wanted at that moment. A
glum Dunmer woman was seated at the only table far from the noise, so he took
his drink there and sat down without invitation. It was only when he did so
that he noticed that she was holding a newborn baby.
"I've just come from Morrowind," he said rather awkwardly, lowering his
voice. "I've been fighting for Vivec and the Duke of Mournhold against the
Imperial army. A traitor to my people, I guess you'd call me."
"I am also a traitor to my people," said the woman, holding up her hand which
was scarred with a branded symbol. "It means that I can never go back to my
homeland."
"Well, you're not thinking of staying here, are you?" laughed Cassyr. "It's
certainly quaint, but come wintertide, there's going to be snow up to your
eyelashes. It's no place for a new baby. What is her name?"
"Bosriel. It means 'Beauty of the Forest.' Where are you going?"
"Dwynnen, on the bay in High Rock. You're welcome to join me, I could use
the company." He held out his hand. "Cassyr Whitley."
"Turala," said the woman after a pause. She was going to use her family's
name first, as is tradition, but she realized that it was no longer her name.
"I would love to accompany you, thank you."
19 Last Seed, 2920
Ald Lambasi, Morrowind
Five men and two women stood in the silence of the Great Room of the castle,
the only sound the scrawl of quill on parchment and the gentle tapping of
rain on the large picture window. As the Prince set the seal of Cyrodiil on
the document, the peace was made official. The Duke of Mournhold broke out
in a roar of delight, ordering wine brought in to commemorate the end of
eighty years of war.
Only Sotha Sil stood apart from the group. His face betrayed no emotion.
Those who knew him best knew he did not believe in endings or beginnings, but
in the continuous cycle of which this was but a small part.
"My Prince," said the castle steward, unhappy at breaking the celebration.
"There is a messenger here from your mother, the Empress. He asked to see
your father, but as he did not arrive --"
Juilek excused himself and went to speak with the messenger.
"The Empress does not live in the Imperial City?" asked Vivec.
"No," said Almalexia, shaking her head sadly. "Her husband has imprisoned her
in Black Marsh, fearing that she was plotting a revolution against him. She
is extremely wealthy and has powerful allies in the western Colovian estates
so he could not marry another or have her executed. They've been at an
impasse for the last seventeen years since Juilek was a child."
The Prince returned a few minutes later. His face betrayed his anxiety,
though he took troubles to hide it.
"My mother needs me," he said simply. "I'm afraid I must leave at once. If I
may have a copy of the treaty, I will bring it with me to show the Empress
the good we have done today, and then I will carry it on to the Imperial City
so it may be made official."
Prince Juilek left with the fond farewells of the Three of Morrowind. As
they watched him ride out into the rainswept night south towards Black Marsh,
Vivec said, "Tamriel will be much healed when he has the throne."
31 Last Seed, 2920
Dorsza Pass, Black Marsh
The moon was rising over the desolate quarry, steaming with swamp gas from a
particularly hot summer as the Prince and his two guard escort rode out of
the forest. The massive piles of earth and dung had been piled high in
antiquity by some primitive, long-dead tribe of Black Marsh, hoping to keep
out some evil from the north. Evidently, the evil had broken through at
Dorsza Pass, the large crack in the sad, lonely rampart that stretched for
miles.
The black twisted trees that grew on the barrier cast strange shadows down,
like a net tangling. The Prince's mind was on his mother's cryptic letter,
hinting at the threat of an invasion. He could not, of course, tell the
Dunmer about it, at the very least until he knew more and had notified his
father. After all, the letter was meant for him. It was its urgent tone
that made him decide to go directly to Gideon.
The Empress had also warned him about a band of former slaves who attacked
caravans going into Dorsza Pass. She advised him to be certain to make his
Imperial shield visible, so they would know he was not one of the hated
Dunmer slavers. Upon riding into the tall weeds that flooded through the
pass like a noxious river, the Prince ordered that his shield be displayed.
"I can see why the slaves use this," said the Prince's captain. "It's an
excellent location for an ambush."
Juilek nodded his head, but his thoughts were elsewhere. What threat of
invasion could the Empress have discovered? Were the Akaviri on the seas
again? If so, how could his mother from her cell in Castle Giovese know of
it? A rustle in the weeds and a single sharp human cry behind him
interrupted his ponderings.
Turning around, the Prince discovered that he was alone. His escort had
vanished.
The Prince peered over the stretch of the moonlit sea of grass which waved in
almost hypnotic patterns to the ebb and flow of the night wind billowing
through the pass. It was impossible to tell if a struggling soldier was
beneath this system of vibrations, a dying horse behind another. A high,
whistling wind drowned out any sound the victims of the ambush might be
making.
Juilek drew his sword, and thought about what to do, his mind willing his
heart not to panic. He was closer to the exit of the pass than the entrance.
Whatever had slain his escort must have been behind him. If he rode fast
enough, perhaps he could outrun it. Spurring his horse to gallop, he charged
for the hills ahead, framed by the mighty black piles of dirt.
When he was thrown, it happened so suddenly, he was hurdling forward before
he was truly conscious of the fact. He landed several yards beyond where his
horse had fallen, breaking his shoulder and his back on impact. A numbness
washed over him as he stared at his poor, dying steed, its belly sliced open
by one of several spears jutting up just below the surface of the grass.
Prince Juilek was not able to turn and face the figure that emerged from the
grass, nor able to move to defend himself. His throat was cut without
ceremony.
Miramor cursed when he saw the face of his victim more clearly in the
moonlight. He had seen the Emperor at the Battle of Bodrum when he had
fought in His Imperial Majesty's command, and this was clearly not the
Emperor. Searching the body, he found the letter and a treaty signed by
Vivec, Almalexia, Sotha Sil, and the Duke of Mournhold representing Morrowind
and the Prince Juilek Cyrodiil, representing the Cyrodiil Empire.
"Curse my luck," muttered Miramor to himself and the whispering grass. "I've
only killed a Prince. Where's the reward in that?"
Miramor destroyed the letter, as Zuuk had instructed him to do, and pocketed
the treaty. At the very least, such a curiosity would have some market
value. He disassembled the traps as he pondered his next step. Return to
Gideon and ask his employer for a lesser reward for killing the heir? Move
on to other lands? At the very least, he considered, he had picked up two
useful skills from the Battle of Bodrum. From the Dunmer, he had learned the
excellent spear trap. And abandoning the Imperial army, he had learned how
to skulk in the grass.
The Year is Continued in Hearth Fire.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, MidYear
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Heavy Armor2
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Heavy Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Mid Year
Book Six of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
2 Mid Year, 2920
Balmora, Morrowind
"The Imperial army is gathered to the south," said Cassyr. "They are a two
weeks march from Ald Iuval and Lake Coronati, heavily armored."
Vivec nodded. Ald Iuval and its sister city on the other side of the lake
Ald Malak were strategically important fortresses. He had been expecting a
move against them for some time. His captain pulled down a map of
southwestern Morrowind from the wall and smoothed it out, fighting a gentle
summer sea breeze wafting in from the open window.
"They were heavily armored, you say?" asked the captain.
"Yes, sir," said Cassyr. "They were camped out near Bethal Gray in the
Heartland, and I saw nothing but Ebony, Dwarven, and Daedric armor, fine
weaponry, and siege equipment."
"How about spellcasters and boats?" asked Vivec.
"A horde of battlemages," replied Cassyr. "But no boats."
"As heavily armored as they are, it will take them at least two weeks, like
you said, to get from Bethal Gray to Lake Coronati," Vivec studied the map
carefully. "They'd be dragged down in the bogs if they then tried to circle
around to Ald Marak from the north, so they must be planning to cross the
straits here and take Ald Iuval. Then they'd proceed around the lake to the
east and take Ald Marak from the south."
"They'll be vulnerable along the straits," said the captain. "Provided we
strike when they are more than halfway across and can't retreat back to the
Heartland."
"Your intelligence has once again served us well," said Vivec, smiling to
Cassyr. "We will beat back the Imperial aggressors yet again."
3 Mid Year, 2920
Bethal Gray, Cyrodiil
"Will you be returning back this way after your victory?" asked Lord Bethal.
Prince Juilek barely paid the man any attention. He was focused on the army
packing its camp. It was a cool morning in the forest, but there were no
clouds. All the makings of a hot afternoon march, particularly in such heavy
armor.
"If we return shortly, it will be because of defeat," said the Prince. He
could see down in the meadow, the Potentate Versidue-Shaie paying his
lordship's steward for the use of the village's food, wine, and whores. An
army was an expensive thing, for certes.
"My Prince," said Lord Bethal with concern. "Is your army beginning a march
due east? That will just lead you to the shores of Lake Coronati. You'll
want to go south-east to get to the straits."
"You just make certain your merchants get their share of our gold," said the
Prince with a grin. "Let me worry about my army's direction."
16 Mid Year, 2920
Lake Coronati, Morrowind
Vivec stared across the blue expanse of the lake, seeing his reflection and
the reflection of his army in the cool blue waters. What he did not see was
the Imperial Army's reflection. They must have reached the straits by now,
barring any mishaps in the forest. Tall feather-thin lake trees blocked much
of his view of the straits, but an army, particularly one clan in slow-moving
heavy armor could not move invisibly, silently.
"Let me see the map again," he called to his captain. "Is there no other way
they could approach?"
"We have sentries posted in the swamps to the north in case they're fool
enough to go there and be bogged under," said the captain. "We would at least
hear about it. But there is no other way across the lake except through the
straits."
Vivec looked down again at his reflection, which seemed to be distorting his
image, mocking him. Then he looked back on the map.
"Spy," said Vivec, calling Cassyr over. "When you said the army had a horde
of battlemages, what made you so certain they were battlemages?"
"They were wearing gray robes with mystical insignia on them," explained
Cassyr. "I figured they were mages, and why else would such a vast number
travel with the army? They couldn't have all been healers."
"You fool!" roared Vivec. "They're mystics schooled in the art of Alteration.
They've cast a spell of water breathing on the entire army."
Vivec ran to a new vantage point where he could see the north. Across the
lake, though it was but a small shadow on the horizon, they could see gouts
of flame from the assault on Ald Marak. Vivec bellowed with fury and his
captain got to work at once redirecting the army to circle the lake and
defend the castle.
"Return to Dwynnen," said Vivec flatly to Cassyr before he rode off to join
the battle. "Your services are no longer needed nor wanted."
It was already too late when the Morrowind army neared Ald Marak. It had
been taken by the Imperial Army.
19 Mid Year, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
The Potentate arrived in the Imperial City amid great fanfare, the streets
lined with men and women cheering him as the symbol of the taking of Ald
Marak. Truth be told, a greater number would have turned out had the Prince
returned, and the Versidue-Shaie knew it. Still, it pleased him to no end.
Never before had citizens of Tamriel cheered the arrival of an Akaviri into
their land.
The Emperor Reman III greeted him with a warm embrace, and then tore into the
letter he had brought from the Prince.
"I don't understand," he said at last, still joyous but equally confused.
"You went under the lake?"
"Ald Marak is a very well-fortified fortress," explained the Potentate. "As,
I might add, the army of Morrowind has rediscovered, now that they are on the
outside. To take it, we had to attack by surprise and with our soldiery in
the sturdiest of armor. By casting the spell that allowed us to breathe
underwater, we were able to travel faster than Vivec would have guessed, the
weight of the armor made less by the aquatic surroundings, and attack from
the waterbound west side of the fortress where their defenses were at their
weakest."
"Brilliant!" the Emperor crowed. "You are a wonderous tactician, Versidue-
Shaie! If your fathers had been as good at this as you are, Tamriel would be
Akaviri domain!"
The Potentate had not planned to take credit for Prince Juilek's design, but
on the Emperor's reference to his people's fiasco of an invasion two hundred
and sixteen years ago, he made up his mind. He smiled modestly and soaked up
the praise.
21 Mid Year, 2920
Ald Marak, Morrowind
Savirien-Chorak slithered to the wall and watched through the arrow slit the
Morrowind army retreating back to the forestland between the swamps and the
castle grounds. It seemed like the idea opportunity to strike. Perhaps the
forests could be burned and the army within them. Perhaps with Vivec in
their enemies' hands, the army would allow them possession of Ald Iuval as
well. He suggested these ideas to the Prince.
"What you seem to be forgetting," laughed Prince Juilek. "Is that I gave my
word that no harm to the army or to their commanders during the truce
negotiations. Do you not have honor during warfare on Akavir?"
"My Prince, I was born here in Tamriel, I have never been to my people's
home," replied the snake man. "But even so, your ways are strange to me. You
expected no quarter and I gave you none when we fought in the Imperial Arena
five months ago."
"That was a game," replied the Prince, before nodding to his steward to let
the Dunmer battle chief in.
Juilek had never seen Vivec before, but he had heard he was a living god.
What came before him was but a man. A powerfully built man, handsome, with
an intelligent face, but a man nonetheless. The Prince was pleased: a man he
could speak with, but not a god.
"Greetings, my worthy adversary," said Vivec. "We seem to be at an impasse."
"Not necessarily," said the Prince. "You don't want to give us Morrowind, and
I can't fault you for that. But I must have your coastline to protect the
Empire from overseas aggressions, and certain key strategic border castles,
such as this one, as well as Ald Umbeil, Tel Aruhn, Ald Lambasi, and Tel
Mothrivra."
"And in return?" asked Vivec.
"In return?" laughed Savirien-Chorak. "You forget we are the victors here,
not you."
"In return," said Prince Juilek carefully. "There will be no Imperial attacks
on Morrowind, unless in return to an attack by you. You will be protected
from invaders by the Imperial navy. And your land may expand by taking
certain estates in Black Marsh, whichever you choose, provided they are not
needed by the Empire."
"A reasonable offer," said Vivec after a pause. "You must forgive me, I am
unused to Cyrodiils who offer something in return for what they take. May I
have a few days to decide?"
"We will meet again in a week's time," said the Prince, smiling. "In the
meantime, if your army provokes no attacks on mine, we are at peace."
Vivec left the Prince's chamber, feeling that Almalexia was right. The war
was at an end. This Prince would make an excellent Emperor.
The Year is Continued in Sun's Height.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, Morning Star
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Long Blade2
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Long Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Morning Star
Book One of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
1 Morning Star, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind
Almalexia lay in her bed of fur, dreaming. Not until the sun burned through
her window, infusing the light wood and flesh colors of her chamber in a
milky glow did she open her eyes. It was quiet and serene, a stunning
reverse of the flavor of her dreams, so full of blood and celebration. For a
few moments, she simply stared at the ceiling, trying to sort through her
visions.
In the courtyard of her palace was a boiling pool which steamed in the
coolness of the winter morning. At the wave of her hand, it cleared and she
saw the face and form of her lover Vivec in his study to the north. She did
not want to speak right away: he looked so handsome in his dark red robes,
writing his poetry as he did every morning.
"Vivec," she said, and he raised his head in a smile, looking at her face
across thousands of miles. "I have seen a vision of the end of the war."
"After eighty years, I don't think anyone can imagine an end," said Vivec
with a smile, but he grew serious, trusting Almalexia's prophecies. "Who will
win? Morrowind or the Cyrodilic Empire?"
"Without Sotha Sil in Morrowind, we will lose," she replied.
"My intelligence tells me the Empire will strike us to the north in early
springtide, by First Seed at the latest. Could you go to Artaeum and
convince him to return?"
"I'll leave today," she said, simply.
4 Morning Star, 2920
Gideon, Black Marsh
The Empress paced around her cell. Wintertide gave her wasteful energy,
while in the summer she would merely sit by her window and be grateful for
each breath of stale swamp wind that came to cool her. Across the room, her
unfinished tapestry of a dance at the Imperial Court seemed to mock her. She
ripped it from its frame, tearing the pieces apart as they drifted to the
floor.
Then she laughed at her own useless gesture of defiance. She would have
plenty of time to repair it and craft a hundred more. The Emperor had locked
her up in Castle Giovesse seven years ago, and would likely keep her here
until he or she died.
With a sigh, she pulled the cord to call her knight, Zuuk. He appeared at
the door within minutes, fully uniformed as befitted an Imperial Guard. Most
of the native Kothringi tribesmen of Black Marsh preferred to go about naked,
but Zuuk had taken a positive delight to fashion. His silver, reflective
skin was scarcely visible, only on his face, neck, and hands.
"Your Imperial Highness," he said with a bow.
"Zuuk," said Empress Tavia. "I'm bored. Lets discuss methods of
assassinating my husband today."
14 Morning Star, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
The chimes proclaiming South Wind's Prayer echoed through the wide boulevards
and gardens of the Imperial City, calling all to their temples. The Emperor
Reman III always attended a service at the Temple of the One, while his son
and heir Prince Juilek found it more political to attend a service at a
different temple for each religious holiday. This year, it was at the
cathedral Benevolence of Mara.
The Benevolence's services were mercifully short, but it was not until well
after noon that the Emperor was able to return to the palace. By then, the
arena combatants were impatiently waiting for the start of the ceremony. The
crowd was far less restless, as the Potentate Versidue-Shaie had arranged for
a demonstration from a troupe of Khajiiti acrobats.
"Your religion is so much more convenient than mine," said the Emperor to his
Potentate by way of an apology. "What is the first game?"
"A one-on-one battle between two able warriors," said the Potentate, his
scaly skin catching the sun as he rose. "Armed befitting their culture."
"Sounds good," said the Emperor and clapped his hands. "Let the sport
commence!"
As soon as he saw the two warriors enter the arena to the roar of the crowd,
Emperor Reman III remembered that he had agreed to this several months before
and forgotten about it. One combatant was the Potentate's son, Savirien-
Chorak, a glistening ivory-yellow eel, gripping his katana and wakizashi with
his thin, deceptively weak looking arms. The other was the Emperor's son,
Prince Juilek, in ebony armor with a savage Orcish helm, shield and longsword
at his side.
"This will be fascinating to watch," hissed the Potentate, a wide grin across
his narrow face. "I don't know if I've even seen a Cyrodiil fight an Akavir
like this. Usually it's army against army. At last we can settle which
philosophy is better -- to create armor to combat swords as your people do,
or to create swords to combat armor as mine do."
No one in the crowd, aside from a few scattered Akaviri counselors and the
Potentate himself wanted Savirien-Chorak to win, but there was a collective
intake of breath at the sight of his graceful movements. His swords seemed
to be a part of him, a tail coming from his arms to match the one behind him.
It was a trick of counterbalance, allowing the young serpent man to roll up
into a circle and spin into the center of the ring in offensive position.
The Prince had to plod forward the less impressive traditional way.
As they sprang at each other, the crowd bellowed with delight. The Akaviri
was like a moon in orbit around the Prince, effortlessly springing over his
shoulder to attempt a blow from behind, but the Prince whirled around quickly
to block with his shield. His counter-strike met only air as his foe fell
flat to the ground and slithered between his legs, tripping him. The Prince
fell to the ground with a resounding crash.
Metal and air melted together as Savirien-Chorak rained strike after strike
upon the Prince, who blocked every one with his shield.
"We don't have shields in our culture," murmured Versidue-Shaie to the
Emperor. "It seems strange to my boy, I imagine. In our country, if you
don't want to get hit, you move out of the way."
When Savirien-Chorak was rearing back to begin another series of blinding
attacks, the Prince kicked at his tail, sending him falling back momentarily.
In an instant, he had rebounded, but the Prince was also back on his feet.
The two circled one another, until the snake man spun forward, katana
extended. The Prince saw his foe's plan, and blocked the katana with his
longsword and the wakizashi with his shield. Its short punching blade
impaled itself in the metal, and Savirien-Chorak was thrown off balance.
The Prince's longblade slashed across the Akavir's chest and the sudden,
intense pain caused him to drop both his weapons. It a moment, it was over.
Savirien-Chorak was prostate in the dust with the Prince's longsword at his
throat.
"The game's over!" shouted the Emperor, barely heard over the applause from
the stadium.
The Prince grinned and helped Savirien-Chorak up and over to a healer. The
Emperor clapped his Potentate on the back, feeling relieved. He had not
realized when the fight had begun how little chance he had given his son at
victory.
"He will make a fine warrior," said Versidue-Shaie. "And a great emperor."
"Just remember," laughed the Emperor. "You Akaviri have a lot of showy moves,
but if just one of our strikes comes through, it's all over for you."
"Oh, I'll remember that," nodded the Potentate.
Reman thought about that comment for the rest of the games, and had trouble
fully enjoying himself. Could the Potentate be another enemy, just as the
Empress had turned out to be? The matter would bear watching.
21 Morning Star, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind
"Why don't you wear that green gown I gave you?" asked the Duke of Mournhold,
watching the young maiden put on her clothes.
"It doesn't fit," smiled Turala. "And you know I like red."
"It doesn't fit because you're getting fat," laughed the Duke, pulling her
down on the bed, kissing her breasts and the pouch of her stomach. She
laughed at the tickles, but pulled herself up, wrapping her red robe around
her.
"I'm round like a woman should be," said Turala. "Will I see you tomorrow?"
"No," said the Duke. "I must entertain Vivec tomorrow, and the next day the
Duke of Ebonheart is coming. Do you know, I never really appreciated
Almalexia and her political skills until she left?"
"It is the same with me," smiled Turala. "You will only appreciate me when
I'm gone."
"That's not true at all," snorted the Duke. "I appreciate you now."
Turala allowed the Duke one last kiss before she was out the door. She kept
thinking about what he said. Would he appreciate her more or less when he
knew that she was getting fat because she was carrying his child? Would he
appreciate her enough to marry her?
The Year Continues in Sun's Dawn
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, Rain's Hand
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Restoration4
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Restoration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Rain's Hand
Book Four of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
3 Rain's Hand, 2920
Coldharbour, Oblivion
Sotha Sil proceeded as quickly as he could through the blackened halls of the
palace, half-submerged in brackish water. All around him, nasty gelatinous
creatures scurried into the reeds, bursts of white fire lit up the upper
arches of the hall before disappearing, and smells assaulted him, rancid
death one moment, sweet flowered perfume the next. Several times he had
visited the Daedra princes in their Oblivion, but every time, something
different awaited him.
He knew his purpose, and refused to be distracted.
Eight of the more prominent Daedra princes were awaiting him in the half-
melted, domed room. Azura, Prince of Dusk and Dawn; Boethiah, Prince of
Plots; Herma-Mora, Daedra of Knowledge; Hircine, the Hunter; Malacath, God of
Curses; Mehrunes Dagon, Prince of Disaster; Molag Bal, Prince of Rage;
Sheogorath, the Mad One.
Above them, the sky cast tormented shadows upon the meeting.
5 Rain's Hand, 2920
The Isle of Artaeum, Summurset
Sotha Sil's voice cried out, echoing from the cave, "Move the rock!"
Immediately, the initiates obeyed, rolling aside the great boulder that
blocked the entrance to the Dreaming Cavern. Sotha Sil emerged, his face
smeared with ash, weary. He felt he had been away for months, years, but
only a few days had transpired. Lilatha took his arm to help him walk, but
he refused her help with a kind smile and a shake of his head.
"Were you ... successful?" she asked.
"The Daedra princes I spoke with have agreed to our terms," he said flatly.
"Disasters such as befell Gilverdale should be averted. Only through certain
intermediaries such as witches or sorcerers will they answer the call of man
and mer."
"And what did you promise them in return?" asked the Nord boy Welleg.
"The deals we make with Daedra," said Sotha Sil, continuing on to Iachesis's
palace to meet with the Master of the Psijic Order. "Should not be discussed
with the innocent."
8 Rain's Hand, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
A storm billeted the windows of the Prince's bedchamber, bringing a smell of
moist air to mix with the censors filled with burning incense and herbs.
"A letter has arrived from the Empress, your mother," said the courier.
"Anxiously inquiring after your health."
"What frightened parents I have!" laughed Prince Juilek from his bed.
"It is only natural for a mother to worry," said Savirien-Chorak, the
Potentate's son.
"There is everything unnatural about my family, Akavir. My exiled mother
fears that my father will imagine me of being a traitor, covetous of the
crown, and is having me poisoned," the Prince sank back into his pillow,
annoyed. "The Emperor has insisted on me having a taster for all my meals as
he does."
"There are many plots," agreed the Akavir. "You have been abed for nearly
three weeks with every healer in the empire shuffling through like a slow
ballroom dance. At least, all can see that you're getting stronger."
"Strong enough to lead the vanguard against Morrowind soon, I hope," said
Juilek.
11 Rain's Hand, 2920
The Isle of Artaeum, Summurset
The initiates stood quietly in a row along the arbor loggia, watching the
long, deep, marble-lined trench ahead of them flash with fire. The air above
it vibrated with the waves of heat. Though each student kept his or her face
sturdy and emotionless, as a true Psijic should, their terror was nearly as
palpable as the heat. Sotha Sil closed his eyes and uttered the charm of
fire resistance. Slowly, he walked across the basin of leaping flames,
climbing to the other side, unscathed. Not even his white robe had been
burned.
"The charm is intensified by the energy you bring to it, by your own skills,
just as all spells are," he said. "Your imagination and your willpower are
the keys. There is no need for a spell to give you a resistance to air, or a
resistance to flowers, and after you cast the charm, you must forget there is
even a need for a spell to give you resistance to fire. Do not confuse what
I am saying: resistance is not about ignoring the fire's reality. You will
feel the substance of flame, the texture of it, its hunger, and even the heat
of it, but you will know that it will not hurt or injure you."
The students nodded and one by one, they cast the spell and made the walk
through the fire. Some even went so far as to bend over and scoop up a
handful of fire and feed it air, so it expanded like a bubble and melted
through their fingers. Sotha Sil smiled. They were fighting their fear
admirably.
The Chief Proctor Thargallith came running from the arbor arches, "Sotha Sil!
Almalexia has arrived on Artaeum. Iachesis told me to fetch you."
Sotha Sil turned to Thargallith for only a moment, but he knew instantly from
the screams what had transpired. The Nord lad Wellig had not cast the spell
properly and was burning. The smell of scorched hair and flesh panicked the
other students who were struggling to get out of the basin, pulling him with
them, but the incline was too steep away from the entry points. With a wave
of his hand, Sotha Sil extinguished the flame.
Wellig and several other students were burned, but not badly. The sorcerer
cast a healing spell on them, before turning back to Thargallith.
"I'll be with you in a moment, and give Almalexia the time to shake the road
dust from her train," Sotha Sil turned back to the students, his voice flat.
"Fear does not break spells, but doubt and incompetence are the great enemies
of any spellcaster. Master Welleg, you will pack your bags. I'll arrange
for a boat to bring you to the mainland tomorrow morning."
The sorcerer found Almalexia and Iachesis in the study, drinking hot tea, and
laughing. She was more beautiful than he had remembered, though he had never
before seen her so disheveled, wrapped in a blanket, dangling her damp long
black tresses before the fire to dry. At Sotha Sil's approach, she leapt to
her feet and embraced him.
"Did you swim all the way from Morrowind?" he smiled.
"It's pouring rain from Skywatch down to the coast," she explained, returning
his smile.
"Only a half a league away, and it never rains here," said Iachesis proudly.
"Of course, I sometimes miss the excitement of Summurset, and sometimes even
the mainland itself. Still, I'm always very impressed by anyone out there
who gets anything accomplished. It is a world of distractions. Speaking of
distractions, what's all this I hear about a war?"
"You mean the one that's been bloodying the continent for the last eighty
years, Master?" asked Sotha Sil, amused.
"I suppose that's the one I mean," said Iachesis with a shrug of his
shoulders. "How is that war going?"
"We will lose it, unless I can convince Sotha Sil to leave Artaeum," said
Almalexia, losing her smile. She had meant to wait and talk to her friend in
private, but the old Altmer gave her courage to press on. "I have had
visions; I know it to be true."
Sotha Sil was silent for a moment, and then looked at Iachesis, "I must
return to Morrowind."
"Knowing you, if you must do something, you will," sighed the old Master.
"The Psijics' way is not to be distracted. Wars are fought, Empires rise and
fall. You must go, and so must we."
"What do you mean, Iachesis? You're leaving the island?"
"No, the island will be leaving the sea," said Iachesis, his voice taking on
a dreamy quality. "In a few years, the mists will move over Artaeum and we
will be gone. We are counselors by nature, and there are too many counselors
in Tamriel as it is. No, we will go, and return when the land needs us
again, perhaps in another age."
The old Altmer struggles to his feet, and drained the last sip of his drink
before leaving Sotha Sil and Almalexia alone: "Don't miss the last boat."
The Year Continues in Second Seed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, Second Seed
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Speechcraft3
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Speechcraft skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Second Seed
Book Five of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
10 Second Seed, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
"Your Imperial Majesty," said the Potentate Versidue-Shaie, opening the door
to his chamber with a smile. "I have not seen you lately. I thought perhaps
you were ... indisposed with the lovely Rijja."
"She's taking the baths at Mir Corrup," the Emperor Reman III said miserably.
"Please, come in."
"I've reached the stage where I can only trust three people: you, my son the
Prince, and Rijja," said the Emperor petulantly. "My entire council is
nothing but a pack of spies."
"What seems to be the matter, your imperial majesty?" asked the Potentate
Versidue-Shaie sympathetically, drawing closed the thick curtain in his
chamber. Instantly all sound outside the room was extinguished, echoing
footsteps in the marble halls and birds in the springtide gardens.
"I've discovered that a notorious poisoner, an Orma tribeswoman from Black
Marsh called Catchica, was with the army at Caer Suvio while we were encamped
there when my son was poisoned, before the battle at Bodrum. I'm sure she
would have preferred to kill me, but the opportunity didn't present itself,"
The Emperor fumed. "The Council suggests that we need evidence of her
involvement before we prosecute."
"Of course they would," said the Potentate thoughtfully. "Particularly if one
or more of them was in on the plot. I have a thought, your imperial
majesty."
"Yes?" said Reman impatiently. "Out with it!"
"Tell the Council you're dropping the matter, and I will send out the Guard
to track this Catchica down and follow her. We will see who her friends are,
and perhaps get an idea of the scope of this plot on your imperial majesty's
life."
"Yes," said Reman with a satisfied frown. "That's a capital plan. We will
track this scheme to whomever it leads to."
"Decidedly, your imperial majesty," smiled the Potentate, parting the curtain
so the Emperor could leave. In the hallway outside was Versidue-Shaie's son,
Savirien-Chorak. The boy bowed to the Emperor before entering the
Potentate's chamber.
"Are you in trouble, father?" whispered the Akaviri lad. "I heard the Emperor
found out about whatshername, the poisoner."
"The great art of speechcraft, my boy," said Versidue-Shaie to his son. "Is
to tell them what they want to hear in a way that gets them to do what you
want them to do. I need you to get a letter to Catchica, and make certain
that she understands that if she does not follow the instructions perfectly,
she is risking her own life more than ours."
13 Second Seed, 2920
Mir Corrup, Cyrodiil
Rijja sank luxuriantly into the burbling hot spring, feeling her skin tingle
like it was being rubbed by millions of little stones. The rock shelf over
her head sheltered her from the misting rain, but let all the sunshine in,
streaming in layers through the branches of the trees. It was an idyllic
moment in an idyllic life, and when she was finished she knew that her beauty
would be entirely restored. The only thing she needed was a drink of water.
The bath itself, while wonderfully fragrant, tasted always of chalk.
"Water!" she cried to her servants. "Water, please!"
A gaunt woman with rags tied over her eyes ran to her side and dropped a
goatskin of water. Rijja was about to laugh at the woman's prudery -- she
herself was not ashamed of her naked body -- but then she noticed through a
crease in the rags that the old woman had no eyes at all. She was like one
of those Orma tribesmen Rijja had heard about, but never met. Born without
eyes, they were masters of their other senses. The Lord of Mir Corrup hired
very exotic servants, she thought to herself.
In a moment, the woman was gone and forgotten. Rijja found it very hard to
concentrate on anything but the sun and the water. She opened the cork, but
the liquid within had a strange, metallic smell to it. Suddenly, she was
aware that she was not alone.
"Lady Rijja," said the captain of the Imperial Guard. "You are, I see,
acquainted with Catchica?"
"I've never heard of her," stammered Rijja before becoming indignant. "What
are you doing here? This body is not for your leering eyes."
"Never heard of her, when we saw her with you not a minute ago," said the
captain, picking up the goatskin and smelling it. "Brought you neivous ichor,
did she? To poison the Emperor with?"
"Captain," said one of the guards, running up to him quickly. "We cannot find
the Argonian. It is as if she disappeared into the woods."
"Yes, they're good at that," said the captain. "No matter though. We've got
her contact at court. That should please his Imperial Majesty. Seize her."
As the guards pulled the writhing naked woman from the pool, she screamed,
"I'm innocent! I don't know what this is all about, but I've done nothing!
The Emperor will have your heads for this!"
"Yes, I imagine he will," smiled the captain. "If he trusts you."
21 Second Seed, 2920
Gideon, Black Marsh
The Sow and Vulture tavern was the sort of out-of-the-way place that Zuuk
favored for these sorts of interviews. Besides himself and his companion,
there were only a couple of old seadogs in the shadowy room, and they were
more unconscious from drink than aware. The grime of the unwashed floor was
something you felt rather than saw. Copious dust hung in the air unmoving in
the sparse rays of dying sunlight.
"You have experience in heavy combat?" asked Zuuk. "The reward is good for
this assignment, but the risks are great as well."
"Certainly I have combat experience," replied Miramor haughtily. "I was at
the Battle of Bodrum just two months ago. If you do your part and get the
Emperor to ride through Dozsa Pass with a minimal escort on the day and the
time we've discussed, I'll do my part. Just be certain that he's not
traveling in disguise. I'm not going to slaughter every caravan that passes
through in the hopes that it contains Emperor Reman."
Zuuk smiled, and Miramor looked at himself in the Kothringi's reflective
face. He liked the way he looked: the consummate confident professional.
"Agreed," said Zuuk. "And then you shall have the rest of your gold."
Zuuk placed the large chest onto the table between them. He stood up.
"Wait a few minutes before leaving," said Zuuk. "I don't want you following
me. Your employers wish to maintain their anonymity, if by chance you are
caught and tortured."
"Fine by me," said Miramor, ordering more grog.
Zuuk rode his mount through the cramped labyrinthine streets of Gideon, and
both he and his horse were happy to pass through the gates into the country.
The main road to Castle Giovese was flooded as it was every year in
springtide, but Zuuk knew a shorter way over the hills. Riding fast under
trees drooping with moss and treacherous slime-coated rocks, he arrived at
the castle gates in two hours' time. He wasted no time in climbing to
Tavia's cell at the top of the highest tower.
"What did you think of him?" asked the Empress.
"He's a fool," replied Zuuk. "But that's what we want for this sort of
assignment."
30 Second Seed, 2920
Thurzo Fortress, Cyrodiil
Rijja screamed and screamed and screamed. Within her cell, her only audience
was the giant gray stones, crusted with moss but still sturdy. The guards
outside were deaf to her as they were deaf to all prisoners. The Emperor,
miles away in the Imperial City, had likewise been deaf to her cries of
innocence.
She screamed knowing well that no one would likely hear her ever again.
31 Second Seed, 2920
Kavas Rim Pass, Cyrodiil
It had been days, weeks since Turala had seen another human face, Cyrodiil or
Dunmer. As she trod the road, she thought to herself how strange it was that
such an uninhabited place as Cyrodiil had become the Imperial Province, seat
of an Empire. Even the Bosmer in Valenwood must have more populated forests
than this Heartland wood.
She thought back. Was it a month ago, two, when she crossed the border from
Morrowind into Cyrodiil? It had been much colder then, but other than that,
she had no sense of time. The guards had been brusque, but as she was
carrying no weaponry, they elected to let her through. Since then, she had
seen a few caravans, even shared a meal with some adventurers camping for the
night, but met no one who would give her a ride to a town.
Turala stripped off her shawl and dragged it behind her. For a moment, she
thought she heard someone behind her and spun around. No one was there.
Just a bird perched on a branch making a sound like laughter.
She walked on, and then stopped. Something was happening. The child had
been kicking in her belly for some time now, but this was a different kind of
spasm. With a groan, she lurched over to the side of the path, collapsing
into the grass. Her child was coming.
She lay on her back and pushed, but she could barely see with her tears of
pain and frustration. How had it come to this? Giving birth in the
wilderness, all by herself, to a child whose father was the Duke of
Mournhold? Her scream of rage and agony shook the birds from the trees.
The bird that had been laughing at her earlier flew down to the road. She
blinked, and the bird was gone and in its place, a naked Elf man stood, not
as dark as a Dunmer, but not as pale as the Altmer. She knew at once it was
an Ayleid, a Wild Elf. Turala screamed, but the man held her down. After a
few minutes of struggle, she felt a release, and then fainted away.
When she awoke, it was to the sound of a baby crying. The child had been
cleaned and was lying by her side. Turala picked up her baby girl, and for
the first time that year, felt tears of happiness stream down her face.
She whispered to the trees, "Thank you" and began walking with babe in her
arms down the road to the west.
The Year Is Continued in Mid Year.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, Sun's Dawn
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Mysticism2
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Mysticism skill 1 point the first time the book is read
Sun's Dawn
Book Two of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
3 Sun's Dawn, 2920
The Isle of Artaeum, Summurset
Sotha Sil watched the initiates float one by one up to the oassom tree,
taking a fruit or a flower from its high branches before dropping back to the
ground with varying degrees of grace. He took a moment while nodding his
head in approval to admire the day. The whitewashed statue of Syrabane,
which the great mage was said to have posed for in ancient days, stood at the
precipice of the cliff overlooking the bay. Pale purple proscato flowers
waves to and fro in the gentle breeze. Beyond, ocean, and the misty border
between Artaeum and the main island of Summurset.
"By and large, acceptable," he proclaimed as the last student dropped her
fruit in his hand. With a wave of his hand, the fruit and flowers were back
in the tree. With another wave, the students had formed into position in a
semicircle around the sorcerer. He pulled a small fibrous ball, about a foot
in diameter from his white robes.
"What is this?"
The students understood this test. It asked them to cast a spell of
identification on the mysterious object. Each initiate closed his or her
eyes and imagined the ball in the realm of the universal Truth. Its energy
had a unique resonance as all physical and spiritual matter does, a negative
aspect, a duplicate version, relative paths, true meaning, a song in the
cosmos, a texture in the fabric of space, a facet of being that has always
existed and always will exist.
"A ball," said a young Nord named Welleg, which brought giggles from some of
the younger initiates, but a frown from most, including Sotha Sil.
"If you must be stupid, at least be amusing," growled the sorcerer, and then
looked at a young, dark-haired Altmer lass who looked confused. "Lilatha, do
you know?"
"It's grom," said Lilatha, uncertainly. "What the dreugh meff after they've
k-k-kr-krevinasim."
"Karvinasim, but very good, nonetheless," said Sotha Sil. "Now, tell me, what
does that mean?"
"I don't know," admitted Lilatha. The rest of the students also shook their
heads.
"There are layers to understanding all things," said Sotha Sil. "The common
man looks at an object and fits it into a place in his way of thinking.
Those skilled in the Old Ways, in the way of the Psijic, in Mysticism, can
see an object and identify it by its proper role. But one more layer is
needed to be peeled back to achieve understanding. You must identify the
object by its role and its truth and interpret that meaning. In this case,
this ball is indeed grom, which is a substance created by the dreugh, an
underwater race in the north and western parts of the continent. For one
year of their life, they undergo karvinasim when they walk upon the land.
Following that, they return to the water and meff, or devour the skin and
organs they needed for land-dwelling. Then they vomit it up into little
balls like this. Grom. Dreugh vomit."
The students looked at the ball a little queasily. Sotha Sil always loved
this lesson.
4 Sun's Dawn, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
"Spies," muttered the Emperor, sitting in his bath, staring at a lump on his
foot. "All around me, traitors and spies."
His mistress Rijja washed his back, her legs wrapped around his waist. She
knew after all these many years when to be sensual and when to be sexual.
When he was in a mood like this, it was best to be calmly, soothingly,
seductively sensual. And not to say a word unless he asked her a direct
question.
Which he did: "What do you think when a fellow steps on his Imperial
Majesty's foot and says 'I'm sorry, Your Imperial Majesty'? Don't you think
'Pardon me, Your Imperial Majesty' is more appropriate? 'I'm sorry,' well
that almost sounds like the bastard Argonian was sorry I am his Imperial
Majesty. That he hopes we lose the war with Morrowind, that's what it sounds
like."
"What would make you feel better?" asked Rijja. "Would you like him flogged?
He is only, as you say, the Battlechief of Soulrest. It would teach him to
mind where he's stepping."
"My father would have flogged him. My grandfather would have had him
killed," the Emperor grumbled. "But I don't mind if they all step on my feet,
provided they respect me. And don't plot against me."
"You must trust someone."
"Only you," smiled the Emperor, turning slightly to give Rijja a kiss. "And
my son Juilek, I suppose, though I wish he were a little more cautious."
"And your council, and the Potentate?" asked Rijja.
"A pack of spies and a snake," laughed the Emperor, kissing his mistress
again. As they began to make love, he whispered, "As long as you're true, I
can handle the world."
13 Sun's Dawn, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind
Turala stood at the black, bejeweled city gates. A wind howled around her,
but she felt nothing.
The Duke had been furious upon hearing his favorite mistress was pregnant and
cast her from his sight. She tried again and again to see him, but his
guards turned her away. Finally, she returned to her family and told them
the truth. If only she had lied and told them she did not know who the
father was. A soldier, a wandering adventurer, anyone. But she told them
that the father was the Duke, a member of the House Indoril. And they did
what she knew they would have to do, as proud members of the House Redoran.
Upon her hand was burned the sign of Expulsion her weeping father had branded
on her. But the Duke's cruelty hurt her far more. She looked out the gate
and into the wide winter plains. Twisted, sleeping trees and skies without
birds. No one in Morrowind would take her in now. She must go far away.
With slow, sad steps, she began her journey.
16 Sun's Dawn, 2920
Senchal, Anequina (modern day Elsweyr)
"What troubles you?" asked Queen Hasaama, noticing her husband's sour mood.
At the end of most Lovers' Days he was in an excellent mood, dancing in the
ballroom with all the guests, but tonight he retired early. When she found
him, he was curled in the bed, frowning.
"That blasted bard's tale about Polydor and Eloisa put me in a rotten state,"
he growled. "Why did he have to be so depressing?"
"But isn't that the truth of the tale, my dear? Weren't they doomed because
of the cruel nature of the world?"
"It doesn't matter what the truth is, he did a rotten job of telling a rotten
tale, and I'm not going to let him do it anymore," King Dro'Zel sprang from
the bed. His eyes were rheumy with tears. "Where did they say he was from
again?"
"I believe Gilverdale in easternmost Valenwood," said the Queen, shaken. "My
husband, what are you going to do?"
Dro'Zel was out of the room in a single spring, bounding up the stairs to his
tower. If Queen Hasaama knew what her husband was going to do, she did not
try to stop him. He had been erratic of late, prone to fits and even
occasional seizures. But she never suspected the depths of his madness, and
his loathing for the bard and his tale of the wickedness and perversity found
in mortal man.
19 Sun's Dawn, 2920
Gilverdale, Valenwood
"Listen to me again," said the old carpenter. "If cell three holds worthless
brass, then cell two holds the gold key. If cell one holds the gold key,
then cell three hold worthless brass. If cell two holds worthless brass, then
cell one holds the gold key."
"I understand," said the lady. "You told me. And so cell one holds the gold
key, right?"
"No," said the carpenter. "Let me start from the top."
"Mama?" said the little boy, pulling on his mother's sleeve.
"Just one moment, dear, mother's talking," she said, concentrating on the
riddle. "You said 'cell three holds the golden key if cell two holds
worthless brass,' right?"
"No," said the carpenter patiently. "Cell three holds worthless brass, if
cell two --"
"Mama!" cried the boy. His mother finally looked.
A bright red mist was pouring over the town in a wave, engulfing building
after building in its wake. Striding before was a red-skinned giant. The
Daedra Molag Bal. He was smiling.
29 Sun's Dawn, 2920
Gilverdale, Valenwood
Almalexia stopped her steed in the vast moor of mud to let him drink from the
river. He refused to, even seemed repelled by the water. It struck her as
odd: they had been making excellent time from Mournhold, and surely he must
be thirsty. She dismounted and joined her retinue.
"Where are we now?" she asked.
One of her ladies pulled out a map. "I thought we were approaching a town
called Gilverdale."
Almalexia closed her eyes and opened them again quickly. The vision was too
much to bear. As her followers watched, she picked up a piece of brick and a
fragment of bone, and clutched them to her heart.
"We must continue on to Artaeum," she said quietly.
The Year continues in First Seed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, Sun's Dusk
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Short Blade2
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Short Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Sun's Dusk
Book Eleven of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
2 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Tel Aruhn, Morrowind
"A man to see you, Night Mother," said the guard. "A Kothringi tribesman who
presents his credentials as Lord Zuuk of Black Marsh, part of the Imperial
Garrison of Gideon."
"What makes you think I'd have even the slightest possible interest in seeing
him?" asked the Night Mother with venomous sweetness.
"He brings a letter from the late Empress of the Cyrodilic Empire."
"We are having a busy day," she smiled, clapping her hands together with
delight. "Show him in."
Zuuk entered the chamber. His metallic skin, though exposed only at his face
and hands, caught the light of the fireplace and the lightning of the stormy
night from the window. The Night Mother noted also that she could see herself
as he saw her: serene, beautiful, fear-inspiring. He handed her his letter
from the Empress without a word. Sipping her wine, she read it.
"The Duke of Morrowind also offered me an appreciable sum to have the Emperor
murdered earlier this year," she said, folding the letter. "His payment sunk,
and never was delivered. It was a considerable annoyance, particularly as I
had already gone to the trouble of putting one of my agents in the palace.
Why should I assume that your more-than-generous payment, from a dead woman,
will arrive?"
"I brought it with me," said Zuuk simply. "It is in the carriage outside."
"Then bring it in and our business is complete," smiled the Night Mother.
"The Emperor will be dead by year's end. You may leave the gold with
Apaladith. Unless you'd care for some wine?"
Zuuk declined the offer and withdrew. The moment he left the room, Miramor
slipped noiselessly back from behind the dark tapestry. The Night Mother
offered him a glass of wine, and he accepted it.
"I know that fellow, Zuuk," said Miramor carefully. "I didn't know he worked
for the old Empress though."
"Let's talk about you some more, if you don't mind," she said, knowing he
would, in fact, not mind.
"Let me show you my worth," said Miramor. "Let me be the one to do the
Emperor in. I've already killed his son, and you saw there how well I can
hide myself away. Tell me you saw one ripple in the tapestry."
The Night Mother smiled. Things were falling into place rather nicely.
"If you know how to use a dagger, you will find him at Bodrum," she said, and
described to him what he must do.
3 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind
The Duke stared out the window. It was early morning, and for the fourth
straight day, a red mist hung over the city, flashing lightning. A freakish
wind blew through the streets, ripping his flags from the castle battlements,
forcing all his people to close their shudders tightly. Something terrible
was coming to his land. He was not a greatly learned man, but he knew the
signs. So too did his subjects.
"When will my messengers reach the Three?" he growled, turning to his
castellan.
"Vivec is far to the north, negotiating the treaty with the Emperor," the man
said, his face and voice trembling with fear. "Almalexia and Sotha Sil are in
Necrom. Perhaps they can be reached in a few days time."
The Duke nodded. He knew his messengers were fast, but so too was the hand
of Oblivion.
6 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Bodrum, Morrowind
Torchlight caught in the misting snow gave the place an otherworldly quality.
The soldiers from both camps found themselves huddled together around the
largest of the bonfires: winter bringing enemies of four score of warring
close together. While only a few of the Dunmer guard could speak Cyrodilic,
they found common ground battling for warmth. When a pretty Redguard maiden
passed into their midst to warm herself before moving back to the treaty
tent, many a man from both army raised their eyes in approval.
The Emperor Reman III was eager to leave negotiations before they had ever
begun. A month earlier, he thought it would be a sign of good will to meet
at the site of his defeat to Vivec's army, but the place brought back more
bad memories than he thought it would. Despite the protestations of
Potentate Versidue-Shaie that the rocks of the river were naturally red, he
could swear he saw splatters of his soldier's blood.
"We have all the particulars of the treaty," he said, taking a glass of hot
yuelle from his mistress Corda. "But here and now is not the place for
signing. We should do it at the Imperial Palace, with all the pomp and
splendor this historic occasion demands. You must bring Almalexia with you
too. And that wizard fellow."
"Sotha Sil," whispered the Potentate.
"When?" asked Vivec with infinite patience.
"In exactly a month's time," said the Emperor, smiling munificently and
clambering awkwardly to his feet. "We will hold a grand ball to commemorate.
Now I must take a walk. My legs are all cramped up with the weather. Corda,
my dear, will you walk with me?"
"Of course, your Imperial Majesty," she said, helping him toward the tent's
entrance.
"Would you like me to come with you as well, your Imperial Majesty?" asked
Versidue-Shaie.
"Or I?" asked King Dro'Zel of Senchal, a newly appointed advisor to the
court.
"That won't be necessary, I won't be gone a minute," said Reman.
Miramor crouched in the same rushes he had hidden in nearly eight months
before. Now the ground was hard and snow-covered, and the rushes slick with
ice. Every slight movement he made issued forth a crunch. If it were not
for the raucous songs of the combined Morrowind and Imperial army gathered
about the bonfire, he would not have dared creep as close to the Emperor and
his concubine. They were standing at the curve in the frozen creek below the
bluff, surrounded by trees sparkling with ice.
Carefully, Miramor removed the dagger from its sheath. He had slightly
exaggerated his abilities with a short blade to the Night Mother. True, he
had used one to cut the throat of Prince Juilek, but the lad was not in any
position to fight back at the time. Still, how difficult could it be to stab
an old man with one eye? What sort of blade skill would such an easy
assassination require?
His ideal moment presented itself before his eyes. The woman saw something
deeper in the woods, an icicle of an unusual shape she said, and darted off
to get it. The Emperor remained behind, laughing. He turned to the face of
the bluff to see his soldiers singing their song's refrain, his back to his
assassin. Miramor knew the moment had come. Mindful of the sound of his
footfall on the icy ground, he stepped forward and struck. Very nearly.
Almost simultaneously, he was aware of a strong arm holding back his striking
arm and another one punching a dagger into his throat. He could not scream.
The Emperor, still looking up at the soldiers, never saw Miramor pulled back
into the brush and a hand much more skilled than his slicing into his back,
paralyzing him.
His blood pooling out and already crystallizing on the frozen ground, Miramor
watched, dying, as the Emperor and his courtesan returned to join the camp up
on the bluff.
12 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind
A gout of ever-erupting flame was all that remained of the central courtyard
of Castle Mournhold, blasting skyward into the boiling clouds. A thick,
tarry smoke rolled through the streets, igniting everything that was wood or
paper on fire. Winged bat-like creatures harried the citizens from their
hiding places out into the open, where they were met by the real army. The
only thing that kept all of Mournhold from burning to the ground was the wet,
sputtering blood of its people.
Mehrunes Dagon smiled as he surveyed the castle crumbling.
"To think I nearly didn't come," he said aloud, his voice booming over the
chaos. "Imagine missing all this fun."
His attention was arrested by a needle-thin shaft of light piercing through
his black and red shadowed sky. He followed it to its source, two figures, a
man and a woman standing on the hill above town. The man in the white robe
he recognized immediately as Sotha Sil, the sorcerer who had talked all the
Princes of Oblivion into that meaningless truce.
"If you've come for the Duke of Mournhold, he isn't here," laughed Mehrunes
Dagon. "But you might find pieces of him the next time it rains."
"Daedra, we cannot kill you," said Almalexia, her face hard and resolute.
"But that you will soon regret."
With that, two living gods and a prince of Oblivion engaged in battle on the
ruins of Mournhold.
17 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Tel Aruhn, Morrowind
"Night Mother," said the guard. "Correspondence from your agent in the
Imperial Palace."
The Night Mother read the note carefully. The test had been a success:
Miramor had been successfully detected and slain. The Emperor was in very
unsafe hands. The Night Mother responded immediately.
18 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Balmora, Morrowind
Sotha Sil, face solemn and unreadable, greeted Vivec at the grand plaza in
front of his palace. Vivec had ridden day and night after hearing about the
battle in his tent in Bodrum, crossing mile after mile, cutting through the
dangerous ground at Dagoth-Ur at blinding speed. To the south, during all
the course of the voyage, he could see the whirling red clouds and knew that
the battle was continuing, day after day. In Gnisis, he met a messenger from
Sotha Sil, asking him to meet at Balmora.
"Where is Almalexia?"
"Inside," said Sotha Sil wearily. There was a long, ugly gash running across
his jaw. "She's gravely injured, but Mehrunes Dagon will not return from
Oblivion for many a moon."
Almalexia lay on a bed of silk, tended to by Vivec's own healers. Her face,
even her lips, was gray as stone, and blood stained through the gauze of her
bandages. Vivec took her cold hand. Almalexia's mouth moved wordlessly.
She was dreaming.
She was battling Mehrunes Dagon again amid a firestorm. All around her, the
blackened husk of a castle crumbled, splashing sparks into the night sky.
The Daedra's claws dug into her belly, spreading poison through her veins
while Almalexia throttled him. As she sank to the ground beside her defeated
foe, she saw that the castle consumed by fire was not Castle Mournhold. It
was the Imperial Palace.
24 Sun's Dusk, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
A winter gale blew over the city, splashing the windows and glass domes of
the Imperial Palace. Quivering light rays illuminated the figures within in
surreal patterns.
The Emperor barked orders to his staff in preparations for the banquet and
ball. This was what he enjoyed best, more than battle. King Dro'Zel was
supervising the entertainment, having strong opinions on the matter. The
Emperor himself was arranging the details of the dinner. Roast nebfish,
vegetable marrow, cream soups, buttered helerac, codscrumb, tongue in aspic.
Potentate Versidue-Shaie had made a few suggestions of his own, but the
tastes of the Akaviri were very peculiar.
The Lady Corda accompanied the Emperor to his chambers as night fell.
The Year is Concluded in Evening Star.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, Sun's Height
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Mercantile3
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Mercantile skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Sun's Height
Book Seven of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
4 Sun's Height, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
The Emperor Reman III and his Potentate Versidue-Shaie took a stroll around
the Imperial Gardens. Studded with statuary and fountains, the north gardens
fit the Emperor's mood, as well as being the coolest acreage in the City
during the heat of summertide. Austere, tiered flowerbeds of blue-gray and
green towered all around them as they walked.
"Vivec has agreed to the Prince's terms for peace," said Reman. "My son will
be returning in two weeks' time."
"This is excellent news," said the Potentate carefully. "I hope the Dunmer
will honor the terms. We might have asked for more. The fortress at Black
Gate, for example. But I suppose the Prince knows what is reasonable. He
would not cripple the Empire just for peace."
"I have been thinking lately of Rijja and what caused her to plot against my
life," said the Emperor, pausing to admire a statue of the Slave Queen
Alessia before continuing. "The only thing I can think of to account for it
is that she admired my son too much. She may have loved me for my power and
my personality, but he, after all, is young and handsome and will one day
inherit my throne. She must have thought that if I were dead, she could have
an Emperor who had both youth and power."
"The Prince ... was in on this plot?" asked Versidue-Shaie. It was a
difficult game to play, anticipating where the Emperor's paranoia would
strike next.
"Oh, I don't think so," said Reman, smiling. "No, my son loves me well."
"Are you aware that Corda, Raja's sister in an initiate of the Morwha
conservatorium in Hegathe?" asked the Potentate.
"Morwha?" asked the Emperor. "I've forgotten: which god is that?"
"Lusty fertility goddess of the Yokudans," replied the Potentate. "But not
too lusty, like Dibella. Demure, but certainly sexual."
"I am through with lusty women. The Empress, Rijja, all too lusty, a lust for
love leads to a lust for power," the Emperor shrugged his shoulders. "But a
priestess-in-training with a certain healthy appetite sounds ideal. Now what
were you saying about the Black Gate?"
6 Sun's Height, 2920
Thurzo Fortress, Cyrodiil
Rijja stood quietly looking at the cold stone floor while the Emperor spoke.
He had never before seen her so pale and joyless. She might at least be
pleased that she was being freed, being returned to her homeland. Why, if
she left now, she could be in Hammerfell by the Merchant's Festival. Nothing
he said seemed to register any reaction from her. A month and a half's stay
in Thurzo Fortress seemed to have killed her spirit.
"I was thinking," said the Emperor at last. "Of having your younger sister
Corda up to the palace for a time. I think she would prefer it over the
conservatorium in Hegathe, don't you?"
Reaction, at last. Rijja looked at the Emperor with animal hatred, flinging
herself at him in a rage. Her fingernails had grown long since her
imprisonment and she raked them across his face, into his eyes. He howled
with pain, and his guards pulled her off, pummeling her with blows from the
back of their swords, until she was knocked unconscious.
A healer was called at once, but the Emperor Reman III had lost his right
eye.
23 Sun's Height, 2920
Balmora, Morrowind
Vivec pulled himself from the water, feeling the heat of the day washed from
his skin, taking a towel from one of his servants. Sotha Sil watched his old
friend from the balcony.
"It looks like you've picked up a few more scars since I last saw you," said
the sorcerer.
"Azura grant it that I have no more for a while," laughed Vivec. "When did
you arrive?"
"A little over an hour ago," said Sotha Sil, walking down the stairs to the
water's edge. "I thought I was coming to end a war, but it seems you've done
it without me."
"Yes, eighty years is long enough for ceaseless battle," replied Vivec,
embracing Sotha Sil. "We made concessions, but so did they. When the old
Emperor is dead, we may be entering a golden age. Prince Juilek is very wise
for his age. Where is Almalexia?"
"Collecting the Duke of Mournhold. They should be here tomorrow afternoon."
The men were distracted at a sight from around the corner of the palace - a
rider was approaching through the town, heading for the front steps. It was
evident that the woman had been riding hard for some time. They met her in
the study, where she burst in, breathing hard.
"We have been betrayed," she gasped. "The Imperial Army has seized the Black
Gate."
24 Sun's Height, 2920
Balmora, Morrowind
It was the first time in seventeen years that the three members of the
Morrowind Tribunal had met in the same place, since Sotha Sil had left for
Artaeum. All three wished that the circumstances of their reunion were
different.
"From what we've learned, while the Prince was returning to Cyrodiil to the
south, a second Imperial Army came down from the north," said Vivec to his
stony-faced compatriots. "It is reasonable to assume Juilek didn't know about
the attack."
"But neither would it be unreasonable to suppose that he planned on being a
distraction while the Emperor launched the attack on Black Gate," said Sotha
Sil. "This must be considered a break of the truce."
"Where is the Duke of Mournhold?" asked Vivec. "I would hear his thoughts on
the matter."
"He is meeting with the Night Mother in Tel Aruhn," said Almalexia, quietly.
"I told him to wait until he had spoken with you, but he said that the matter
had waited long enough."
"He would involve the Morag Tong? In outside affairs?" Vivec shook his head,
and looked to Sotha Sil: "Please, do what you can. Assassination will only
move us backwards. This matter must be settled with diplomacy or battle."
25 Sun's Height, 2920
Tel Aruhn, Morrowind
The Night Mother met Sotha Sil in her salon, lit only by the moon. She was
cruelly beautiful dressed in a simple silk black robe, lounging across her
divan. With a gesture, she dismissed her red-cloaked guards and offered the
sorcerer some wine.
"You've only just missed your friend, the Duke," she whispered. "He was very
unhappy, but I think we will solve his problem for him."
"Did he hire the Morag Tong to assassinate the Emperor?" asked Sotha Sil.
"You are straight-forward, aren't you? That's good. I love plain-speaking
men: it saves so much time. Of course, I cannot discuss with you what the
Duke and I talked about," she smiled. "It would be bad for business."
"What if I were to offer you an equal amount of gold for you not to
assassinate the Emperor?"
"The Morag Tong murders for the glory of Mephala and for profit," she said,
speaking into her glass of wine. "We do not merely kill. That would be
sacrilege. Once the Duke's gold has arrived in three days time, we will do
our end of the business. And I'm afraid we would not dream of entertaining a
counter offer. Though we are a business as well as a religious order, we do
not bow to supply and demand, Sotha Sil."
27 Sun's Height, 2920
The Inner Sea, Morrowind
Sotha Sil had been watching the waters for two days now, waiting for a
particular vessel, and now he saw it. A heavy ship with the flag of
Mournhold. The sorcerer took the air and intercepted it before it reached
harbor. A caul of flame erupted over his figure, disguising his voice and
form into that of a Daedra.
"Abandon your ship!" he bellowed. "If you would not sink with it!"
In truth, Sotha Sil could have exploded the vessel with but a single ball of
fire, but he chose to take his time, to give the crew a chance to dive off
into the warm water. When he was certain there was no one living aboard, he
focused his energy into a destructive wave that shook the air and water as it
discharged. The ship and the Duke's payment to the Morag Tong sunk to the
bottom of the Inner Sea.
"Night Mother," thought Sotha Sil, as he floated towards shore to alert the
harbormaster that some sailors were in need of rescue. "Everyone bows to
supply and demand."
The Year is Continued in Last Seed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 1
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Athletics3
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Athletics skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon One
He was born in the ash among the Velothi, anon Chimer, before the war with
the northern men. Ayem came first to the village of the netchimen, and her
shadow was that of Boethiah, who was the Prince of Plots, and things unknown
and known would fold themselves around her until they were like stars or the
messages of stars. Ayem took a netchiman's wife and said:
'I am the Face-Snaked Queen of the Three in One. In you is an image and a
seven-syllable spell, AYEM AE SEHTI AE VEHK, which you will repeat to it
until mystery comes.'
Then Ayem threw the netchiman's wife into the ocean water where dreughs took
her into castles of glass and coral. They gifted the netchiman's wife with
gills and milk fingers, changing her sex so that she might give birth to the
image as an egg. There she stayed for seven or eight months.
Then Seht came to the netchiman's wife and said:
'I am the Clockwork King of the Three in One. In you is an egg of my brother-
sister, who possesses invisible knowledge of words and swords, which you
shall nurture until the Hortator comes.'
And Seht then extended his hands and multitudes of homunculi came forth, each
like a glimmering rope through the water, and they raised the netchiman's
wife back to the surface world and set her down on the shoals of Azura's
coast. There she lay for seven or eight more months, caring for the egg-
knowledge by whispering to it the Codes of Mephala and the prophecies of
Veloth and even the forbidden teachings of Trinimac.
Seven Daedra came to her one night and each one gave to the egg new motions
that could be achieved by certain movements of the bones. These are called
the Barons of Move Like This. Then an eighth Daedroth came, and he was a
Demiprince, called Fa-Nuit-Hen, or the Multiplier of Motions Known. And Fa-
Nuit-Hen said:
'Whom do you wait for?'
To which the netchiman's wife said the Hortator.
'Go to the land of the Indoril in three months' time, for that is when war
comes. I return now to haunt the warriors who fell and still wonder why. But
first I show you this.'
Then the Barons and the Demiprince joined together into a pillar of fighting
styles terrible to behold and they danced before the egg and its learning
image.
'Look, little Vehk, and find the face behind the splendor of my bladed
carriage, for in it is delivered the unmixed conflict path, perfect in every
way. What is its number?'
It is said the number is the number of birds that can nest in an ancient
tibrol tree, less three grams of honest work, but Vivec in his later years
found a better one and so gave this secret to his people.
'For I have crushed a world with my left hand,' he will say, 'but in my right
hand is how it could have won against me. Love is under my will only.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 2
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Alchemy4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Alchemy skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Two
The netchiman's wife who carried the egg of Vivec within her went looking for
the lands of the Indoril. Along the journey many spirits came to see her and
offer instructions to her son-daughter, the future glorious invisible
warrior-poet of Vvardenfell, Vivec.
The first spirit threw his arms about her and hugged his knowledge in tight.
The netchiman's wife became soaked in the Incalculable Effort. The egg was
delighted and did somersaults inside her, bowing to the five corners of the
world and saying: 'Thus whoever performs this holy act shall be proud and
mighty among the rest!'
The second spirit was too aloof and acted above his station so much that he
was driven off by a headache spell.
The third spirit, At-Hatoor, came down to the netchiman's wife while she
relaxed for a while under an Emperor Parasol. His garments were made from
implications of meaning, and the egg looked at them three times. The first
time Vivec said:
'Ha, it means nothing!'
After looking a second time he said: 'Hmm, there might be something there
after all.'
Finally, giving At-Hatoor's garments a sidelong glance, he said: 'Amazing,
the ability to infer significance in something devoid of detail!'
'There is a proverb,' At-Hatoor said, and then he left.
The fourth spirit came with the fifth, for they were cousins. They could
ghost touch and probed inside the egg to find its core. Some say Vivec at
this point was shaped like a star with its penumbra broken off; others, that
it looked like a revival of vanished forms.
'From my side of the family,' the first cousin said, 'I bring you a series of
calamities that will bring about the end of the universe.'
'And from my side,' the second cousin said, 'I bring you all the primordial
marriages that must happen within them, each one.'
At this the egg laughed. 'I am given too much to bear so young. I must have
been born before.'
And then the sixth spirit appeared, the Black Hands Mephala, who taught the
Velothi at the beginning of days all the arts of sex and murder. Its burning
heart melted the eyes of the netchiman's wife and took the egg from her belly
with six cutting strokes. The egg-image, however, could see into what it had
been before in ancient times, when the earth still cooled, and was not
blinded. It joined with the Daedroth and took its former secrets, leaving a
few behind to keep the web of the world from disentangling. Then the Black
Hands Mephala put the egg back into the netchiman's wife and blew on her with
magic breath until the hole closed up. But the Daedroth did not give her back
her eyes, saying:
' God hath three keys; of birth, of machines, and of the words between.'
Within this Sermon the wise may find one half of these keys.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 3
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Blunt Weapon4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Blunt Weapon skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Three
Being blind the netchiman's wife wandered into a cave on her way to the
domains of House Indoril. It so happened that this cave was a Dwemeri
stronghold. The Dwemer spied the egg and captured the netchiman's wife. They
bound her head to foot and brought her deep within the earth.
She heard one say, 'Go and make a simulacrum of her and place it back on the
surface, for she has something akin to what we have and so the Velothi will
covet it and notice if she is too long away.'
In the darkness, the netchiman's wife felt great knives try to cut her open.
When the knives did not work, the Dwemer used solid sounds. When those did
not work, great heat was brought to bear. Nothing was of any use, and the egg
of Vivec remained safe within her.
A Dwemer said, 'Nothing is of any use. We must go and misinterpret this.'
Vivec felt that his mother was afraid, and so consoled her.
'The fire is mine: let it consume thee,
And make a secret door
At the altar of Padhome,
In the House of Boet-hi-Ah
Where we become safe
And looked after.'
This old prayer made the netchiman's wife smile and begin such a deep sleep
that when Dwemeri atronachs returned with cornered spheres and cut her apart
she did not awake and died peacefully. Vivec was removed from her womb and
placed within a magical glass for further study. To confound his captors, he
channeled his essence into love, an emotion the Dwemer knew nothing about.
The egg said: 'Love is used not only as a constituent in moods and affairs,
but also as the raw material from which relationships produce hour-later
exasperations, regrettably fashioned restrictions, riddles laced with
affections known only to the loving couple, and looks that linger too long.
Love is also an often-used ingredient in some transparent verbal and
nonverbal transactions where, eventually, it can sometimes be converted to a
variety of true devotions, some of which yield tough, insoluble, and
infusible unions. In its basic form, love supplies approximately thirteen
draughts of all energy that is derived from relationships. Its role and value
in society at large are controversial.'
The Dwemer were vexed at these words and tried to hide behind their power
symbols. They sent their atronachs to remove the egg-image from their cave
and place it within the simulacrum they had made of Vivec's mother.
A Dwemer said, 'We Dwemer are only aspirants to this that the Velothi have.
They shall be our doom in this and the eight known worlds, NIRN, LHKAN,
RKHET, THENDR, KYNRT, AKHAT, MHARA, and JHUNAL.'
The secret to doom is within this Sermon.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 4
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Object ID: BookSkill_Mysticism3
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Mysticism skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Four
The simulacrum of the netchiman's wife who carried the egg of Vivec within it
went back to looking for the lands of the Indoril. Along the journey many
more spirits came to see it and offer instructions to its son-daughter, the
future glorious invisible warrior-poet of Vvardenfell, Vivec.
A troupe of spirits called the Lobbyists for the Coincidence Guild appeared.
Vivec understood the challenge immediately and said:
'The popular notion of God kills happenstance.'
The head of the Lobbyists, whose name is forgotten, tried to defend the
concept's existence. He said, 'Saying something at the same time can be
magical.'
Vivec knew that to retain his divinity that he must make a strong argument
against luck. He said:
'Is not the sudden revelation of corresponding conditions and disparate
elements that gel at the moment of the coincidence one of the prerequisites
to being, in fact, coincidental? Synchronicity comes out of repeated
coincidences at the lowest level. Further examination shows it is the utter
power of the sheer number of coincidences that leads one to the idea that
synchronicity is guided by something more than chance. Therefore,
synchronicity ends up invalidating the concept of the coincidental, even
though they are the symptomatic signs that bring it to the surface.'
Thus was coincidence destroyed in the land of the Velothi.
Then an Old Bone of the earth rose up before the simulacrum of the
netchiman's wife and said, 'If you are to be born a ruling king of the world
you must confuse it with new words. Set me into pondering.'
'Very well,' Vivec said, 'Let me talk to you of the world, which I share with
mystery and love. Who is her capital? Have you taken the scenic route of her
cameo? I have-- lightly, in secret, missing candles because they're on the
untrue side, and run my hand along the edge of a shadow made from one hundred
and three divisions of warmth, and left no proof.'
At this the Old Bone folded unto itself twenty times until it became akin to
milk, which Vivec drank, becoming a ruling king of the world.
Finally the Chancellor of Exactitude appeared, and he was perfect to look
upon from every angle. Vivec understood the challenge immediately and said:
'Certitude is for the puzzle-box logicians and girls of white glamour who
harbor it on their own time. I am a letter written in uncertainty.'
The Chancellor bowed his head and smiled fifty different and perfect ways all
at once. He pulled the astrolabe of the universe from his robe and broke it
in half, handing both halves to the egg-image of Vivec.
Vivec laughed and said, 'Yes, I know. The slave labor of the senses is as
selfish as polar ice, and worsens when energies are spent on a life others
regard as fortunate. To be a ruling king I will have to suffer much that
cannot be suffered, and to weigh matters that no astrolabe or compass can
measure.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 5
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Object ID: BookSkill_Axe4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Axe skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Five
Finally the simulacrum of the netchiman's wife became unstable. The Dwemer in
their haste had built it shoddily and the ashes of Red Mountain slowed its
golden tendons. Before long it fell on its knees beside the road to the lands
of the Indoril and pitched over, to be discovered eighty days later by a
merchant caravan on its way to the capital of Veloth, anon Almalexia.
Vivec had not been among his people all the days of his pre-life so he stayed
silent and let the Chimer in the caravan think that the simulacrum was broken
and empty.
A Chimeri warrior, who was protecting the caravan, said, 'Look here how the
Dwemer try to fool us as ever, crafting our likenesses out of their flesh-
metals. We should take this to the capital and show our mother Ayem. She will
want to see this new strategy of our enemies.'
But the merchant captain said, 'I doubt that we shall be paid well for the
effort. We can make more money if we stop at Noormoc and sell it to the Red
Wives of Dagon, who pay well for the wonders made by the Deep Folk.'
But another Chimer, who was wise in the ways of prophecy, looked on the
simulacrum with disquietude. 'Was I not hired on to help you seek the best of
fortunes? I say you should listen to your warrior, then, and take this thing
to Ayem, for though manufactured by our enemies there is something in it that
will become sacred, or has been already.'
The merchant captain took pause then and looked on the simulacrum of the
netchiman's wife and, though he heeded always the advice of his seers, could
do no more than think of the profits to be made at Noormoc. He thought mainly
of the Red Wives' form of recompense, which was four-cornered and good
wounded, a belly-magic known nowhere else under the moons. His lust made him
deny Ayem his mother. He gave order to change course for Noormoc.
Before the caravan could get underway again, the Chimeri warrior who had
counseled a passage to the capital threw his money to the merchant captain
and said, 'I will pay you thus for the simulacrum and warn you: war is coming
with the shaggy men of the north and I will not have my mother Ayem at uneven
odds with one enemy while tending to another.'
'Nerevar,' the merchant captain said, 'this is not enough. I am Triune in my
own way, but I follow the road of my body and demand more.'
Then Vivec could not remain silent anymore and said into Nerevar's head these
words:
'You can hear the words, so run away
Come, Hortator, unfold into a clear unknown,
Stay quiet until you've slept in the yesterday,
And say no elegies for the melting stone'
So Nerevar slew the merchant captain and took the caravan for his own.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 6
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Object ID: BookSkill_Armorer3
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Armorer skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Six
You have discovered the sixth Sermon of Vivec, which was hidden in the words
that came next to the Hortator.
There is an eon within itself that when unraveled becomes the first sentence
of the world.
Mephala and Azura are the twin gates of tradition and Boethiah is the secret
flame.
The Sun shall be eaten by lions, which cannot be found yet in Veloth.
Six are the vests and garments worn by the suppositions of men.
Proceed only with the simplest terms, for all others are enemies and will
confuse you.
Six are the formulas to heaven by violence, one that you have learned by
studying these words.
The Father is a machine and the mouth of a machine. His only mystery is an
invitation to elaborate further.
The Mother is active and clawed like a nix-hound, yet she is the holiest of
those that reclaim their days.
The Son is myself, Vehk, and I am unto three, six, nine, and the rest that
come after, glorious and sympathetic, without borders, utmost in the
perfections of this world and the others, sword and symbol, pale like gold.
There is a fourth kind of philosophy that uses nothing but disbelief.
For by the sword I mean the sensible.
For by the word I mean the dead.
I am Vehk, your protector and the protector of Red Mountain until the end of
days, which are numbered 3333.
Below me is the savage, which we needed to remove ourselves from the Altmer.
Above me is a challenge, which bathes itself in fire and the essence of a
god.
Through me you are desired, unlike the prophets that have borne your name
before.
Six are the walking ways, from enigma to enemy to teacher.
Boethiah and Azura are the principles of the universal plot, which is
begetting, which is creation, and Mephala makes of it an art form.
For by the sword I mean the first night.
For by the word I mean the dead.
There will be a splendor in your name when it is said to be true.
Six are the guardians of Veloth, three before and they are born again, and
they will test you until you have the proper tendencies of the hero.
There is a world that is sleeping and you must guard against it.
For by the sword I mean the dual nature.
For by the word I mean animal life.
For by the sword I mean preceded by a sigh.
For by the word I mean preceded by a wolf.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 7
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Object ID: BookSkill_Block4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Block skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Seven
As the caravan of Nerevar now made for the capital of Veloth, anon Almalexia,
there came great rumblings from the oblivion. A duke among scamps wandered
into the House of Troubles, pausing before each scripture door to pay his
respects, until finally he was met by the major domo of Mehrunes Dagon.
The Duke of Scamps said, 'I was summoned by Lord Dagon, master of the foul
waters and fire, and I have brought the pennants of my seven legions.'
The major domo, whose head was a bubble of foul water and fire, bowed low, so
that the head of the Duke of Scamps became enclosed in his own.
He saw the first pennant, which commanded a legion of grim warriors who could
die at least twice.
He saw the second pennant, which commanded a legion of winged bulls and the
emperor of color that rode upon each.
He saw the third pennant, which commanded a legion of inverted gorgons, great
snakes whose scales were the faces of men.
He saw the fourth pennant, which commanded a legion of double-crossed lovers.
He saw the fifth pennant, which commanded a legion of jumping wounds looking
to hop onto a victim.
He saw the sixth pennant, which commanded a legion of abridged planets.
He saw the seventh pennant, which commanded a legion of armored winning
moves.
To which the major domo said, 'Duke Kh-Utta, your legions while mighty are
not enough to destroy Nerevar or the Triune way. Look upon the Hortator and
see the wisdom he takes to wife.'
And they looked into the middle world and saw:
Evaporating in a throng of thunder
Of red war and chitin men,
Where destines
Take him further from our ways
The heat that we have wanted
And pray they still remember,
Where destines
Clothe the distance,
Glad in the golden east that we saw it now,
Instead of the war and repair
Of the oblivious fracture
A curse on the Hortator
And two more on his hands
And the Duke of Scamps saw the palms of the Hortator, upon which the egg had
written these words of power: GHARTOK PADHOME GHARTOK PADHOME.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 8
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Object ID: BookSkill_Athletics4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Athletics skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Eight
And presently Nerevar and Vivec were within sight of the capital and the Four
Corners of the House of Troubles knew that it was not time to contest them.
The caravan musicians made a great song of entrance and the eleven gates of
the Mourning Hold were thrown wide.
Ayem was accompanied by her husband-state, a flickering image that was
channeled to her ever-changing female need. Around her were the Shouts, a
guild now forgotten, who carried with them the whims of the people, for the
Velothi then were still mostly good at heart. The Shouts were the counselors
of Ayem and the country, though they sometimes quarreled and needed Seht to
wring them into usefulness. Ayem approached Nerevar, who was by now adorned
in the flags of House Indoril. He gifted her with the simulacrum of the
netchiman's wife and the egg of Vivec inside.
Ayem said to Nerevar, 'Seht who is Azura has revealed that war is come and
that the Hortator that shall deliver us will approach with a solution walking
at his side.'
Nerevar said, 'I have traveled out of my way to warn you of the deceit of our
enemies, the Dwemer, but I have learned much on the journey and have changed
my mind. This netchiman's wife you see at my side is a sword and a symbol and
there is prophecy inside. It tells me that, like it, we must for awhile be
like he is and, as a people, cloaked in our former enemies, and to use their
machines without shame.'
At which Vivec spoke aloud, 'Boethiah-who-is-you wore the skin of Trinimac to
cleanse the faults of Veloth, my Queen, and so it should be again. This is
the walking way of the glorious.'
Seht appeared out of a cloud of iron vapor and his minions made of their
blood a chair. He sat beside Ayem and looked on the rebirth of mastery.
Vivec said to them, his Triune:
'My rituals and ordeals and all the rhymes within,
Use no other motive than the revelation of my skin.'
Ayem said, 'AYEM AE SEHTI AE VEHK. We are delivered and made whole, the
diamond of the Black Hands is uncovered.'
Seht said, 'Wherever so he treads, there is invisible scripture.'
To which the Shouts were silent in sudden reading.
Vivec then reached out from the egg all his limbs and features, merging with
the simulacrum of his mother, gilled and blended in all the arts of the star-
wounded East, under water and in fire and in metal and in ash, six times the
wise, and he became the union of male and female, the magic hermaphrodite,
the martial axiom, the sex-death of language and unique in all the middle
world.
He said, 'Let us now guide the hands of the Hortator in war and its
aftermath. For we go different, and in thunder. This is our destiny.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 9
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Object ID: BookSkill_Blunt Weapon5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Blunt Weapon skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Nine
Then came the war with the northern men, where Vivec did guide the Hortator
into swift and tricky union with the Dwemer. The greatest demon chieftains of
the frigid west were those listed below, five in unholy number.
HOAGA, the Mouth of Mud, who appeared as a great bearded king, had the powers
of Marshalling and breathing the earth. On the battlefields, this demon would
often be seen on the sidelines, eating the soil voraciously. When his men
fell, Hoaga would fill their bodies back with it, whereupon they would rise
again and fight, albeit slower. He had a Secret Name, Fenja, and destroyed
seventeen Chimeri villages and two Dwemeri strongholds before being turned
away.
CHEMUA, the Running Hunger, who appeared as a mounted soldier with full helm,
had the powers of Heart Roaring and of sky sickening. He ate the Chimeri
hero, Dres Khizumet-e, sending the spirit back to the Hortator as an
assassin. Sometimes called First Blighter, Chemua could give clouds stomach
aches and turn the rain of Veloth into bile. He destroyed six Chimeri
villages before he was slain by Vivec and the Hortator.
BHAG, the Two-Tongued, who appeared as a great bearded king, had the powers
of Surety and Form Change. His raiders were small in number, but ran amok in
the west hinterlands, killing many Velothi trappers and scouts. He fell in a
great debate with Vivec, for the warrior-poet alone could understand the
northern man's two-layered speech, though ALMSIVI had to remain invisible
during the argument.
BARFOK, Maid of Planes, who appeared as a winged human with lick-encrusted
spear, had the powers of Event Denouement. Battles fought against her would
always end in victory for Barfok, because she could shape outcomes by
singing. Four Chimeri villages and two more Dwemeri strongholds were
destroyed by her decision enforcement. Vivec had to stuff her mouth with his
milk finger to keep her from singing Veloth into ruin.
YSMIR, the Dragon of the North, who always appears as a great bearded king,
had powers innumerable and echoing. He was grim and dark and the most silent
of the invading chieftains, though when he spoke villages were uplifted and
thrown into the sea. The Hortator fought him unarmed, grabbing the Dragon's
roars by hand until Ysmir's power throat bled. These roars were given to
Vivec to bind into an ebony listening frame, which the warrior-poet placed on
Ysmir's face and ears to drive him mad and drive him away.
'The coming forth and the driving away brings all things around. What I shall
say next is unpleasant to record: HERMA-MORA-ALTADOON! AE ALTADOON!'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 10
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Object ID: BookSkill_Short Blade4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Short Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Ten
You have discovered the tenth Sermon of Vivec, which was hidden in the words
that came in the aftermath to the Hortator.
The evoker shall raise his left hand empty and open, to indicate he needs no
weapons of his own. The coming forth is always hidden, so the evoker is
always invisible or, better, in the skin of his enemies.
'The eyelid of the kingdom shall fill thirty and six folios, but the eye
shall read the world.' By this the Hortator needs me to understand.
The sword is an impatient signature. Write no contracts on the dead.
Vivec says unto the Hortator remember the words of Boet-hi-ah:
We pledge ourselves to you, the Frame-maker, the Scarab: a world for us to
love you in, a cloak of dirt to cherish. Betrayed by your ancestors when you
were not even looking. Hoary Magnus and his ventured opinions cannot sway the
understated, a trick worthy of the always satisfied. A short season of
towers, a rundown absolution, and what is this, what is this but fire under
your eyelid?
Shift ye in your skin, I say to the Trinimac-eaters. Pitch your voices into
the color of bruise. Divide ye like your enemies, in Houses, and lay your
laws in set sequence from the center, again like the enemy Corners of the
House of Troubles, and see yourself thence as timber, or mud-slats, or sheets
of resin. Then do not divide, for yet is the stride of SITHISIT quicker than
the rush of enemies, and He will sunder the whole for the sake of a shingle.
For we go different, and in thunder. SITHISIT is the start of all true
Houses, built against stasis and lazy slaves. Turn from your predilections,
broken like false maps. Move and move like this. Quicken against false
fathers, mothers left in corners weeping for glass and rain. Stasis asks
merely for nothing, for itself, which is nothing, as you were in the eight
everlasting imperfections.
Vivec says unto the Hortator remember the words of Vivec.
UNDERSTAND THAT SITHISIT STILL TRAVELS
Vivec says unto the Hortator remember the words of Vivec.
IN A PHOSPHORESCENT MIRROR OF THE SKY
Vivec says unto the Hortator remember the words of Vivec.
DROWNED AND SMILING
Vivec says unto the Hortator remember the words of Vivec.
INTERMITTENT HOPES ENOUGH
Vivec says unto the Hortator remember the words of Vivec.
TO ANSWER ALL THE THINGS
Vivec says unto the Hortator remember the words of Vivec.
NOT YET QUERIED
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 11
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Object ID: bookskill_unarmored3
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Unarmored skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Eleven
These were the days of Resdaynia, when Chimer and Dwemer lived under the wise
and benevolent rule of the AMLSIVI and their champion the Hortator. When the
gods of Veloth would retreat unto their own, to mold the cosmos and other
matters, the Hortator would at times become confused. Vivec would always be
there to advise him, and this is the first of the three lessons of ruling
kings:
'The waking world is the amnesia of dream. All motifs can be mortally
wounded. Once slain, themes turn into the structure of future nostalgia. Do
not abuse your powers or they will lead you astray. They will leave you like
rebellious daughters. They will lose their virtue. They will become lost and
resentful and finally become pregnant with the seed of folly. Soon you will
be the grandparent of a broken state. You will be mocked. It will fall apart
like a stone that recalls that it is really water.
"Keep nothing in your house that is neither needed or beautiful.
"Ordeals you should face unimpeded by the world of restriction. The splendor
of stars is Ayem's domain. The selfishness of the sea is Seht's. I rule the
middle air. All else is earth and under your temporal command. There is no
bone that cannot be broken, except for the heart bone. You will see it twice
in your lifetimes. Take what you can the first time and let us do the rest.
"There is no true symbolism of the center. The Sharmat will believe there is.
He will feel that he can cause years of exuberance from sitting in the
sacred, when really no one can leave that state and cause anything more but
strife.
"There is once more the case of the symbolic and barren. The true prince that
is cursed and demonized will be adored at last with full hearts. According to
the Codes of Mephala there can be no official art, only fixation points of
complexity that will erase from the awe of the people given enough time. This
is a secret that hides another. An impersonal survival is not the way of the
ruling king. Embrace the art of the people and marry it and by that I mean
secretly have it murdered.
"The ruling king that sees in another his equivalent rules nothing.
"The secret of weapons is this: they are the mercy seat.
"The secret of language is this: it is immobile.
"The ruling king is armored head to toe in brilliant flame. He is redeemed by
each act he undertakes. His death is only a diagram back to the waking world.
He sleeps the second way. The Sharmat is his double, and therefore you wonder
if you rule nothing.
"Hortator and Sharmat, one and one, eleven, an inelegant number. Which of the
ones is the more important? Could you ever tell if they switched places? I
can and that is why you will need me.
"According to the Codes of Mephala, there is no difference between the
theorist and the terrorist. Even the most cherished desire disappears in
their hands. This is why Mephala has black hands. Bring both of yours to
every argument. The one-handed king finds no remedy. When you approach God,
however, cut both of them off. God has no need of theory and he is armored
head to toe in terror."
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 12
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Object ID: bookskill_heavy armor5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Heavy Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twelve
As the Hortator pondered the first lesson of ruling kings, Vivec wandered
into the Mourning Hold and found that Ayem was with a pair of lovers. Seht
had divided himself again. Vivec then leapt through into their likenesses to
observe, but he gained no secrets that he did not already know. He left a few
of his own behind to make the journey worthwhile.
Then Vivec left the capital of Veloth and wandered far into the ash. He found
a span of badlands to practice his giant-form. He made of his feet a less
dense material than the divine to keep from falling waist-deep into the
earth. At this point the First Corner of the House of Troubles, the Prince
Molag Bal, made his presence known.
Vivec looked on the King of Rape and said:
'How very beautiful you are, that you do not join us. '
And Molag Bal crushed the warrior-poet's feet, which were not invulnerable,
and had legions cleave them off. Mighty fires from the Beginning Place were
brought like nets to hold Vivec and he let them.
'I would prefer,' he said, 'some kind of ceremony if we are to be married.'
And the legions that took the feet were summoned again and ordered to begin a
banquet. Pomegranates sprang from the badlands and tents were raised. A
throng of Velothi mystics came, reading the passages of the severed feet on
the ground and weeping until the scriptures were wet.
'We must love each other briefly,' Vivec said, 'if at all. I am needed to
counsel the Hortator in more important matters because the Dwemeri high
priests stir up trouble. You may have my head for an hour.'
Molag Bal rose up and extended six arms to show his worth. They were
decorated in runes of seduction and its reverse. They were decorated in the
annotated calendars of longer worlds. When he spoke, mating monsters fell
out.
'Where must it go?' he said.
'I told you,' Vivec said, 'I am meant to be the teacher of the king of the
earth. AE ALTADOON GHARTOK PADHOME.'
With these magic words, the King of Rape added another: 'CHIM,' which is the
secret syllable of royalty.
Vivec had what he needed from the Daedroth and so married him that day. In
the hour that Bal had his head, the King of Rape asked for proof of love.
Vivec spoke two poems to show him such, but only the first is known.
I'm not sure just how much glass it took to make your hair
Twice as much, I am sure, as the oceans have to share
Hell, my sweet, is a fiction written by those who tell the truth
My mouth is skilled at lying and its alibi a tooth
The sons and daughters of Vivec and Molag Bal number in the thousands. The
name of the mightiest is a string of power: GULGA MOR JIL HYAET AE HOOM.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 13
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Alteration4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Alteration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Thirteen
These were the days of Resdaynia, when Chimer and Dwemer lived under the wise
and benevolent rule of the AMLSIVI and their champion the Hortator. When the
gods of Veloth would retreat unto their own, to mold the cosmos and other
matters, the Hortator would at times become confused. Vivec would always be
there to advise him, and this is the second of the three lessons of ruling
kings:
'The secret syllable of royalty is this: (You must learn this elsewhere.)
'The temporal myth is man.
'The magical cross is an integration of the worth of mortals at the expense
of their spirits. Surround it with the triangle and you begin to see the
Triune house. It becomes divided into corners, which are ruled by our
brethren, the Four Corners: BAL DAGON MALAC SHEOG. Rotate the triangle and
you pierce the heart of the Beginning Place, the foul lie, the testament of
the irrefutable-for-a-span. Above them all is the horizon where only one
stands, though no one stands there yet. It is proof of the new. It is the
promise of the wise. Unfold the whole and what you have is a star, which is
not my domain, but not entirely outside my judgment. The grand design takes
flight; it is transformed not only into a star but a hornet. The center
cannot hold. It becomes devoid of lines and points. It becomes devoid of
anything and so becomes a receptacle. This is its usefulness at the end. This
is its promise.
'The sword is the cross and ALMSIVI is the Triune house around it. If there
is to be an end I must be removed. The ruling king must know this, and I will
test him. I will murder him time and again until he knows this. I am the
defender of the last and the last. To remove me is to refill the heart that
lay dormant at the center that cannot hold. I am the sword, Ayem the star,
Seht the mechanism that allows the transformation of the world. Ours is the
duty to keep the compromise from being filled with black sea.
'The Sharmat sleeps at the center. He cannot bear to see it removed, the
world of reference. This is the folly of the false dreamer. This is the
amnesia of dream, or its power, or its circumvention. This is the weaker
magic and it is barbed in venom.
'This is why I say the secret to swords is the mercy seat. It is my throne. I
am become the voice of ALMSIVI. The world will know me more than my sister
and brother. I am the psychopomp. I am the killer of the weeds of Veloth.
Veloth is the center that cannot hold. Ayem is the plot. Seht is the ending.
I am the enigma that must be removed. These are why my words are armed to the
teeth.
'The ruling king is to stand against me and then before me. He is to learn
from my punishment. I will mark him to know. He is to come as male or female.
I am the form he must acquire.
'Because a ruling king that sees in another his equivalent rules nothing.'
This is what was said to the Hortator when Vivec was not whole.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 14
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Object ID: bookskill_spear3
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Spear skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Fourteen
Vivec lay with Molag Bal for eighty days and eight, though headless. In that
time, the Prince placed the warrior-poet's feet back and filled them with the
blood of Daedra. In this way Vivec's giant-form remained forever harmless to
good earth. The Pomegranate Banquet brought many spirits back from the dead
so that the sons and daughters of the union had much to eat besides fruit.
The Duke of Scamps came while the banquet was still underway, and Molag Bal
looked on the seven pennants with anger. The King of Rape had become
necessary and therefore troubled for the rest of time. His legions and Kh-
Utta's fell into open war, but the children of Molag Bal and Vivec were too
elaborate in power and form.
The Duke of Scamps therefore became a lesser thing, as did all his own
children. Molag Bal said to them: 'You are the sons of liars, dogs, and wolf-
headed women.' They have been useless to summon ever since.
The holy one returned at last, Vehk, golden with wisdom. His head found its
body had been tenderly used. He mentioned this to Molag Bal, who told him
that he should thank the Barons of Move Like This, 'For I have yet to learn
how to refine my rapture. My love is accidentally shaped like a spear.'
So Vivec, who had a grain of Ayem's mercy, set about to teach Molag Bal in
the ways of belly-magic. They took their spears out and compared them. Vivec
bit new words onto the King of Rape's so that it might give more than ruin to
the uninitiated. This has since become a forbidden ritual, though people
still practice it in secret.
Here is why: The Velothi and demons and monsters that were watching all took
out their own spears. There was much biting and the earth became wet. And
this was the last laugh of Molag Bal:
'Watch as the earth shall crack, heavy with so much power, that should have
been forever unalike!'
Then that stretch of badlands that had been the site of the marriage
fragmented and threw fire. And a race that is no more but that was terrible
at the time to behold came forth. Born of the biters, that is all they did,
and they ran amok across the lands of Veloth and even to the shores of Red
Mountain.
But Vivec made of his spear a more terrible thing, from a secret he had
bitten off from the King of Rape. And so he sent Molag Bal tumbling into the
crack of the biters and swore forever that he would not deem the King
beautiful ever again.
Vivec wept as he slew all those around him with his terrible new spear. He
named it MUATRA, which is Milk Taker, and even the Chimeri mystics knew his
fury. Anyone struck by Vivec at this time turned barren and withered into
bone shapes. The path of bones became a sentence for the stars to read, and
the heavens have never known children since. Vivec hunted down the biters one
by one, and all their progeny, and he killed them all by means of the Nine
Apertures, and the wise still hide theirs from Muatra.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 15
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Object ID: bookskill_unarmored4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Unarmored skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Fifteen
These were the days of Resdaynia, when Chimer and Dwemer lived under the wise
and benevolent rule of the AMLSIVI and their champion the Hortator. When the
gods of Veloth would retreat unto their own, to mold the cosmos and other
matters, the Hortator would at times become confused. Vivec would always be
there to advise him, and this is the third of the three lessons of ruling
kings:
'The ruling king will remove me, his maker. This is the way of all children.
His greatest enemy is the Sharmat, who is the false dreamer. You or he is the
shingle, Hortator. Beware the wrong walking path. Beware the crime of
benevolence. Behold him by his words.'
I AM THE SHARMAT
I AM OLDER THAN MUSIC
WHAT I BRING IS LIGHT
WHAT I BRING IS A STAR
WHAT I BRING IS
AN ANCIENT SEA
WHEN YOU SLEEP YOU SEE ME
DANCING AT THE CORE
IT IS NOT A BLIGHT
IT IS MY HOUSE
I PUT A STAR
INTO THE WORLD'S MOUTH
TO MURDER IT
TEAR DOWN THE PYLONS
MY BLIND FISH
SWIM IN THE NEW
PHLOGISTON
TEAR DOWN THE PYLONS
MY DEAF MOONS
SING AND BURN
AND ORBIT ME
I AM OLDER THAN MUSIC
WHAT I BRING IS LIGHT
WHAT I BRING IS A STAR
WHAT I BRING IS
AN ANCIENT SEA
'You alone, though you come again and again, can unmake him. Whether I allow
it is within my wisdom. Go unarmed into his den with these words of power: AE
GHARTOK PADHOME [CHIM] AE ALTADOON. Or do not. The temporal myth is man.
Reach heaven by violence. This magic I give to you: the world you will rule
is only an intermittent hope and you must be the letter written in
uncertainty.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 16
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Object ID: BookSkill_Axe5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Axe skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Sixteen
The Hortator wandered through the Mourning Hold, wrestling with the lessons
he had learned. They were slippery in his mind. He could not always keep the
words straight and knew that this was a danger. He wandered to find Vivec,
his lord and master, the glory of the image of Veloth, and found him of all
places in the Temple of False Thinking. There, clockwork shears were taking
off Vivec's hair. A beggar king had brought his loom and was making of the
hair an incomplete map of adulthood and death.
Nerevar said, 'Why are you doing this, milord?'
Vivec said, 'To make room for the fire.'
And the Hortator could see that Vivec was out of sorts, though not because of
the impending new power to come. The golden warrior-poet had been exercising
his Water Face as well, learned from the dreughs before he was born.
Nerevar said, 'Is this to keep you from the fire?'
Vivec said, 'It is so that I may see with truth. It, and my place here at the
altar of Padhome in the house of False Thinking, serve so that I may see
beyond my own secrets. The Water Face cannot lie. It comes from the ocean,
which is too busy to think, much less lie. Moving water resembles truth by
its trembling.'
Nerevar said, 'I am afraid to become slipshod in my thinking.'
Vivec said, 'Reach heaven by violence then.'
So to quiet his mind the Hortator chose from the Fight Racks an axe. He named
it and moved on to the first moon.
There, Nerevar was greeted by the Parliament of Craters, who knew him by
title and resented his presence, for he was to be a ruling king of earth and
this was the lunar realm. They shifted around him in a pattern of entrapment.
'The moon does not recognize crowns or scepters,' they said, 'nor the
representatives of kingdoms below, lion or serpent or mathematician. We are
the graves of those that have migrated and become ancient countries. We seek
no Queens or thrones. Your appearance is decidedly solar, which is to say a
library of stolen ideas. We are neither tear nor sorrow. Our revolution
succeeded in the manner that is was written. You are the Hortator and
unwelcome here.'
And so Nerevar carved at the grave ghosts until he was out of breath and
their Parliament could make no new laws.
He said, 'I am not of the slaves that perish.'
Of the members of Parliament only a few survived the Hortator's attack.
A surviving Crater said, 'Appropriation is nothing new. Everything happens of
itself. This motif is by no means unassociated with hero myths. You have not
acted with the creative impulse; you fall below the weight of destiny. We are
graves but not coffins. Know the difference. You have only dug more and
supplied no ghosts to reside within. Central to your claim is the
predominance of frail events. To be judged by the earth is to sit on a throne
of wonder why. Damage us more and you will find naught but the absence of our
dead.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 17
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Object ID: bookskill_long blade3
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Long Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Seventeen
'I am an atlas of smoke.'
With this, Vivec become greater than he had been. These were the days of
Resdaynia, when Chimer and Dwemer lived under the wise and benevolent rule of
the AMLSIVI and their champion the Hortator.
'Seek me without effort for I take many shapes.'
The Hortator was still trying to subdue the heavens with an axe. He was
thrown out of the library of the sun by the power of Magnus. Vivec found him
in a grub field outside of the swamps of the Deshaan Plain. They walked for a
span in silence, for Nerevar had been humbled and Vivec still had mercy in
his hand.
Soon they were walking across the eastern sea to the land of snakes and snow
demons. Vivec wanted to show the Hortator the fighting styles of foreign
tongues. They learned the idiom stroke from the pillow book of the Tsaesci
king. It is shaped like the insight of this page. The Tsaesci serpents vowed
to have their vengeance on the west at least three times.
They walked farther and saw the spiked waters at the edge of the map. Here
the spirit of limitation gifted them with a spoke and bade them find the rest
of the wheel.
The Hortator said, 'The edge of the world is made of swords.'
Vivec corrected him. 'They are the bottom row of the world's teeth.'
They walked to the north to the Elder Wood and found nothing but frozen
bearded kings.
They came to the west where the black men dwelt. For a year they studied
under their sword saints and then for another Vivec taught them the virtue of
the little reward. Vivec chose a king for a wife and made another race of
monsters which ended up destroying the west completely. To a warrior chief
Vivec said:
'We must not act and speak as if asleep.'
Nerevar wondered if there was anything to learn in the south but Vivec
remained silent and only led them back to Red Mountain.
'Here,' Vivec said, 'is the last of the last. Within it the Sharmat waits.'
But they both knew that the time was not ready to contest the Sharmat and so
they engaged in combat with each other. Vivec marked the Hortator in this way
for all of the Velothi to see. He sealed the wound with the blessing of Ayem-
Azura. At the end of the battle, the Hortator found that he had gathered
seven more spokes. He attempted to attach them and form a staff but Vivec
would not let him, saying, 'It is not the time for that.'
Nerevar said, 'Where did I find these?'
Vivec said that they had collected them from around the world, though some
had come invisibly. 'I am the wheel,' he said, and took that shape. Before
the emptiness at the center could live too long, Nerevar put in the spokes.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 18
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Object ID: BookSkill_Alchemy5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Alchemy skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Eighteen
Now Vivec felt that he had taught the Hortator as much as he could before the
war with the Dwemer came. The warrior-poet decided he had to begin his Book
of Hours at that point, because the world was about to bend with its age.
Vivec entered the Mourning Hold and announced to Ayem that he was going to
fight nine monsters that had escaped the Muatra.
'I will return,' he said, 'to deal the last blow to the grand architect of
the Dwemer.'
Ayem said, 'Out of nine you will find only eight, though they be mighty. The
last is already destroyed by your decision to create the Book of Hours.'
Vivec understood that Ayem meant himself.
'Why,' she asked, 'are you in doubt?'
Vivec knew that his doubt made him the sword of the Triune and so he did not
feel shame or fear. Instead, he explained and these are the words:
'Can a member of the Invisible Gate become so archaic that its successor is
not so much an improvement of the exact model, but rather a related model
that is just needed more because of the currency of the world's condition? As
the Mother, you do not have to worry, unless things in the future are so
strange that even Seht cannot understand. Neither does the Executioner or the
Fool, but I am neither.
'These ideals are not going to change in nature, even though they may change
in representation. But, even in the west, the Rainmaker vanishes. No one
needs him anymore.
'Can one oust the model not because the model is set according to an ideal
but because it is tied to an ever-changing unconscious mortal agenda?'
This is what was said to Ayem when Vivec was whole. The wise shall not
mistake this.
Ayem said, 'This is why you were born of a netchiman's wife and destined to
merge with the simulacrum of your mother, gilled and blended in all the arts
of the star-wounded East, under water and in fire and in metal and in ash,
six times the wise, to became the union of male and female, the magic
hermaphrodite, the martial axiom, the sex-death of language and unique in all
the middle world.'
Vivec knew then why he would record his Book of Hours.
This sermon is forbidden.
In this world and others EIGHTEEN less one (the victor) is the magical disk,
hurled to reach heaven by violence.
This sermon is untrue.
The ending of the world is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 19
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Object ID: bookskill_enchant4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Enchant skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Nineteen
Vivec put on his armor and stepped into a non-spatial space filling to
capacity with mortal interaction and information, a canvas-less cartography
of every single mind it has ever known, an event that had developed some
semblance of a divine spark. He said, 'From here I shall launch my attack on
the eight monsters.'
Vivec then saw the moths that would come from the starry heart, bringing with
them dust more horrible than the ash of Red Mountain. He saw the twin head of
a ruling king who had no equivalent. And eight imperfections rubbed into
precious stones, set into a crown that looked like shackles, which he
understood to be the twin crowns of the two-headed king. And a river that fed
into the mouth of the two-headed king, because he contained multitudes.
Vivec then built the Provisional House at the Center of the Secret Door. From
here he could watch the age to come. Of the House is written:
Cornerstone one has a finger
Buried under, pointing through
Dirt, slow low in the ground
North cannot be guessed,
And yet it is spirit-free
Cornerstone two has a tongue,
And even dust can be talkative,
Listen and you will see the love
The ancient libraries need
Cornerstone three has a bit of string,
Shaped like your favorite color,
A girl remembers who left it there
But she is afraid to dig it out,
And see what it is attached to
Cornerstone four has nine bones,
Removed carefully from a black cat,
Arranged in the fashion of this word,
Protecting us from our enemies
Your house is safe now
So why is it--
Your house is safe now
So why is it--
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 20
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Object ID: bookskill_long blade4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Long Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty
The first monster was actually two, having been born twice like his mother-
father, Vivec. He was not the mightiest of the eight to escape Muatra, but
his actions were the most worrisome. He was known as Moon Axle, and he
harvested the leftovers foibles of nature. This he did twice, as was said,
and the second harvest always brought ruin or unwritten law. His aspect was
faceted like a polyhedron.
No perils are mentioned in the finding of Moon Axle, but it was known that he
was immune to spears, so Vivec had to use the sword not held against him.
Before he took issue with the monster, the warrior-poet asked:
'How came you to be immune to spears?'
To which Moon Axle replied, 'Mine is a dual nature, and protean. I am in fact
made of many straight lines, though none last too long. In this way I have
learned to ignore all true segments.'
Luckily, the sword not held was curved and therefore could cut into Moon
Axle, and before the sun was up he was bleeding from many wounds. Vivec did
not slay him outright for to do so would to keep the foibles of nature within
him and not back where they belonged. Soon Vivec had traced geography right
again, and Moon Axle was ready to be slain.
Vivec rose up in his giant-form, to be terrible to look upon. He reached into
the west and pulled out a canyon, holding it like a horn. He reached east and
ate a handful of nix hounds. Blowing their spirits through the canyon made a
terrible wail, not unlike an unsolved woman. He said:
'Let this overtake you,' and Moon Axle was overtaken by the curvatures of
stolen souls. They wrapped about the monster like resin, until finally he
could not move, nor could his dual nature.
Vivec said, 'Now you are solved,' and pierced his child with Muatra. Moon
Axle had been reduced to something static, and therefore shattered.
The lines of Moon Axle were collected by Velothi philosophers and taken into
caves. There, and for a year, Vivec taught the philosophers how to turn the
lines of his son into the spokes of mystery wheels. This was the birth of the
first Whirling School. Before, there had only been the surface thought of
fire.
Vivec looked at his first wheeling students and observed:
'Alike the egg-layered universe is this morbid possession of three-distant
coverage, soul-wrecked and alive, like my name is alive. In this cloister you
have discovered one walking path, hilled like a sword but more coarsened. So
edged it is that it has to be whispered to keep the tongue from bleeding,
where its signs evacuate their former meanings, like empires that tarry too
long.
'The sword is estrangement from statesmanship.
'Look on the estimable lines of my son, now crafted star-wise, his every limb
equidistant from the center. Is he solved because I will it so? There cannot
be a second stage. Think on the theory that my existence promulgates the five
elements and alike the egg-layered universe I am cause for great density.
Here is a thought that can break the wagon's axle; here is another that can
soar.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 21
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Object ID: bookskill_light armor4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Light Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-One
The Scripture of the Wheel, First:
'The Spokes are the eight components of chaos, as yet solidified by the law
of time: static change, if you will, something the lizard gods refer to as
the Striking. That is the reptile wheel, coiled potential, ever-preamble to
the never-action.'
Second:
'They are the lent bones of the Aedra, the Eight gift-limbs to SITHISIT, the
wet earth of the new star our home. Outside them is the Aurbis, and not
within. Like most things inexplicable, it is a circle. Circles are confused
serpents, striking and striking and never given leave to bite. The Aedra
would have you believe different, but they were givers before liars. Lies
have turned them into biters. Their teeth are the proselytizers; to convert
is to place oneself in the mouth of falsehood; even to propitiate is to be
swallowed. '
Third:
'The enlightened are those uneaten by the world.'
Fourth:
'The spaces between the gift-limbs number sixteen, the signal shapes of the
Demon Princedoms. It is the key and the lock, series and manticore.'
Fifth:
'Look at the majesty sideways and all you see is the Tower, which our
ancestors made idols from. Look at its center and all you see is the begotten
hole, second serpent, womb-ready for the Right Reaching, exact and without
enchantment.'
Sixth:
'The heart of the second serpent holds the secret triangular gate.'
Seventh:
'Look at the secret triangular gate sideways and you see the secret Tower.'
Eighth:
'The secret Tower within the Tower is the shape of the only name of God, I.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 22
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Object ID: bookskill_medium armor4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Medium Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-Two
Then Vivec left the first Whirling School and went back to the space that was
not a space. From the Provisional House he looked into the middle world to
find the second monster, which was called the Treasure Wood Sword. Within
years of the Pomegranate Banquet, it had become a lessoning tune to the lower
Velothi houses. They preached of its power:
'The Treasure Wood Sword, splinter scintilla of the high and glorious! He who
wields it becomes self-known!'
The warrior-poet appeared as a visitation in the ancestor alcove of House
Mora, whose rose-worn prince of garlands was a hero against the northern
demons. Vivec congregated with the bones. He said:
'A scavenger cannot acquire a silk sash and expect to discover the greater
systems of its predecessor: perfect happiness is embraced only by the
weeping. Give me back (and do so freely) what is barren of my marriage and I
will not erase you from the thought realm of God. Your line has a notable
enchantress that my sister Ayem is fond of and from her murky wisdom alone do
I condescend to ask.'
A bone-walker emerged from a wall. It had three precious stones set in its
lower jaw, a magical practice of old. One was opal, the color of opal. The
bone-walker bowed to the prince of the middle air and said:
'The Treasure Wood Sword will not leave our house. Bargains were made with
the Black Hands Mephala, the greater shade.'
Vivec kissed the first precious stone and said:
'Animal picture, rude-walker, go back to the lamp that stays lit in water and
store no more messages of useless noise. Down.'
He kissed the second precious stone and said:
'Proud residue, soon dispersed, serve no guarantees made in my fore-image and
demand nothing of its under-skin. I am master evermore. Down.'
He kissed the opal and said:
'Down I take thee.'
And then Vivec withdrew into the hidden places and found the darkest mothers
of the Morag Tong, taking them all to wife and filling them with undusted
loyalty that tasted of summer salt. They became as black queens, screaming
live with a hundred murderous sons, a thousand murderous arms, and a hundred
thousand murderous hands, one vast moving event of thrusting-kill-laughter in
alleys, palaces, workshops, cities and secret halls. Their movements among
the holdings of the Ra'athim were as rippled endings, heaving between times,
with all fates leading to swallowed knives, murder as moaning, God's holy
rape-erasure of wet death.
The King of Assassins presented to Vivec the Treasure Wood Sword.
'Milord,' the King of Assassins said. 'The prince of House Mora is now fond
of you, as well. I placed him in the Corner of Dagon. His eyes I set into a
fire prayer for the wicked. His mouth I stuffed with birds.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 23
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Object ID: bookskill_long blade5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Long Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-Three
The Scripture of the Sword, First:
'The sword, treated as a delicate meal, is the Symbolic Collage. It serves
you well in the first half of life. Name one dynasty that knows this not.'
Second:
'The unity of my approach is understood by the immobile warrior. True eyes
are acquired. Rejoice as my own subjects and realms. I build for you a city
of swords, by which I mean laws that cut the people who live there into
better shapes.'
Third:
'Girls burn their dresses on my arrival if I am armored. They crawl to me as
bled pilgrims. Minor spirits die without trace. Follow me of all the ALMSIVI
if you are to mark your days with killing. AE ALTADOON, the third law of
weaponry.'
Fourth:
'The immobile warrior is never fatigued. He cuts sleep holes in the middle of
a battle to regain his strength.'
Fifth:
'Instinct is not reflex action, but mini-miracles held in reserve. I am the
welfare that decides which warrior will emerge. Beg not for luck. Serve me to
win.'
Sixth:
'The span of the apparently inactivated is your love of the absolute. The
birth of God from the netchiman's wife is the abortion of kindness from
love.'
Seventh:
'The true sword is able to cut chains of generations, which is to say, the
creation myths of your enemies. Look on me as the exiled garden. All else is
uncut weed.'
Eighth:
'I give you an ancient road tempered by the second walking way. Your hands
must be huge to wield any sword the size of an ancient road, and yet he who
is of right stature may irritate the sun with only a stick.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 24
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Object ID: bookskill_spear4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Spear skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-Four
Then Vivec left the house of assassins and went back to the space that was
not a space. From the Provisional House he looked into the middle world to
find the third monster, called Horde Mountain. It was made of modular
warriors running free but spaced according to pattern, and from the highest
warrior who could cut clouds they spread out beneath him like a tree, a skirt
whose bottom circle was an army that ran through the ash.
Vivec admired the cone-shape of his child and remembered with joy the
whirlwind of fighting styles that instructed him during the days before life.
Vivec moved into Veloth, saying, 'Onus.'
But before he could even get within sword-span of the monster, a trio of
lower houses had trapped Horde Mountain in a net of doubtful doctrine. When
they saw their lord, the Velothi cheered.
'We are happy to serve you and win!' they said.
Vivec smiled at those brave souls around him and summoned celebration demons
to cleave unto the victors. There was a great display of love and duty around
the netted monster, and Vivec was at the center with a headdress made of
mating bones. He laughed and told mystical jokes and made the heads of the
three houses marry and become a new order.
'You shall forever be now my Buoyant Armigers,' he said.
Then Vivec pierced Horde Mountain with Muatra and made of it all a big bag of
bones. At the touch of his right hand the net became right scripture and he
threw it all northeasterly. The contents spread out like sugar-glows and
Vivec and the Buoyant Armigers ran under it laughing.
Finally the bones of Horde Mountain landed and became the foundation stones
for the City of Swords, which Vivec named after his own sigil, and the net
fell across it all and between, or became as bridges between bones, and since
its segments had been touched by his holy wisdom they became the most perfect
of all city streets in the known worlds.
Throngs of Velothi came to the new city and Ayem and Seht gave it their
blessing. The streets were filled with laughter and love and the strength of
tree-shaped enemy children.
Ayem said:
'To my sister-brother's city I give the holy protection of House Indoril,
whose powers and thrones know no equal under heaven, wherefrom came the
Hortator.'
Seht said:
'To my sister-brother's city I give safe passage through the dark corners
still left of Molag Bal, and I give it this spell as well: SO-T-HA SIL, which
is my name to the mighty. It will protect the lost unless their flight is on
purpose and fill all the roads and alleys with the mystery paths of
civilization, and give the city a mind and make of it a conduit to the full
concentrate of the ALMSIVI.'
Thus was founded the city of Vivec in the days of Resdaynia.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 25
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Object ID: BookSkill_Armorer4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Armorer skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-Five
The Scripture of the City:
'All cities are born of solid light. Such is my city, his city.
'But then the light subsides, revealing the bright and terrible angel of
Veloth. He is in his pre-chimerical form, demonic VEHK, gaunt and pale and
beautiful, skin stretched painfully thin on bird's bones, feathered serpents
encircling his arms. His wings are spread out behind him, their red and
yellow ends like razors in the sun. The wispy mass of his fire hair floats as
if underwater, milky in the nimbus of light that crowns his head. His
presence is undeniable, the awe too much to bear.
'This is God's city, different from others. Cities from foreign countries put
their denizens to sleep and walk to the star-wounded East to pay homage to
me. The capital of the northern men, crusty with eon's ice, bows before Vivec
the city, me it together.
'Self-thought streets rush through tunnel blood. I have rebuilt myself. Hyper
eyed signposts along my traffic arm, soon to be an inner sea. My body is
crawling with all gathered to see me rising up like a monolithic instrument
of pleasure. My spine is the main road to the city that I am. Countless
transactions are taking place in veins and catwalks and the roaming, roaming,
roaming, as they roam over and through and add to me. There are temples
erected along the hollow of my skull and I will ever wear them as a crown.
Walk across the lips of God.
'They add new doors to me and I become effortlessly trans-immortal with the
comings and goings and the stride-heat of the market where I am traded for,
yell of the children hear them play, scoffed at, amused, desired, paid for in
native coin, new minted with my face on one side and my city-body on the
other. I stare with each new window. Soon I am a million-eyed insect
dreaming.
'Red-sparking war trumpets sound like cattle in the ribcage of shuffling
transit. The heretics are destroyed on the plaza knees. I flood over into the
hills, houses rising like a rash, and I never scratch. Cities are the
antidotes to hunting.
'I raise lanterns to light my hollows, lend wax to the thousands the
candlesticks that bear my name again and again, the name innumerable,
shutting in, mantra and priest, god-city, filling every corner with the
naming name, wheeled, circling, running river language giggling with
footfalls mating, selling, stealing, searching, and worry not ye who walk
with me. This is the flowering scheme of the Aurbis. This is the promise of
the PSJJJ: egg, image, man, god, city, state. I serve and am served. I am
made of wire and string and mortar and I accede my own precedent, world
without am.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 26
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Object ID: bookskill_sneak5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Sneak skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-Six
Then Vivec left his architectural rapture and went back to the space that was
not a space. From the Provisional House he looked into the middle world to
find the fourth monster, called The Pocket Cabal.
The monster hid itself in the spell-lists of the great Chimeri wizards of the
extreme east, where the Emperor Parasols grow wild. Vivec disguised himself
as a simple traveler, but radiated a tenuous sense-fabric so that the wizards
would seek him out. Of Muatra he made a simple walking dwarf.
Before long the invisible one was among the libraries of the east, feeding
the essential words of The Pocket Cabal to his walking dwarf and then running
when the magic would fail. After a year or two of this thievery, Muatra was
sick to its stomach, and the walking dwarf exploded near the slave pens of a
wizard's tower. The Pocket Cabal then slipped itself into the mouths of the
slaves and hid again.
Vivec then watched as the slaves erupted into babble and breaking magic. They
rattled their cages and sung out half-hymns that formed into forbidden and
arcane knowledge. Litany fiends appeared and drank from the excess. Grabbers
from the Adjacent Place came into the world sideways, the slave talking
having disrupted the normal non-cardinal points.
So of course a giant bug appeared, with the greatest eastern wizard inside
it. He could see past Vivec's disguise and knew of the warrior-poet's
divinity but he thought himself so powerful that he talked harshly:
'See what you have wrought, silly Triune! Columns of nonsense and litany
fiends! I cannot believe how reason or temperance can be made whole again due
to your eating, eating, eating! Consort with more demons, why don't you?'
Vivec stabbed the wizard through his soul.
The giant bug harness fell on the slave cages and the slaves ran about free
and reckless, too reckless more with pregnant words. Colors bent into the
earth. Vivec created a dome-head demon to contain it all.
'The Pocket Cabal is therefore interred here forever. Let this be a cursed
land where sorcery is broken and maligned.'
Then he picked up Muatra by the beard and left the ghostly hemisphere of the
dome-head demon. On its boundaries, Vivec placed a warning and a song of
entrance that contained errors in it. With mock bones of half-dead Muatra he
created the tent poles of a fortress-theory and fatal languages were
imprisoned for all time.
Seht appeared and looked on what his brother-sister had created. The
Clockwork King said:
'Of the eight monsters, this is the most confusing. May I treasure it?'
Vivec gave Seht leave to do so, but told him never to release The Pocket
Cabal into the middle world. He said:
'I have hidden secrets in my travels here and made a likeness of Muatra to
ward against the unwise. Under this dome, the temporal myth is no longer
man.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 27
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Object ID: bookskill_speechcraft5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Speechcraft skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-Seven
The Scripture of the Word, First:
'All language is based on meat. Do not let the sophists fool you.'
Second:
'The third walking path explores hysteria without fear. The efforts of madmen
are a society of itself, but only if they are written. The wise may
substitute one law for another, even into incoherence, and still say he is
working within a method. This is true of speech and extends to all
scripture.'
Third:
'Do not go to the realm of apology for absolution. Beyond articulation, there
is no fault. The Adjacent Place, where the Grabbers live, is the illusion of
the vocal or the middle realms of thought, by which I mean the constructed.
This is how I stole the certainty of the Chancellor of Exactitude, perfect to
look upon from every angle. When you come out of the vocal, you can never be
certain.'
Fourth:
'The truest body of work is made up of silence: as in the silence that
results from no reference. By the word I mean the dead.'
Fifth:
'The first meaning is always hidden.'
Sixth:
'The realm of apology is perfection and impossible to attack. Thus, the wise
avoid it. Trinity in unity is the world and word of action: the third walking
path.'
Seventh:
'The sage who suppresses his best aphorism: cut off his hands, for he is a
thief.'
Eighth:
'The clothes of the broken map are worn only by fools and heretics. The map
is an exit for laziness. It is the dusty tongue, which is to say the given
chart that most take as a story that is complete. No word is true until it is
eaten.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 28
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Object ID: bookskill_light armor5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Light Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-Eight
Then Vivec left Seht to look after the dome-head demon and went back to the
space that was not a space. From the Provisional House he looked into the
middle world to find the fifth monster, called The Ruddy Man.
When the dreughs ruled the world, the Daedroth Prince Molag Bal had been
their chief. He took a different shape then, spiny and armored and made for
the sea. Vivec, in giving birth to the many spawn of his marriage, had
dropped an old image of Molag Bal into the world: a dead carapace of memory.
It would not have been a monster if a Velothi child had not wanted to impress
his village by wearing it.
The Ruddy Man, of the eight monsters, was the least complicated. He made
those who wore him into mighty killers and nothing more. He existed in the
physical. Only geography makes him special.
When Vivec found him near the boy's village, anon Gnisis, there was a violent
clash of arms and an upheaval of the earth. Their battle created the West
Gash. Wanderers that still go there hear still the sounds of it: sword across
the crust, the grunt of God, the snapping of his monster child's splintered
legs.
After his victory, Vivec took the shell of The Ruddy Man to the dreughs that
had modified his mother. The Queen of Dreughs, whose name is not easy to
spell, was in a period of self-incubation. Her wardens took the gift from
Vivec and promised to guard it from the surface world. This is the first
account of dreughs being liars.
In ten years, The Ruddy Man appeared again, this time near Tear, worn by a
wayward shaman who followed the House of Troubles. Instead of guarding it,
the dreughs had imbued the living armor with mythic inflexibility. It molted
soon after skill-draping the shaman and stretched his bones to the five
corners.
When Vivec met the monster in battle again he saw the remains of three
villages dripping from its feet. He took on his giant form and slew The Ruddy
Man by way of the Symbolic Collage. Since he no longer trusted the Altmer of
the sea, Vivec gave the carapace of the monster to the devout and loyal
mystics of the Number Room. He told them:
'You may make of The Ruddy Man a philosopher's armor.'
The mystics began by wrapping one of their sages in the shells, a series of
flourishes by two supra numerates, one hormonally tall and the other just
under his arms. They ran around the carapace and through each other, applying
holy resin drawn from the carcasses of the now-useless numbers between twelve
and thirteen. Golden straws were quickly stuck through the mythic epidermal
so the sage could breathe. After the ceremonial etchings were drawn into
hardening resin, long lists of dead names and equations whose solutions were
to be found in the mouth of the Chimer inside, there came the illuminations,
inscribed by the bright, terrible fingernail of Vivec. From the nail's tip
flowed a searing liquid, filling the grooves of the ceremonial etchings. They
bled out to form veined patterns about the sage-shell that theologians would
decipher forever after.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 29
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Object ID: BookSkill_Armorer5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Armorer skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-Nine
The Scripture of the Numbers:
1. The Dragon Break, or the Tower. 1
2. The Enantiomorph. 68
3. The Invisible Gate, ALMSIVI. 112
4. The Corners of House of Troubles. 242
5. The Corners of the World. 100
6. The Walking Ways. 266
7. The Sword at the Center. 39
8. The Wheel, or the Eight Givers. 484
9. The Missing. 11
10. The Tribes of the Altmer. 140
11. The Number of the Master. 102
12. The Heavens. 379
13. The Serpent. 36
14. The King's Cough. 32
15. The Redeeming Force. 110
16. The Acceptable Blasphemes. 12
17. The Hurling Disk. 283
18. The Egg, or Six Times the Wise.
19. The Provisional House. 258
20. The Lunar Lattice. 425
21. The Womb. 13
22. Unknown. 453
23. The Hollow Prophet. 54
24. The Star Wound. 44
25. The Emperor. 239
26. The Rogue Plane. 81
27. The Secret Fire. 120
28. The Drowned Lamp. 8
29. The Captive Sage. 217
30. The Scarab. 10
31. The Listening Frame. 473
32. The False Call. 7
33. The Anticipations. 234
34. The Lawless Grammar. 2
35. The Prison-Shirt. 191
36. The Hours. 364
'The presence of deaf witness, this is what the numbers are. They hang onto
the Aurbis as the last nostalgia of their godhood. The effigies of numbers
are their current applications; this is folly, as above. To be affixed to a
symbol is too, too certain.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 30
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Object ID: BookSkill_Short Blade5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Short Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Thirty
Then Vivec left the mystics of the Number Room and went back to the space
that was not a space. From the Provisional House he looked into the middle
world to find the sixth monster, called City-Face. He was vexed when he could
not find it and went back to the Mourning Hold in secret anger, killing a
mystic that asked about higher order.
Nerevar, the Hortator, witnessed this and said, 'Why do this, milord? The
mystics look to you for guidance. They work to make your temple better
stoned.'
Vivec said, 'No one knows what I am.'
The Hortator nodded and went back to his studies.
Here is how City-Face hid from his mother-father: it had been born named as
Ha-Note, a bare urge of power, an esoteric wind nerve tuned to the frequency
of huddled masses. It found root in villages and multiplied, finding in the
minds of the settled a veiled astrology, the star charts of culture, and this
resonance made its head swim. Ha-Note moved sideways into the Adjacent Place,
growing and unbeknownst. Above the vocal, it trembled with new emotions,
immortal ones, absorbing more than the thirty known to exist in the middle
world. When Ha-Note became gravely homesick, the Grabbers took it.
A Grabber said, 'New emotions to the lonely occur only of madness. This thing
is gone. It is ours now.'
Grabbers had never made a city of their own, and their glimpse of Vivec's,
which shone with holiness through all the spheres, had taken their attention.
'Under this reason did the issue of Vehk slide into our realm, drawn by our
coveting, hidden in loss. We shall build our tower-hope upon its face.'
Now many years had passed in Resdaynia, and the high priests of the Dwemer
were building something alike as Vivec and alike as the new Ha-Note of the
Grabbers. The Hortator was engaged with an army of theirs that had become too
brave, talking foolish words, and Nerevar helped destroy them with the help
of the orphan legion of Ayem. When he went to give trophy to Vivec, he saw
his lord under attack by the City-Face. The monster was saying this:
'Here we are to replace your city, Vehk and Vehk. We are from the place of
the more-than-known emotions, and our citizenry has died from it. Two things
we came for, but can stay for only one. Either we ask you to correct our
error of culture, or merely take yours by dint of force. The second is
easiest, we think.'
Vivec sighed.
'You would replace my direction,' he said. 'I weary of this, though I wanted
to kill you an age before. Resdaynia is fallen ill, and I have no time for
one more imaginary analogy of an unknown incident. Here, take this.'
At which he touched the tower-hope of the City-Face and corrected the error
of the Grabbers.
'And this.'
At which he stabbed the heart of the City-Face with the Ethos Knife, which is
to say RKHT AI AE ALTADOON AI, the short blade of proper commerce.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 31
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Object ID: BookSkill_Athletics5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Athletics skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Thirty-One
Many more years passed in Resdaynia, and the high priests of the Dwemer were
almost ready to make war on the rulers of Veloth. The Hortator had become the
husband of Ayem during this time, and the first saint of the Triune way.
Vivec had tired of fighting his sons and daughters, and so took a respite
from trying to find them.
The Hortator said to his wife, 'Where is Vivec, my teacher? I love him still,
though he grows cold. His lamentations, if I may call them that, have changed
the skin of the whole country. He is hardly to be found anywhere in Veloth of
late. The people grow dark because of it.'
And Ayem took mercy on her troubled husband and told him that the sword of
the Triune had been fighting minor monsters stirred up by the Dwemer as they
worked on their brass siege machines. She took the Hortator inside her and
showed him where his master was.
ALMSIVI, or at least that aspect that chose to be Vivec, sat in the Litany
Hall of the False Thinking Temple after his battle with the Flute-and-Pipe
Ogres of the West Gash. He began writing, again, in his Book of Hours. He had
to put on his Water Face first. That way he could separate the bronze of the
Old Temple from the blue of the New and write with happiness. Second, he had
to take another feather from the Big Moon, further rendering it dead. That
way he could write about mortals with truth. Third, he recalled the
Pomegranate Banquet, where he was forced to marry to Molag Bal with wet
scriptures to cement his likeness as Mephala and write with black hands. He
wrote:
The last time I heard his voice, showing the slightest sign of impatience, I
learned to control myself and submit to the will of others. Afterwards, I
dared to take on the sacred fire and realized there was no equilibrium with
the ET'ADA. They were liars, lost roots, and the most I can do is to be an
interpreter into the rational. Even that fails the needs of the people. I sit
on the mercy seat and pass judgment, the waking state, and the phase aspect
of the innate urge. Only here can I doubt, in this book, written in water,
broadened to include evil.
Then Vivec threw his ink on this passage to cover it up (for the lay reader)
and wrote instead:
Find me in the blackened paper, unarmored, in final scenery. Truth is like my
husband: instructed to smash, filled with procedure and noise, hammering,
weighty, heaviness made schematic, lessons learned only by a mace. Let those
that hear me then be buffeted, and let some die in the ash from the striking.
Let those that find him find him murdered by illumination, pummeled like a
traitorous house, because, if an hour is golden, then immortal I am a secret
code. I am the partaker of the Doom Drum, chosen of all those that dwell in
the middle world to wear this crown, which reverberates with truth, and I am
the mangling messiah.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 32
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Object ID: BookSkill_Block5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Block skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Thirty-Two
The Scripture of the Mace, First:
'The pleasure of annihilation is the pleasure of disappearing into the
unreal. All those that would challenge the sleeping world will seek
membership in this movement. I denounce the alienation of the Cloven Duality
with a hammer.'
Second:
'Take from me the lessons as a punishment for being mortal. To be made of
dirt is to be treated as such by your jailers. This is the key and the lock
of the Daedra. Why do you think they escaped the compromise?'
Third:
'Velothi, your skin has become the pregnant darkness. My brooding has brought
this on. Remember that Boethiah asked you to become the color of bruise. How
else to show yourselves people of the exodus into the vital: pain?'
Fourth:
'The sage who is not an anvil: a conventional sentence and nothing more. By
which I mean dead, the fourth walking way.'
Fifth:
'A proper comprehension of the virtues: stage-managed and to be murdered.'
Sixth:
'In the end, rejoice as a hostage released from drumming torment but that
savors his wound. The drum breaks and you find it to be a nest of hornets,
which is to say: your sleep is over.'
Seventh:
'The suspicious is spectacle and the lie is only a theoretical inspiration.'
Eighth:
'But then why, you ask, do the Daedra wish to meddle with the Aurbis? It is
because they are the radical critique, essential as all martyrs. That some
are more evil than others in not an illusion. Or rather, it is a necessary
illusion.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 33
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Object ID: bookskill_medium armor5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Medium Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Thirty-Three
Then Vivec left the Litany Hall of the False Thinking Temple, where he had
brooded for so long creating the scripture of the pounding light, and went
back to the space that was not a space. From the Provisional House he looked
into the middle world to find the seventh monster, called Lie Rock.
Lie Rock was born of Vivec's Second Aperture and was thrown out of the
Pomegranate Banquet by a member of the Sweeps, another forgotten guild. The
Sweep did not take it for the monster that it was and so he did not expect it
to fly from his hand and into the heavens.
'I am born of golden wisdom and powers that should have forever been unalike!
With this nature I am invited into the Hidden Heaven!'
By which he meant the Scaled Blanket, made of not-stars, whose number is
thirteen. Lie Rock became full of foolishness, haggling with the Void Ghost
who hides in the religions of all men. The Void Ghost said:
'Stay with me a full hundred years and I will give you a power that no
divinity will dare disobey.'
But before the hundred years was up, Vivec was already looking for Lie Rock
and found him.
'Stupid stone,' Vivec said. 'To hide in the Scaled Blanket is to make a mark
on nothing. His bargains are only for ruling kings!'
So Vivec sent the Hortator to the heavens to shave Lie Rock asunder by the
named axe. Nerevar made peace with the south-pole-star of thieving and the
north-pole-star of warriors and the third-pole-star, which existed only in
the ether, which was governed by the apprentice of Magnus the sun. They gave
him leave to wander among their charges and gave him red sight by which to
find Lie Rock in the Hidden Heaven.
By chance, Nerevar met the Void Ghost first, who told him that he was in the
wrong place to which the Hortator said, 'Me or you?' and the Void Ghost said
both. This sermon does not tell what else was said between these masters.
Lie Rock, however, used the confusion to launch his own attack on the city-
god, Vivec. He was hastened by all three of the black guardians, who wanted
him swiftly gone, though they meant no hostility to the lord of the middle
air.
The citizenry of Vivec screamed as they saw a shooting star come down out of
the sky hole like a toll-road of hell. But Vivec merely raised his hand and
froze Lie Rock just above the city and then he pierced the monster with
Muatra.
(The practice of piercing the Second Aperture is now forbidden.)
When Nerevar returned, he saw the frozen comet above his lord's city. He
asked whether or not Vivec wanted it removed.
'I would have done so myself if I wanted, silly Hortator. I shall keep it
there with its last intention intact, so that if the love of the people of
this city for me ever disappear, so shall the power that holds back their
destruction.'
Nerevar said, 'Love is under your will only.'
Vivec smiled and told the Hortator that he had become a Minister of Truth.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 34
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Object ID: bookskill_unarmored5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Unarmored skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Thirty-Four
Then Vivec left the Ministry of Truth and went back to the space that was not
a space. From the Provisional House he looked into the middle world to find
the eighth and final and mightiest monster, called GULGA MOR JIL and more.
The wise must look elsewhere for this string of power.
Vivec called to his side the Hortator and this was the first time that
Nerevar had ever been to the Provisional House. He had the same vision that
Vivec had so many years ago: that of the two-headed ruling king.
'Who is that?' he wondered.
Vivec said, 'The red jewel of conquest.'
Nerevar, perhaps because he was frightened, became vexed at his lord's
answer. 'Why are you always so evasive?'
Vivec told the Hortator that to be otherwise was to betray his nature.
Together they moved into the middle world, to a village near where Vivec had
been found by Ayem and Seht. The eighth monster was there, but he did not act
much like a monster. He sat with his legs in the ocean and with a troubled
look on his face. When he saw his mother-father, he asked why he should have
to die and return to oblivion.
Vivec told the eighth monster that to be otherwise was to betray his nature.
Since this did not seem to satisfy the monster and Vivec still had a touch of
Ayem's mercy he said:
'The fire is mine: let it consume thee,
And make a secret door
At the altar of Padhome,
In the House of Boet-hi-Ah
Where we become safe
And looked after.'
The monster accepted Muatra with a peaceful look and his bones became the
foundation for the City of the Dead, anon Narsis.
Nerevar put away his axe, which he had at the ready, and frowned.
'Why,' he said, 'did you ask me to come if you knew the eighth monster would
give in so easily?'
Vivec looked at the Hortator for a long time.
Nerevar understood. 'Do not betray your nature. Answer as you will.'
Vivec said, 'I brought you here because I knew the mightiest of my issue
would succumb to Muatra without argument, if only I gave him consolation
first.'
Nerevar looked at Vivec for a long time.
Vivec understood. 'Say the words, Hortator.'
Nerevar said, 'Now I am the mightiest of your children.'
Let this sermon be consolation to those who read it that are destined to die.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 35
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Object ID: bookskill_spear5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Spear skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Thirty-Five
The Scripture of Love:
'The formulas of proper Velothi magic continue in ancient tradition, but that
virility is dead, by which I mean at least replaced. Truth owes its medicinal
nature to the establishment of the myth of justice. Its curative properties
it likewise owes to the concept of sacrifice. Princes, chiefs, and angels all
subscribe to the same notion. This is a view primarily based on a prolific
abolition of an implied profanity, seen in ceremonies, knife fighting,
hunting, and the exploration of the poetic. On the ritual of occasions, which
comes to us from the days of the cave glow, I can say nothing more than to
loosen your equation of moods to lunar currency. Later, and by that I mean
much, much later, my reign will be seen as an act of the highest love, which
is a return from the astral destiny and the marriages between. By that I mean
the catastrophes, which will come from all five corners. Subsequent are the
revisions, differentiated between hope and the distraught, situations that
are only required by the periodic death of the immutable. Cosmic time is
repeated: I wrote of this in an earlier life. An imitation of submersion is
love's premonition, its folly into the underworld, by which I mean the day
you will read about outside of yourself in an age of gold. For on that day,
which is a shadow of the sacrificial concept, all history is obliged to see
me for what you are: in love with evil. To keep one's powers intact at such a
stage is to allow for the existence of what can only be called a continual
spirit. Make of your love a defense against the horizon. Pure existence is
only granted to the holy, which comes in a myriad of forms, half of them
frightening and the other half divided into equal parts purposeless and
assured. Late is the lover that comes to this by any other walking way than
the fifth, which is the number of the limit of this world. The lover is the
highest country and a series of beliefs. He is the sacred city bereft of a
double. The uncultivated land of monsters is the rule. This is clearly
attested by ANU and his double, which love knows never really happened.
Similarly, all the other symbols of absolute reality are ancient ideas ready
for their graves, or at least the essence of such. This scripture is directly
ordered by the codes of Mephala, the origin of sex and murder, defeated only
by those who take up those ideas without my intervention. The religious elite
is not a tendency or a correlation. They are dogma complemented by the
influence of the untrustworthy sea and the governance of the stars, dominated
at the center by the sword, which is nothing without a victim to cleave unto.
This is the love of God and he would show you more: predatory but at the same
time instrumental to the will of critical harvest, a scenario by which one
becomes as he is, of male and female, the magic hermaphrodite. Mark the norms
of violence and it barely registers, suspended as it is by treaties written
between the original spirits. This should be seen as an opportunity, and in
no way tedious, though some will give up for it is easier to kiss the lover
than become one. The lower regions crawl with these souls, caves of shallow
treasures, meeting in places to testify by way of extension, when love is
only satisfied by a considerable (incalculable) effort.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 36
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Mysticism4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Mysticism skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Thirty-Six
For these were the days of Resdaynia, when Chimer and Dwemer lived under the
wise and benevolent rule of the AMLSIVI and their champion the Hortator,
though the Dwemer had become foolish and challenged their masters.
Out of their fortresses they came with golden ballistae that walked and
mighty atronachs and things that spat flame and things that made killing
songs. Their king was Dumac Dwarf-Orc, but their high priest was Kagrenac the
Blighter.
Under mountains and over them the war with the Dwemer was raged, and then
came the northern men to help Kagrenac and they brought Ysmir again.
Leading the armies of the Chimer was the slave that would not perish, the
Hortator Nerevar, who had traded his axe for the Ethos Knife. He slew Dumac
at Red Mountain and saw the heart bone for the first time.
Men of brass destroyed the eleven gates of the Mourning Hold and behind them
came the Dwemeri architects of tone. Ayem threw down her cloak and became the
Face-Snaked Queen of the Three in One. Those that looked upon her were
overcome by the meanings of the stars.
Under the sea, Seht stirred and brought the army he had been working on in
the castles of glass and coral. Clockwork dreughs, mockeries of the Dwemeri
war machines, rose up from the seas and took their counterparts back beneath,
where they were swallowed forever by the sea.
Red Mountain exploded as the Hortator went too far inside, seeking the
Sharmat.
Dwemeri high priest Kagrenac then revealed that which he had built in the
image of Vivec. It was a walking star, which burnt the armies of the Triune
and destroyed the heartland of Veloth, creating the Inner Sea.
Each of the aspects of the ALMSIVI then rose up together, combining as one,
and showed the world the sixth path. Ayem took from the star its fire, Seht
took from it its mystery, and Vehk took from it its feet, which had been
constructed before the gift of Molag Bal and destroyed in the manner of
truth: by a great hammering. When the soul of the Dwemer could walk no more,
they were removed from this world.
Resdaynia was no more. It had been redeemed of all the iniquities of the
foolish. The ALMSIVI drew nets from the Beginning Place and captured the ash
of Red Mountain, which they knew was the Blight of the Dwemer and that would
serve only to infect the whole of the middle world, and ate it. ALTADOON
DUNMERI!
The beginning of the words is ALMSIVI. I give you this as Vivec.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 1
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Acrobatics2
Weight: 3
Value: 150
Special Notes: Raises Acrobatics skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
A Dance In Fire, Chapter I
by Waughin Jarth
Scene: The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
Date: 7 Frost Fall, 3E 397
It seemed as if the palace had always housed the Atrius Building Commission,
the company of clerks and estate agents who authored and notarized nearly
every construction of any note in the Empire. It had stood for two hundred
and fifty years, since the reign of the Emperor Magnus, a plain-fronted and
austere hall on a minor but respectable plaza in the Imperial City.
Energetic and ambitious middle-class lads and ladies worked there, as well as
complacent middle-aged ones like Decumus Scotti. No one could imagine a
world without the Commission, least of all Scotti. To be accurate, he could
not imagine a world without himself in the Commission.
"Lord Atrius is perfectly aware of your contributions," said the managing
clerk, closing the shutter that demarcated Scotti's office behind him. "But
you know that things have been difficult."
"Yes," said Scotti, stiffly.
"Lord Vanech's men have been giving us a lot of competition lately, and we
must be more efficient if we are to survive. Unfortunately, that means
releasing some of our historically best but presently underachieving senior
clerks."
"I understand. Can't be helped."
"I'm glad that you understand," smiled the managing clerk, smiling thinly and
withdrawing. "Please have your room cleared immediately."
Scotti began the task of organizing all his work to pass on to his successor.
It would probably be young Imbrallius who would take most of it on, which was
as it should be, he considered philosophically. The lad knew how to find
business. Scotti wondered idly what the fellow would do with the contracts
for the new statue of St Alessia for which the Temple of the One had applied.
Probably invent a clerical error, blame it on his old predecessor Decumus
Scotti, and require an additional cost to rectify.
"I have correspondence for Decumus Scotti of the Atrius Building Commission."
Scotti looked up. A fat-faced courier had entered his office and was
thrusting forth a sealed scroll. He handed the boy a gold piece, and opened
it up. By the poor penmanship, atrocious spelling and grammar, and overall
unprofessional tone, it was manifestly evident who the writer was. Liodes
Jurus, a fellow clerk some years before, who had left the Commission after
being accused of unethical business practices.
"Dear Sckotti,
I emagine you alway wondered what happened to me, and the last plase you
would have expected to find me is out in the woods. But thats exactly where
I am. Ha ha. If your'e smart and want to make lot of extra gold for Lord
Atrius (and yourself, ha ha), youll come down to Vallinwood too. If you
have'nt or have been following the politics hear lately, you may or may not
know that ther's bin a war between the Boshmer and there neighbors Elswere
over the past two years. Things have only just calm down, and ther's a lot
that needs to be rebuilt.
Now Ive got more business than I can handel, but I need somone with some
clout, someone representing a respected agencie to get the quill in the ink.
That somone is you, my fiend. Come & meat me at the M'ther Paskos Tavern in
Falinnesti, Vallinwood. Ill be here 2 weeks and you wont be sorrie.
-- Jurus
P.S.: Bring a wagenload of timber if you can."
"What do you have there, Scotti?" asked a voice.
Scotti started. It was Imbrallius, his damnably handsome face peeking
through the shutters, smiling in that way that melted the hearts of the
stingiest of patrons and the roughest of stonemasons. Scotti shoved the
letter in his jacket pocket.
"Personal correspondence," he sniffed. "I'll be cleared up here in a just a
moment."
"I don't want to hurry you," said Imbrallius, grabbing a few sheets of blank
contracts from Scotti's desk. "I've just gone through a stack, and the junior
scribes hands are all cramping up, so I thought you wouldn't miss a few."
The lad vanished. Scotti retrieved the letter and read it again. He thought
about his life, something he rarely did. It seemed a sea of gray with a
black insurmountable wall looming. There was only one narrow passage he
could see in that wall. Quickly, before he had a moment to reconsider it, he
grabbed a dozen of the blank contracts with the shimmering gold leaf ATRIUS
BUILDING COMMISSION BY APPOINTMENT OF HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY and hid them in
the satchel with his personal effects.
The next day he began his adventure with a giddy lack of hesitation. He
arranged for a seat in a caravan bound for Valenwood, the single escorted
conveyance to the southeast leaving the Imperial City that week. He had
scarcely hours to pack, but he remembered to purchase a wagonload of timber.
"It will be extra gold to pay for a horse to pull that," frowned the convoy
head.
"So I anticipated," smiled Scotti with his best Imbrallius grin.
Ten wagons in all set off that afternoon through the familiar Cyrodilic
countryside. Past fields of wildflowers, gently rolling woodlands, friendly
hamlets. The clop of the horses' hooves against the sound stone road
reminded Scotti that the Atrius Building Commission constructed it. Five of
the eighteen necessary contracts for its completion were drafted by his own
hand.
"Very smart of you to bring that wood along," said a gray-whiskered Breton
man next to him on his wagon. "You must be in Commerce."
"Of a sort," said Scotti, in a way he hoped was mysterious, before
introducing himself: "Decumus Scotti."
"Gryf Mallon," said the man. "I'm a poet, actually a translator of old
Bosmer literature. I was researching some newly discovered tracts of the
Mnoriad Pley Bar two years ago when the war broke out and I had to leave.
You are no doubt familiar with the Mnoriad, if you're aware of the Green
Pact."
Scotti thought the man might be speaking perfect gibberish, but he nodded his
head.
"Naturally, I don't pretend that the Mnoriad is as renowned as the Meh
Ayleidion, or as ancient as the Dansir Gol, but I think it has a remarkable
significance to understanding the nature of the merelithic Bosmer mind. The
origin of the Wood Elf aversion to cutting their own wood or eating any plant
material at all, yet paradoxically their willingness to import plantstuff
from other cultures, I feel can be linked to a passage in the Mnoriad,"
Mallon shuffled through some of his papers, searching for the appropriate
text.
To Scotti's vast relief, the carriage soon stopped to camp for the night.
They were high on a bluff over a gray stream, and before them was the great
valley of Valenwood. Only the cry of seabirds declared the presence of the
ocean to the bay to the west: here the timber was so tall and wide, twisting
around itself like an impossible knot begun eons ago, to be impenetrable. A
few more modest trees, only fifty feet to the lowest branches, stood on the
cliff at the edge of camp. The sight was so alien to Scotti and he found
himself so anxious about the proposition of entering the wilderness that he
could not imagine sleeping.
Fortunately, Mallon had supposed he had found another academic with a passion
for the riddles of ancient cultures. Long into the night, he recited Bosmer
verse in the original and in his own translation, sobbing and bellowing and
whispering wherever appropriate. Gradually, Scotti began to feel drowsy, but
a sudden crack of wood snapping made him sit straight up.
"What was that?"
Mallon smiled: "I like it too. 'Convocation in the malignity of the moonless
speculum, a dance of fire --'"
"There are some enormous birds up in the trees moving around," whispered
Scotti, pointing in the direction of the dark shapes above.
"I wouldn't worry about that," said Mallon, irritated with his audience. "Now
listen to how the poet characterizes Herma-Mora's invocation in the
eighteenth stanza of the fourth book."
The dark shapes in the trees were some of them perched like birds, others
slithered like snakes, and still others stood up straight like men. As
Mallon recited his verse, Scotti watched the figures softly leap from branch
to branch, half-gliding across impossible distances for anything without
wings. They gathered in groups and then reorganized until they had spread to
every tree around the camp. Suddenly they plummeted from the heights.
"Mara!" cried Scotti. "They're falling like rain!"
"Probably seed pods," Mallon shrugged, not turning around. "Some of the trees
have remarkable --"
The camp erupted into chaos. Fires burst out in the wagons, the horses
wailed from mortal blows, casks of wine, fresh water, and liquor gushed their
contents to the ground. A nimble shadow dashed past Scotti and Mallon,
gathering sacks of grain and gold with impossible agility and grace. Scotti
had only one glance at it, lit up by a sudden nearby burst of flame. It was
a sleek creature with pointed ears, wide yellow eyes, mottled pied fur and a
tail like a whip.
"Werewolf," he whimpered, shrinking back.
"Cathay-raht," groaned Mallon. "Much worse. Khajiti cousins or some such
thing, come to plunder."
"Are you sure?"
As quickly as they struck, the creatures retreated, diving off the bluff
before the battlemage and knight, the caravan's escorts, had fully opened
their eyes. Mallon and Scotti ran to the precipice and saw a hundred feet
below the tiny figures dash out of the water, shake themselves, and disappear
into the wood.
"Werewolves aren't acrobats like that," said Mallon. "They were definitely
Cathay-raht. Bastard thieves. Thank Stendarr they didn't realize the value
of my notebooks. It wasn't a complete loss."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 2
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Block3
Weight: 3
Value: 150
Special Notes: Raises Block skill 1 point the first time the book is read
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 2
by Waughin Jarth
It was a complete loss. The Cathay-Raht had stolen or destroyed almost every
item of value in the caravan in just a few minutes' time. Decumus Scotti's
wagonload of wood he had hoped to trade with the Bosmer had been set on fire
and then toppled off the bluff. His clothing and contracts were tattered and
ground into the mud of dirt mixed with spilt wine. All the pilgrims,
merchants, and adventurers in the group moaned and wept as they gathered the
remnants of their belongings by the rising sun of the dawn.
"I best not tell anyone that I managed to hold onto my notes for my
translation of the Mnoriad Pley Bar," whispered the poet Gryf Mallon. "They'd
probably turn on me."
Scotti politely declined the opportunity of telling Mallon just how little
value he himself placed on the man's property. Instead, he counted the coins
in his purse. Thirty-four gold pieces. Very little indeed for an
entrepreneur beginning a new business.
"Hoy!" came a cry from the wood. A small party of Bosmer emerged from the
thicket, clad in leather mail and bearing arms. "Friend or foe?"
"Neither," growled the convoy head.
"You must be the Cyrodiils," laughed the leader of the group, a tall
skeleton-thin youth with a sharp vulpine face. "We heard you were en route.
Evidently, so did our enemies."
"I thought the war was over," muttered one of the caravan's now ruined
merchants.
The Bosmer laughed again: "No act of war. Just a little border enterprise.
You are going on to Falinesti?"
"I'm not," the convoy head shook his head. "As far as I'm concerned, my duty
is done. No more horses, no more caravan. Just a fat profit loss to me."
The men and women crowded around the man, protesting, threatening, begging,
but he refused to step foot in Valenwood. If these were the new times of
peace, he said, he'd rather come back for the next war.
Scotti tried a different route and approached the Bosmer. He spoke with an
authoritative but friendly voice, the kind he used in negotiations with
peevish carpenters: "I don't suppose you'd consider escorting me to
Falinesti. I'm a representative for an important Imperial agency, the Atrius
Building Commission, here to help repair and alleviate some of the problems
the war with the Khajiit brought to your province. Patriotism --"
"Twenty gold pieces, and you must carry your own gear if you have any left,"
replied the Bosmer.
Scotti reflected that negotiations with peevish carpenters rarely went his
way either.
Six eager people had enough gold on them for payment. Among those without
funds was the poet, who appealed to Scotti for assistance.
"I'm sorry, Gryf, I only have fourteen gold left over. Not even enough for a
decent room when I get to Falinesti. I really would help you if I could,"
said Scotti, persuading himself that it was true.
The band of six and their Bosmer escorts began the descent down a rocky path
along the bluff. Within an hour's time, they were deep in the jungles of
Valenwood. A never-ending canopy of hues of browns and greens obscured the
sky. A millennia's worth of fallen leaves formed a deep, wormy sea of
putrefaction beneath their feet. Several miles were crossed wading through
the slime. For several more, they took a labyrinthian path across fallen
branches and the low-hanging boughs of giant trees.
All the while, hour after hour, the inexhaustible Bosmer host moved so fast,
the Cyrodiils struggled to keep from being left behind. A red-faced little
merchant with short legs took a bad step on a rotten branch and nearly fell.
His fellow provincials had to help him up. The Bosmer paused only a moment,
their eyes continually darting to the shadows in the trees above before
moving on at their usual expeditious pace.
"What are they so nervous about?" wheezed the merchant irritably. "More
Cathay-Raht?"
"Don't be ridiculous," laughed the Bosmer unconvincingly. "Khajiiti this far
into Valenwood? In times of peace? They'd never dare."
When the group passed high enough above the swamp that the smell was somewhat
dissipated, Scotti felt a sudden pang of hunger. He was used to four meals a
day in the Cyrodilic custom. Hours of nonstop exertion without food was not
part of his regimen as a comfortably paid clerk. He pondered, feeling
somewhat delirious, how long they had been trotting through the jungle.
Twelve hours? Twenty? A week? Time was meaningless. Sunlight was only
sporadic through the vegetative ceiling. Phosphorescent molds on the trees
and in the muck below provided the only regular illumination.
"Is it at all possible for us to rest and eat?" he hollered to his host up
ahead.
"We're near to Falinesti," came the echoing reply. "Lots of food there."
The path continued upward for several hours more across a clot of fallen
logs, rising up to the first and then the second boughs of the tree line. As
they rounded a long corner, the travelers found themselves midway up a
waterfall that fell a hundred feet or more. No one had the energy to
complain as they began pulling up the stacks of rock, agonizing foot by foot.
The Bosmer escorts disappeared into the mist, but Scotti kept climbing until
there was no more rock left. He wiped the sweat and river water from his
eyes.
Falinesti spread across the horizon before him. Sprawling across both banks
of the river stood the mighty graht-oak city, with groves and orchards of
lesser trees crowding it like supplicants before their king. At a lesser
scale, the tree that formed the moving city would have been extraordinary:
gnarled and twisted with a gorgeous crown of gold and green, dripping with
vines and shining with sap. At a mile tall and half as wide, it was the most
magnificent thing Scotti had ever seen. If he had not been a starving man
with the soul of a clerk, he would have sung.
"There you are," said the leader of the escorts. "Not too far a walk. You
should be glad it's wintertide. In summertide, the city's on the far south
end of the province."
Scotti was lost as to how to proceed. The sight of the vertical metropolis
where people moved about like ants disoriented all his sensibilities.
"You wouldn't know of an inn called," he paused for a moment, and then pulled
Jurus's letter from his pocket. "Something like 'Mother Paskos Tavern'?"
"Mother Pascost?" the lead Bosmer laughed his familiar contemptuous laugh.
"You won't want to stay there? Visitors always prefer the Aysia Hall in the
top boughs. It's expensive, but very nice."
"I'm meeting someone at Mother Pascost's Tavern."
"If you've made up your mind to go, take a lift to Havel Slump and ask for
directions there. Just don't get lost and fall asleep in the western cross."
This apparently struck the youth's friends as a very witty jest, and so it
was with their laughter echoing behind him that Scotti crossed the writhing
root system to the base of Falinesti. The ground was littered with leaves
and refuse, and from moment to moment a glass or a bone would plummet from
far above, so he walked with his neck crooked to have warning. An intricate
network of platforms anchored to thick vines slipped up and down the slick
trunk of the city with perfect grace, manned by operators with arms as thick
as an ox's belly. Scotti approaches the nearest fellow at one of the
platforms, who was idly smoking from a glass pipe.
"I was wondering if you might take me to Havel Slump."
The mer nodded and within a few minutes time, Scotti was two hundred feet in
the air at a crook between two mighty branches. Curled webs of moss
stretched unevenly across the fork, forming a sharing roof for several dozen
small buildings. There were only a few souls in the alley, but around the
bend ahead, he could hear the sound of music and people. Scotti tipped the
Falinesti Platform Ferryman a gold piece and asked for the location of Mother
Pascost's Tavern.
"Straight ahead of you, sir, but you won't find anyone there," the Ferryman
explained, pointing in the direction of the noise. "Morndas everyone in Havel
Slump has revelry."
Scotti walked carefully along the narrow street. Though the ground felt as
solid as the marble avenues of the Imperial City, there were slick cracks in
the bark that exposed fatal drops into the river. He took a moment to sit
down, to rest and get used to the view from the heights. It was a beautiful
day for certain, but it took Scotti only a few minutes of contemplation to
rise up in alarm. A jolly little raft anchored down stream below him had
distinctly moved several inches while he watched it. But it hadn't moved at
all. He had. Together with everything around him. It was no metaphor: the
city of Falinesti walked. And, considering its size, it moved quickly.
Scotti rose to his feet and into a cloud of smoke that drifted out from
around the bend. It was the most delicious roast he had ever smelled. The
clerk forgot his fear and ran.
The "revelry" as the Ferryman had termed it took place on an enormous
platform tied to the tree, wide enough to be a plaza in any other city. A
fantastic assortment of the most amazing people Scotti had ever seen were
jammed shoulder-to-shoulder together, many eating, many more drinking, and
some dancing to a lutist and singer perched on an offshoot above the crowd.
They were largely Bosmer, true natives clad in colorful leather and bones,
with a close minority of orcs. Whirling through the throng, dancing and
bellowing at one another were a hideous ape people. A few heads bobbing over
the tops of the crowd belonged not, as Scotti first assumed, to very tall
people, but to a family of centaurs.
"Care for some mutton?" queried a wizened old mer who roasted an enormous
beast on some red-hot rocks.
Scotti quickly paid him a gold piece and devoured the leg he was given. And
then another gold piece and another leg. The fellow chuckled when Scotti
began choking on a piece of gristle, and handed him a mug of a frothing white
drink. He drank it and felt a quiver run through his body as if he were
being tickled.
"What is that?" Scotti asked.
"Jagga. Fermented pig's milk. I can let you have a flagon of it and a bit
more mutton for another gold."
Scotti agreed, paid, gobbled down the meat, and took the flagon with him as
he slipped into the crowd. His co-worker Liodes Jurus, the man who had told
him to come to Valenwood, was nowhere to be seen. When the flagon was a
quarter empty, Scotti stopped looking for Jurus. When it was half empty, he
was dancing with the group, oblivious to the broken planks and gaps in the
fencework. At three quarters empty, he was trading jokes with a group of
creatures whose language was completely alien to him. By the time the flagon
was completely drained, he was asleep, snoring, while the revelry continued
on all around his supine body.
The next morning, still asleep, Scotti had the sensation of someone kissing
him. He made a face to return the favor, but a pain like fire spread through
his chest and forced him to open his eyes. There was an insect the size of a
large calf sitting on him, crushing him, its spiky legs holding him down
while a central spiral-bladed vortex of a mouth tore through his shirt. He
screamed and thrashed but the beast was too strong. It had found its meal
and it was going to finish it.
It's over, thought Scotti wildly, I should have never left home. I could
have stayed in the City, and perhaps found work with Lord Vanech. I could
have begun again as a junior clerk and worked my way back up.
Suddenly the mouth released itself. The creature shivered once, expelled a
burst of yellow bile, and died.
"Got one!" cried a voice, not too distantly.
For a moment, Scotti lay still. His head throbbed and his chest burned. Out
of the corner of his eye he saw movement. Another of the horrible monsters
was scurried towards him. He scrambled, trying to push himself free, but
before he could come out, there was a sound of a bow cracking and an arrow
pierced the second insect.
"Good shot!" cried another voice. "Get the first one again! I just saw it
move a little!"
This time, Scotti felt the impact of the bolt hit the carcass. He cried out,
but he could hear how muffled his voice was by the beetle's body.
Cautiously, he tried sliding a foot out and rolling under, but the movement
apparently had the effect of convincing the archers that the creature still
lived. A volley of arrows was launched forth. Now the beast was
sufficiently perforated so pools of its blood, and likely the blood of its
victims, began to seep out onto Scotti's body.
When Scotti was a lad, before he grew too sophisticated for such sports, he
had often gone to the Imperial Arena for the competitions of war. He
recalled a great veteran of the fights, when asked, telling him his secret,
"Whenever I'm in doubt of what to do, and I have a shield, I stay behind it."
Scotti followed that advice. After an hour, when he no longer heard arrows
being fired, he threw aside the remains of the bug and leapt as quickly as he
could to a stand. It was not a moment too soon. A gang of eight archers had
their bows pointing his direction, ready to fire. When they saw him, they
laughed.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to sleep in the western cross? How're we
going to exterminate all the hoarvors if you drunks keep feeding 'em?"
Scotti shook his head and walked back along the platform, round the bend, to
Havel Slump. He was bloodied and torn and tired and he had far too much
fermented pig's milk. All he wanted was a proper place to lie down. He
stepped into Mother Pascost's Tavern, a dank place, wet with sap, smelling of
mildew.
"My name is Decumus Scotti," he said. "I was hoping you have someone named
Jurus staying here."
"Decumus Scotti?" pondered the fleshy proprietress, Mother Pascost herself.
"I've heard that name. Oh, you must be the fellow he left the note for. Let
me go see if I can find it."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 3
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Athletics2
Weight: 3
Value: 150
Special Notes: Raises Athletics skill 1 point the first time the book is read
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 3
by Waughin Jarth
Mother Pascost disappeared into the sordid hole that was her tavern, and
emerged a moment later with a scrap of paper with Liodes Jurus's familiar
scrawl. Decumus Scotti held it up before a patch of sunlight that had found
its way through the massive boughs of the tree city, and read.
Sckotti,
So you made it to Falinnesti, Vallinwood! Congradulatens! Im sure you had
quit a adventure getting here. Unfortonitly, Im not here anymore as you
probaby guess. Theres a town down rivver called Athie Im at. Git a bote and
join me! Its ideal! I hope you brot a lot of contracks, cause these peple
need a lot of building done. They wer close to the war, you see, but not so
close they dont have any mony left to pay. Ha ha. Meat me down here as son
as you can.
-- Jurus
So, Scotti pondered, Jurus had left Falinesti and gone to some place called
Athie. Given his poor penmanship and ghastly spelling, it could equally well
be Athy, Aphy, Othry, Imthri, Urtha, or Krakamaka. The sensible thing to do,
Scotti knew, was to call this adventure over and try to find some way to get
back home to the Imperial City. He was no mercenary devoted to a life of
thrills: he was, or at least had been, a senior clerk at a successful private
building commission. Over the last few weeks, he had been robbed by the
Cathay-Raht, taken on a death march through the jungle by a gang of giggling
Bosmeri, half-starved to death, drugged with fermented pig's milk, nearly
slain by some kind of giant tick, and attacked by archers. He was filthy,
exhausted, and had, he counted, ten gold pieces to his name. Now the man
whose proposal brought him to the depths of misery was not even there. It
was both judicious and seemly to abandon the enterprise entirely.
And yet, a small but distinct voice in his head told him: You have been
chosen. You have no other choice but to see this through.
Scotti turned to the stout old woman, Mother Pascost, who had been watching
him curiously: "I was wondering if you knew of a village that was at the edge
of the recent conflict with Elsweyr. It's called something like Ath-ie?"
"You must mean Athay," she grinned. "My middle lad, Viglil, he manages a
dairy down there. Beautiful country, right on the river. Is that where your
friend went?"
"Yes," said Scotti. "Do you know the fastest way to get there?"
After a short conversation, an even shorter ride to Falinesti's roots by way
of the platforms, and a jog to the river bank, Scotti was negotiating
transport with a huge fair-haired Bosmer with a face like a pickled carp. He
called himself Captain Balfix, but even Scotti with his sheltered life could
recognize him for what he was. A retired pirate for hire, a smuggler for
certain, and probably much worse. His ship, which had clearly been stolen in
the distant past, was a bent old Imperial sloop.
"Fifty gold and we'll be in Athay in two days time," boomed Captain Balfix
expansively.
"I have ten, no, sorry, nine gold pieces," replied Scotti, and feeling the
need for explanation, added, "I had ten, but I gave one to the Platform
Ferryman to get me down here."
"Nine is just as fine," said the captain agreeably. "Truth be told, I was
going to Athay whether you paid me or not. Make yourself comfortable on the
boat, we'll be leaving in just a few minutes."
Decumus Scotti boarded the vessel, which sat low in the water of the river,
stacked high with crates and sacks that spilled out of the hold and galley
and onto the deck. Each was marked with stamps advertising the most
innocuous substances: copper scraps, lard, ink, High Rock meal (marked "For
Cattle"), tar, fish jelly. Scotti's imagination reeled picturing what sorts
of illicit imports were truly aboard.
It took more than those few minutes for Captain Balfix to haul in the rest of
his cargo, but in an hour, the anchor was up and they were sailing downriver
towards Athay. The green gray water barely rippled, only touched by the
fingers of the breeze. Lush plant life crowded the banks, obscuring from
sight all the animals that sang and roared at one another. Lulled by the
serene surroundings, Scotti drifted to sleep.
At night, he awoke and gratefully accepted some clean clothes and food from
Captain Balfix.
"Why are you going to Athay, if I may ask?" queried the Bosmer.
"I'm meeting a former colleague there. He asked me to come down from the
Imperial City where I worked for the Atrius Building Commission to negotiate
some contracts," Scotti took another bite of the dried sausages they were
sharing for dinner. "We're going to try to repair and refurbish whatever
bridges, roads, and other structures that got damaged in the recent war with
the Khajiiti."
"It's been a hard two years," the captain nodded his head. "Though I suppose
good for me and the likes of you and your friend. Trade routes cut off.
Now they think there's going to be war with the Summurset Isles, you heard
that?"
Scotti shook his head.
"I've done my share of smuggling skooma down the coast, even helping some
revolutionary types escape the Mane's wrath, but now the wars've made me a
legitimate trader, a business-man. The first casualties of war is always the
corrupted."
Scotti said he was sorry to hear that, and they lapsed into silence, watching
the stars and moons' reflection on the still water. The next day, Scotti
awoke to find the captain wrapped up in his sail, torpid from alcohol,
singing in a low, slurred voice. When he saw Scotti rise, he offered his
flagon of jagga.
"I learned my lesson during revelry at western cross."
The captain laughed, and then burst into tears, "I don't want to be
legitimate. Other pirates I used to know are still raping and stealing and
smuggling and selling nice folk like you into slavery. I swear to you, I
never thought the first time that I ran a real shipment of legal goods that
my life would turn out like this. Oh, I know, I could go back to it, but
Baan Dar knows not after all I've seen. I'm a ruined man."
Scotti helped the weeping mer out of the sail, murmuring words of
reassurance. Then he added, "Forgive me for changing the subject, but where
are we?"
"Oh," moaned Captain Balfix miserably. "We made good time. Athay's right
around the bend in the river."
"Then it looks like Athay's on fire," said Scotti, pointing.
A great plume of smoke black as pitch was rising above the trees. As they
drifted around the bend, they next saw the flames, and then the blackened
skeletal remains of the village. Dying, blazing villagers leapt from rocks
into the river. A cacophony of wailing met their ears, and they could see,
roaming along the edges of the town, the figures of Khajiiti soldiers bearing
torches.
"Baan Dar bless me!" slurred the captain. "The war's back on!"
"Oh, no," whimpered Scotti.
The sloop drifted with the current toward the opposite shore away from the
fiery town. Scotti turned his attention there, and the sanctuary it offered.
Just a peaceful arbor, away from the horror. There was a shudder of leaves
in two of the trees and a dozen lithe Khajiit dropped to the ground, armed
with bows.
"They see us," hissed Scotti. "And they've got bows!"
"Well, of course they have bows," snarled Captain Balfix. "We Bosmer may have
invented the bloody things, but we didn't think to keep them secret, you
bloody bureaucrat."
"Now, they're setting their arrows on fire!"
"Yes, they do that sometimes."
"Captain, they're shooting at us! They're shooting at us with flaming
arrows!"
"Ah, so they are," the captain agreed. "The aim here is to avoid being hit."
But hit they were, and very shortly thereafter. Even worse, the second
volley of arrows hit the supply of pitch, which ignited in a tremendous blue
blaze. Scotti grabbed Captain Balfix and they leapt overboard just before
the ship and all its cargo disintegrated. The shock of the cold water
brought the Bosmer into temporary sobriety. He called to Scotti, who was
already swimming as fast as he could toward the bend.
"Master Decumus, where do you think you're swimming to?"
"Back to Falinesti!" cried Scotti.
"It will take you days, and by the time you get there, everyone will know
about the attack on Athay! They'll never let anyone they don't know in! The
closest village downriver is Grenos, maybe they'll give us shelter!"
Scotti swam back to the captain and side-by-side they began paddling in the
middle of the river, past the burning residuum of the village. He thanked
Mara that he had learned to swim. Many a Cyrodiil did not, as largely land-
locked as the Imperial Province was. Had he been raised in Mir Corrup or
Artemon, he might have been doomed, but the Imperial City itself was
encircled by water, and every lad and lass there knew how to cross without a
boat. Even those who grew up to be clerks and not adventurers.
Captain Balfix's sobriety faded as he grew used to the water's temperature.
Even in wintertide, the Xylo River was fairly temperate and after a fashion,
even comfortable. The Bosmer's strokes were uneven, and he'd stray closer to
Scotti and then further away, pushing ahead and then falling behind.
Scotti looked to the shore to his right: the flames had caught the trees like
tinder. Behind them was an inferno, with which they were barely keeping
pace. To the shore on their left, all looked fair, until he saw a tremble in
the river-reeds, and then what caused it. A pride of the largest cats he had
ever seen. They were auburn-haired, green-eyed beasts with jaws and teeth to
match his wildest nightmares. And they were watching the two swimmers, and
keeping pace.
"Captain Balfix, we can't go to either that shore or the other one, or we'll
be parboiled or eaten," Scotti whispered. "Try to even your kicking and your
strokes. Breath like you would normally. If you're feeling tired, tell me,
and we'll float on our backs for a while."
Anyone who has had the experience of giving rational advice to a drunkard
would understand the hopelessness. Scotti kept pace with the captain,
slowing himself, quickening, drifting left and right, while the Bosmer moaned
old ditties from his pirate days. When he wasn't watching his companion, he
watched the cats on the shore. After a stretch, he turned to his right.
Another village had caught fire. Undoubtedly, it was Grenos. Scotti stared
at the blazing fury, awed by the sight of the destruction, and did not hear
that the captain had ceased to sing.
When he turned back, Captain Balfix was gone.
Scotti dove into the murky depths of the river over and over again. There
was nothing to be done. When he surfaced after his final search, he saw that
the giant cats had moved on, perhaps assuming that he too had drowned. He
continued his lonely swim downriver. A tributary, he noted, had formed a
final barrier, keeping the flames from spreading further. But there were no
more towns. After several hours, he began to ponder the wisdom of going
ashore. Which shore was the question.
He was spared the decision. Ahead of him was a rocky island with a bonfire.
He did not know if he were intruding on a party of Bosmeri or Khajiiti, only
that he could swim no more. With straining, aching muscles, he pulled
himself onto the rocks.
They were Bosmer refugees he gathered, even before they told him. Roasting
over the fire was the remains of one of the giant cats that had been stalking
him through the jungle on the opposite shore.
"Senche-Tiger," said one of the young warriors ravenously. "It's no animal --
it's as smart as any Cathay-Raht or Ohmes or any other bleeding Khajiiti.
Pity this one drowned. I would have gladly killed it. You'll like the meat,
though. Sweet, from all the sugar these asses eat."
Scotti did not know if he was capable of eating a creature as intelligent as
a man or mer, but he surprised himself, as he had done several times over the
last days. It was rich, succulent, and sweet, like sugared pork, but no
seasonings had been added. He surveyed the crowd as he ate. A sad lot, some
still weeping for lost family members. They were the survivors of both the
villages of Grenos and Athay, and war was on every person's lips. Why had
the Khajiiti attacked again? Why -- specifically directed at Scotti, as a
Cyrodiil -- why was the Emperor not enforcing peace in his provinces?
"I was to meet another Cyrodiil," he said to a Bosmer maiden who he
understood to be from Athay. "His name was Liodes Jurus. I don't suppose you
know what might have happened to him."
"I don't know your friend, but there were many Cyrodiils in Athay when the
fire came," said the girl. "Some of them, I think, left quickly. They were
going to Vindisi, inland, in the jungle. I am going there tomorrow, so are
many of us. If you wish, you may come as well."
Decumus Scotti nodded solemnly. He made himself as comfortable as he could
in the stony ground of the river island, and somehow, after much effort, he
fell asleep. But he did not sleep well.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 4
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Acrobatics3
Weight: 3
Value: 150
Special Notes: Raises Acrobatics skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 4
by Waughin Jarth
Eighteen Bosmeri and one Cyrodilic former senior clerk for an Imperial
building commission trudged through the jungle westward from the Xylo River
to the ancient village of Vindisi. For Decumus Scotti, the jungle was
hostile, unfamiliar ground. The enormous vermiculated trees filled the bright
morning with darkness, and resembled nothing so much as grasping claws, bent
on impeding their progress. Even the fronds of the low plants quivered with
malevolent energy. What was worse, he was not alone in his anxiety. His
fellow travelers, the natives who had survived the Khajiit attacks on the
villages of Grenos and Athay, wore faces of undisguised fear.
There was something sentient in the jungle, and not merely the mad but
benevolent indigenous spirits. In his peripheral vision, Scotti could see the
shadows of the Khajiiti following the refugees, leaping from tree to tree.
When he turned to face them, the lithe forms vanished into the gloom as if
they had never been there. But he knew he had seen them. And the Bosmeri saw
them too, and quickened their pace.
After eighteen hours, bitten raw by insects, scratched by a thousand thorns,
they emerged into a valley clearing. It was night, but a row of blazing
torches greeted them, illuminating the leather-wrought tents and jumbled
stones of the hamlet of Vindisi. At the end of the valley, the torches marked
a sacred site, a gnarled bower of trees pressed closed together to form a
temple. Wordlessly, the Bosmeri walked the torch arcade toward the trees.
Scotti followed them. When they reached the solid mass of living wood with
only one gaping portal, Scotti could see a dim blue light glowing within. A
low sonorous moan from a hundred voices echoed within. The Bosmeri maiden he
had been following held out her hand, stopping him.
"You do not understand, but no outsider, not even a friend may enter," she
said. "This is a holy place."
Scotti nodded, and watched the refugees march into the temple, heads bowed.
Their voices joined with the ones within. When the last wood elf had gone
inside, Scotti turned his attention back to the village. There must be food
to be had somewhere. A tendril of smoke and a faint whiff of roasting venison
beyond the torchlight led him.
They were five Cyrodiils, two Bretons, and a Nord, the group gathered around
a campfire of glowing white stones, pulling steaming strips of meat from the
cadaver of a great stag. At Scotti's approach, they rose up, all but the Nord
who was distracted by his hunk of animal flesh.
"Good evening, sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if I might have a
little something to eat. I'm afraid I'm rather hungry, after walking all day
with some refugees from Grenos and Athay."
They bade him to sit down and eat, and introduced themselves.
"So the war's back on, it seems," said Scotti amiably.
"Best thing for these effete do-nothings," replied the Nord in between bites.
"I've never seen such a lazy culture. Now they've got the Khajiiti striking
them on land, and the high elves at sea. If there's any province that
deserves a little distress, it's damnable Valenwood."
"I don't see how they're so offensive to you," laughed one of the Bretons.
"They're congenital thieves, even worse than the Khajiiti because they are so
blessed meek in their aggression," the Nord spat out a gob of fat which
sizzled on the hot stones of the fire. "They spread their forests into
territory that doesn't belong to them, slowly infiltrating their neighbors,
and they're puzzled when Elsweyr shoves back at them. They're all villains of
the worst order."
"What are you doing here?" asked Scotti.
"I'm a diplomat from the court of Jehenna," muttered the Nord, returning to
his food.
"What about you, what are you doing here?" asked one of the Cyrodiils.
"I work for Lord Atrius's building commission in the Imperial City," said
Scotti. "One of my former colleagues suggested that I come down to Valenwood.
He said the war was over, and I could contract a great deal of business for
my firm rebuilding what was lost. One disaster after another, and I've lost
all my money, I'm in the middle of a rekindling of war, and I cannot find my
former colleague."
"Your former colleague," murmured another of the Cyrodiils, who had
introduced himself as Reglius. "He wasn't by any chance named Liodes Jurus,
was he?"
"You know him?"
"He lured me down to Valenwood in nearly the exact same circumstances,"
smiled Reglius, grimly. "I worked for your employer's competitor, Lord
Vanech's men, where Liodes Jurus also formerly worked. He wrote to me, asking
that I represent an Imperial building commission and contract some post-war
construction. I had just been released from my employment, and I thought
that if I brought some new business, I could have my job back. Jurus and I
met in Athay, and he said he was going to arrange a very lucrative meeting
with the Silvenar."
Scotti was stunned: "Where is he now?"
"I'm no theologian, so I couldn't say," Reglius shrugged. "He's dead. When
the Khajiiti attacked Athay, they began by torching the harbor where Jurus
was readying his boat. Or, I should say, my boat since it was purchased with
the gold I brought. By the time we were even aware of what was happening
enough to flee, everything by the water was ash. The Khajiiti may be animals,
but they know how to arrange an attack."
"I think they followed us through the jungle to Vindisi," said Scotti
nervously. "There was definitely a group of something jumping along the
treetops."
"Probably one of the monkey folk," snorted the Nord. "Nothing to be concerned
about."
"When we first came to Vindisi and the Bosmeri all entered that tree, they
were furious, whispering something about unleashing an ancient terror on
their enemies," the Breton shivered, remembering. "They've been there ever
since, for over a day and a half now. If you want something to be afraid of,
that's the direction to look."
The other Breton, who was a representative of the Daggerfall Mages Guild, was
staring off into the darkness while his fellow provincial spoke. "Maybe. But
there's something in the jungle too, right on the edge of the village,
looking in."
"More refugees maybe?" asked Scotti, trying to keep the alarm out his voice.
"Not unless they're traveling through the trees now," whispered the wizard.
The Nord and one of the Cyrodiils grabbed a long tarp of wet leather and
pulled it across the fire, instantly extinguishing it without so much as a
sizzle. Now Scotti could see the intruders, their elliptical yellow eyes and
long cruel blades catching the torchlight. He froze with fear, praying that
he too was not so visible to them.
He felt something bump against his back, and gasped.
Reglius's voice hissed from up above: "Be quiet for Mara's sake and climb up
here."
Scotti grabbed hold of the knotted double-vine that hung down from a tall
tree at the edge of the dead campfire. He scrambled up it as quickly as he
could, holding his breath lest any grunt of exertion escape him. At the top
of the vine, high above the village, was an abandoned nest from some great
bird in a trident-shaped branch. As soon as Scotti had pulled himself into
the soft, fragrant straw, Reglius pulled up the vine. No one else was there,
and when Scotti looked down, he could see no one below. No one, that is
except the Khajiiti, slowly moving toward the glow of the temple tree.
"Thank you," whispered Scotti, deeply touched that a competitor had helped
him. He turned away from the village, and saw that the tree's upper branches
brushed against the mossy rock walls that surrounded the valley below. "How
are you at climbing?"
"You're mad," said Reglius under his breath. "We should stay here until they
leave."
"If they burn Vindisi like they did Athay and Grenos, we'll be dead sure as
if we were on the ground," Scotti began the slow careful climb up the tree,
testing each branch. "Can you see what they're doing?"
"I can't really tell," Reglius stared down into the gloom. "They're at the
front of the temple. I think they also have ... it looks like long ropes,
trailing off behind them, off into the pass."
Scotti crawled onto the strongest branch that pointed toward the wet, rocky
face of the cliff. It was not a far jump at all. So close, in fact, that he
could smell the moisture and feel the coolness of the stone. But it was a
jump nevertheless, and in his history as a clerk, he had never before leapt
from a tree a hundred feet off the ground to a sheer rock. He pictured in his
mind's eye the shadows that had pursued him through the jungle from the
heights above. How their legs coiled to spring, how their arms snapped
forward in an elegant fluid motion to grasp. He leapt.
His hands grappled for rock, but long thick cords of moss were more
accessible. He held hard, but when he tried to plant his feet forward, they
slipped up skyward. For a few seconds, he found himself upside down before he
managed to pull himself into a more conventional position. There was a narrow
outcropping jutting out of the cliff where he could stand and finally exhale.
"Reglius. Reglius. Reglius," Scotti did not dare to call out. In a minute,
there was a shaking of branches, and Lord Vanech's man emerged. First his
satchel, then his head, then the rest of him. Scotti started to whisper
something, but Reglius shook his head violently and pointed downward. One of
the Khajiiti was at the base of the tree, peering at the remains of the
campfire.
Reglius awkwardly tried to balance himself on the branch, but as strong as it
was it was exceedingly difficult with only one free hand. Scotti cupped his
palms and then pointed at the satchel. It seemed to pain Reglius to let it
out of his grasp, but he relented and tossed it to Scotti.
There was a small, almost invisible hole in the bag, and when Scotti caught
it, a single gold coin dropped out. It rang as it bounced against the rock
wall on the descent, a high soft sound that seemed like the loudest alarm
Scotti had ever heard.
Then many things happened very quickly.
The Cathay-Raht at the base of the tree looked up and gave a loud wail. The
other Khajiiti followed in chorus, as the cat below crouched down and then
sprung up into the lower branches. Reglius saw it below him, climbing up with
impossible dexterity, and panicked. Even before he jumped, Scotti could tell
that he was going to fall. With a cry, Reglius the Clerk plunged to the
ground, breaking his neck on impact.
A flash of white fire erupted from every crevice of the temple, and the moan
of the Bosmeri prayer changed into something terrible and otherworldly. The
climbing Cathay-Raht stopped and stared.
"Keirgo," it gasped. "The Wild Hunt."
It was as if a crack in reality had opened wide. A flood of horrific beasts,
tentacled toads, insects of armor and spine, gelatinous serpents, vaporous
beings with the face of gods, all poured forth from the great hollow tree,
blind with fury. They tore the Khajiiti in front of the temple to pieces. All
the other cats fled for the jungle, but as they did so, they began pulling on
the ropes they carried. In a few seconds time, the entire village of Vindisi
was boiling with the lunatic apparitions of the Wild Hunt.
Over the babbling, barking, howling horde, Scotti heard the Cyrodiils in
hiding cry out as they were devoured. The Nord too was found and eaten, and
both Bretons. The wizard had turned himself invisible, but the swarm did not
rely on their sight. The tree the Cathay-Raht was in began to sway and rock
from the impossible violence beneath it. Scotti looked at the Khajiiti's
fear-struck eyes, and held out one of the cords of moss.
The cat's face showed its pitiful gratitude as it leapt for the vine. It
didn't have time to entirely replace that expression when Scotti pulled back
the cord, and watched it fall. The Hunt consumed it to the bone before it
struck the ground.
Scotti's own jump up to the next outcropping of rock was immeasurably more
successful. From there, he pulled himself to the top of the cliff and was
able to look down into the chaos that had been the village of Vindisi. The
Hunt's mass had grown and began to spill out through the pass out of the
valley, pursuing the fleeing Khajiiti. It was then that the madness truly
began.
In the moons' light, from Scotti's vantage, he could see where the Khajiiti
had attached their ropes. With a thunderous boom, an avalanche of boulders
poured over the pass. When the dust cleared, he saw that the valley had been
sealed. The Wild Hunt had nowhere to turn but on itself.
Scotti turned his head, unable to bear to look at the cannibalistic orgy. The
night jungle stood before him, a web of wood. He slung Reglius's satchel over
his shoulder, and entered.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 5
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Marksman2
Weight: 3
Value: 150
Special Notes: Raises Marksman skill 1 point the first time the book is read
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 5
by Waughin Jarth
"Soap! The forest will eat love! Straight ahead! Stupid and a stupid cow!"
The voice boomed out so suddenly that Decumus Scotti jumped. He stared off
into the dim jungle glade from which he only heard animal and insect calls,
and the low whistling of wind moments before. It was a queer, oddly accented
voice of indiscriminate gender, tremulous in its modulations, but
unmistakably human. Or, at very least, elven. An isolated Bosmer perhaps
with a poor grasp of the Cyrodilic language. After countless hours of
plodding through the dense knot of Valenwood jungle, any voice of slight
familiarity sounded wondrous.
"Hello?" he cried.
"Beetles on any names? Certainly yesterday yes!" the voice called back.
"Who, what, and when, and mice!"
"I'm afraid I don't understand," replied Scotti, turning toward the brambled
tree, thick as a wagon, where the voice had issued. "But you needn't be
afraid of me. My name is Decumus Scotti. I'm a Cyrodiil from the Imperial
City. I came here to help rebuild Valenwood after the war, you see, and now
I'm rather lost."
"Gemstones and grilled slaves ... The war," moaned the voice and broke down
into sobs.
"You know about the war? I wasn't sure, I wasn't even sure how far away from
the border I am now," Scotti began slowly walking toward the tree. He
dropped Reglius's satchel to the ground, and held out his empty hands. "I'm
unarmed. I only want to know the way to the closest town. I'm trying to
meet my friend, Liodes Jurus, in Silvenar."
"Silvenar!" the voice laughed. It laughed even louder as Scotti circled the
tree. "Worms and wine! Worms and wine! Silvenar sings for worms and wine!"
There was nothing to be found anywhere around the tree. "I don't see you.
Why are you hiding?"
In frustration born of hunger and exhaustion, he struck the tree trunk. A
sudden shiver of gold and red erupted from a hollow nook above, and Scotti
was surrounded by six winged creatures scarcely more than a few inches long.
Bright crimson eyes were set on either side of tunnel-like protuberances, the
animals' always open mouths. They were legless, and their thin, rapidly
beating, aureate wings seemed poorly constructed to transport their fat,
swollen bellies. And yet, they darted through the air like sparks from a
fire. Whirling about the poor clerk, they began chattering what he now
understood to be perfect nonsense.
"Wines and worms, how far from the border am I! Academic garnishments, and
alas, Liodes Jurus!"
"Hello, I'm afraid I'm unarmed? Smoken flames and the closest town is dear
Oblivion."
"Swollen on bad meat, an indigo nimbus, but you needn't be afraid of me!"
"Why are you hiding? Why are you hiding? Before I begin to friend, love me,
Lady Zuleika!"
Furious with the mimics, Scotti swung his arms, driving them up into the
treetops. He stomped back to the clearing and opened up the satchel again,
as he had done some hours before. There was still, unsurprisingly, nothing
useful in the bag, and nothing to eat in any corner or pocket. A goodly
amount of gold (he smiled grimly, as he had done before, at the irony of
being financially solvent in the jungle), a stack of neat blank contracts
from Lord Vanech's building commission, some thin cord, and an oiled leather
cloak for bad weather. At least, Scotti considered, he had not suffered
rain.
A rolling moan of thunder reminded Scotti of what he had suspected for some
weeks now. He was cursed.
Within an hour's time, he was wearing the cloak and clawing his way through
mud. The trees, which had earlier allowed no sunlight in, provided no
shelter against the pounding storm and wind. The only sounds that pierced
the pelting of the rain were the mocking calls of the flying creatures,
flitting just above, babbling their nonsense. Scotti bellowed at them, threw
rocks, but they seemed enamored of his company.
While he was reaching to grab a promising looking stone to hurl at his
tormentors, Scotti felt something shift beneath his feet. Wet but solid
ground suddenly liquefied and became a rolling tide, rushing him forward.
Light as a leaf, he flew head over feet over head, until the mudflow dropped
and he continued forward, plunging down into a river twenty-five feet below.
The storm passed quite as instantly as it had arrived. The sun melted the
dark clouds and warmed Scotti as he swam for the shore. There, another sign
of the Khajiiti incursion into Valenwood greeted him. A small fishing
village had stood there once, so recently extinct that it smoldered like a
still-warm corpse. Dirt cairns that had once housed fish by the smell of
them had been ravaged, their bounty turned to ash. Rafts and skiffs lay
broken, scuttled, half-submerged. All the villagers were no more, either
dead or refugees far away. Or so he presumed. Something banged against the
wall of one of the ruins. Scotti ran to investigate.
"My name is Decumus Scotti?" sang the first winged beast. "I'm a Cyrodiil
from? The Imperial City? I came here to help rebuild Valenwood after the
war, you see, and now I'm rather lost?"
"I swell to maculate, apeneck!" agreed one of its companions. "I don't see
you. Why are you hiding?"
As they fell into chattering, Scotti began to search the rest of the village.
Surely the cats had left something behind, a scrap of dried meat, a morsel of
fish sausage, anything. But they had been immaculate in their complete
annihilation. There was nothing to eat anywhere. Scotti did find one item
of possible use under the tumbled remains of a stone hut. A bow and two
arrows made of bone. The string had been lost, likely burned away in the
heat of the fire, but he pulled the cord from Reglius's satchel and restrung
it.
The creatures flew over and hovered nearby as he worked: "The convent of the
sacred Liodes Jurus?"
"You know about the war! Worms and wine, circumscribe a golden host,
apeneck!"
The moment the cord was taut, Scotti nocked an arrow and swung around,
pulling the string tight against his chest. The winged beasts, having had
experience with archers before, shot off in all directions in a blur. They
needn't have bothered. Scotti's first arrow dove into the ground three feet
in front of him. He swore and retrieved it. The mimics, having likewise had
experience with poor archers before, returned at once to hovering nearby and
mocking Scotti.
On his second shot, Scotti did much better, in purely technical terms. He
remembered how the archers in Falinesti looked when he pulled himself out
from under the hoarvor tick, and they were all taking aim at him. He
extended his left hand, right hand, and right elbow in a symmetrical line,
drawing the bow so his hand touched his jawline, and he could see the
creature in his sight like the arrow was a finger he was pointing with. The
bolt missed the target by only two feet, but it continued on its trajectory,
snapping when it struck a rock wall.
Scotti walked to the river's edge. He had only one arrow left, and perhaps,
he considered, it would be most practical to find a slow-moving fish and fire
it on that. If he missed, at least there was less of a chance of breaking
the shaft, and he could always retrieve it from the water. A rather torpid,
whiskered fish rolled by, and he took aim at it.
"My name is Decumus Scotti!" one of the creatures howled, frightening the
fish away. "Stupid and a stupid cow! Will you dance a dance in fire!"
Scotti turned and aimed the arrow as he had done before. This time, however,
he remembered to plant his feet as the archers had done, seven inches apart,
knees straight, left leg slightly forward to meet the angle of his right
shoulder. He released the last arrow.
The arrow also proved a serviceable prong for roasting the creature against
the smoking hot stones of one of the ruins. Its other companions had
disappeared instantly after the beast was slain, and Scotti was able to dine
in peace. The meat proved to be delicious, if scarcely more than a first
course. He was picking the last of it from the bones, when a boat sailed
into view from around the bend of the river. At the helm were Bosmer
sailors. Scotti ran to the bank and waved his arms. They averted their eyes
and continued past.
A gray-whiskered form came out from a hatch, and Scotti immediately
recognized him as Gryf Mallon, the poet translator he had met in the caravan
from Cyrodiil.
He peered Scotti's direction, and his eyes lit up with delight, "Decumus
Scotti! Precisely the man I hoped to see! I want to get your thoughts on a
rather puzzling passage in the Mnoriad Pley Bar! It begins 'I went weeping
into the world, searching for wonders,' perhaps you're familiar with it?"
"I'd like nothing better than to discuss the Mnoriad Pley Bar with you,
Gryf!" Scotti called back. "Would you let me come aboard though first?"
Overjoyed at being on a ship bound for any port at all, Scotti was true to
his word. For over an hour as the boat rolled down the river past the
blackened remnants of Bosmeri villages, he asked no questions and spoke
nothing of his life over the past weeks: he merely listened to Mallon's
theories of merethic Aldmeri esoterica. The translator was undemanding of
his guest's scholarship, accepting nods and shrugs as civilized conversation.
He even produced some wine and fish jelly, which he shared with Scotti
absent-mindedly, as he expounded on his various theses.
Finally, while Mallon was searching for a reference to some minor point in
his notes, Scotti asked, "Rather off subject, but I was wondering where we're
bound."
"The very heart of the province, Silvenar," Mallon said, not looking up from
the passage he was reading. "It's somewhat bothersome, actually, as I wanted
to go to Woodhearth first to talk to a Bosmer there who claims to have an
original copy of Dirith Yalmillhiad, if you can believe it. But for the time
being, that has to wait. Summurset Isle has surrounded the city, and is in
the process of starving the citizenry until they surrender. It's a tiresome
prospect, since the Bosmeri are happy to eat one another, so there's a risk
that at the end, only one fat wood elf will remain to wave the flag."
"That is vexing," agreed Scotti, sympathetically. "To the east, the Khajiiti
are burning everything, and to the west, the High Elves are waging war. I
don't suppose the borders to the north are clear?"
"They're even worse," replied Mallon, finger on the page, still distracted.
"The Cyrodiils and Redguards don't want Bosmer refugees streaming into their
provinces. It only stands to reason. Imagine how much more criminally
inclined they'd be now that they're homeless and hungry."
"So," murmured Scotti, feeling a shiver. "We're trapped in Valenwood."
"Not at all. I need to leave fairly shortly myself, as my publisher has set
a very definite deadline for my new book of translations. From what I
understand, one merely petitions to the Silvenar for special border
protection and one can cross into Cyrodiil with impunity."
"Petition the Silvenar, or petition at Silvenar?"
"Petition the Silvenar at Silvenar. It's an odd nomenclature that is typical
of this place, the sort of thing that makes my job as a translator that much
more challenging. The Silvenar, he, or rather they are the closest the
Bosmeri have to a great leader. The essential thing to remember about the
Silvenar --" Mallon smiled, finding the passage he was looking for, "Here! 'A
fortnight, inexplicable, the world burns into a dance.' There's that metaphor
again."
"What were you saying about the Silvenar?" asked Scotti. "The essential thing
to remember?"
"I don't remember what I was saying," replied Mallon, turning back to his
oration.
In a week's time, the little boat bumped along the shallow, calmer waters of
the foaming current the Xylo had become, and Decumus Scotti first saw the
city of Silvenar. If Falinesti was a tree, then Silvenar was a flower. A
magnificent pile of faded shades of green, red, blue, and white, shining with
crystalline residue. Mallon had mentioned off-hand, when not otherwise
explaining Aldmeri prosody, that Silvenar had once been a blossoming glade in
the forest, but owing to some spell or natural cause, the trees' sap began
flowing with translucent liqueur. The process of the sap flowing and
hardening over the colorful trees had formed the web of the city. Mallon's
description was intriguing, but it hardly prepared him for the city's beauty.
"What is the finest, most luxurious tavern here?" Scotti asked one of the
Bosmer boatmen.
"Prithala Hall," Mallon answered. "But why don't you stay with me? I'm
visiting an acquaintance of mine, a scholar I think you'll find fascinating.
His hovel isn't much, but he has the most extraordinary ideas about the
principles of a Merethic Aldmeri tribe the Sarmathi --"
"Under any other circumstances, I would happily accept," said Scotti
graciously. "But after weeks of sleeping on the ground or on a raft, and
eating whatever I could scrounge, I feel the need for some indulgent creature
comforts. And then, after a day or two, I'll petition the Silvenar for safe
passage to Cyrodiil."
The men bade each other goodbye. Gryf Mallon gave him the address of his
publisher in the Imperial City, which Scotti accepted and quickly forgot.
The clerk wandered the streets of Silvenar, crossing bridges of amber,
admiring the petrified forest architecture. In front of a particularly
estimable palace of silvery reflective crystal, he found Prithala Hall.
He took the finest room, and ordered a gluttonous meal of the finest quality.
At a nearby table, he saw two very fat fellows, a man and a Bosmer, remarking
how much finer the food was there than at the Silvenar's palace. They began
to discuss the war and some issues of finances and rebuilding provincial
bridges. The man noticed Scotti looking at them, and his eyes flashed
recognition.
"Scotti, is that you? Kynareth, where have you been? I've had to make all
the contacts here on my own!"
At the sound of his voice, Scotti recognized him. The fat man was Liodes
Jurus, vastly engorged.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 6
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_mercantile4
Weight: 3
Value: 150
Special Notes: Raises Mercantile skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 6
by Waughin Jarth
Decumus Scotti sat down, listening to Liodes Jurus. The clerk could hardly
believe how fat his former colleague at Lord Atrius's Building Commission had
become. The piquant aroma of the roasted meat dish before Scotti melted
away. All the other sounds and textures of Prithala Hall vanished all around
him, as if nothing else existed but the vast form of Jurus. Scotti did not
consider himself an emotional man, but he felt a tide flow over him at the
sight and sound of the man whose badly written letters had been the
guideposts that carried him from the Imperial City back in early Frost Fall.
"Where have you been?" Jurus demanded again. "I told you to meet me in
Falinesti weeks ago."
"I was there weeks ago," Scotti stammered, too surprised to be indignant. "I
got your note to meet you in Athay, and so I went there, but the Khajiiti had
burned it to the ground. Somehow, I found my way with the refugees in
another village, and someone there told me that you had been killed."
"And you believed that right away?" Jurus sneered.
"The fellow seemed very well-informed about you. He was a clerk from Lord
Vanech's Building Commission named Reglius, and he said that you had also
suggested that he come down to Valenwood to profit from the war."
"Oh, yes," said Jurus, after thinking a moment. "I recall the name now.
Well, it's good for business to have two representatives from Imperial
building commissions here. We just need to all coordinate our bids, and all
should be well."
"Reglius is dead," said Scotti. "But I have his contracts from Lord Vanech's
Commission."
"Even better," gasped Jurus, impressed. "I never knew you were such a
ruthless competitor, Decumus Scotti. Yes, this could certainly improve our
position with the Silvenar. Have I introduced you to Basth here?"
Scotti had only been dimly aware of the Bosmer's presence at the table with
Jurus, which was surprising given that the mer's girth nearly equaled his
dining companion. The clerk nodded to Basth coldly, still numb and confused.
It had not left his mind that only any hour earlier, Scotti had intended to
petition the Silvenar for safe passage through the border back to Cyrodiil.
The thought of doing business with Jurus after all, of profiting from
Valenwood war with Elsweyr, and now the second one with the Summurset Isle,
seemed like something happening to another person.
"Your colleague and I were talking about the Silvenar," said Basth, putting
down the leg of mutton he had been gnawing on. "I don't suppose you've heard
about his nature?"
"A little, but nothing very specific. I got the impression that he's very
important and very peculiar."
"He's the representative of the People, legally, physically, and
emotionally," explained Jurus, a little annoyed at his new partner's lack of
common knowledge. "When they're healthy, so is he. When they're mostly
female, so is he. When they cry for food or trade or an absence of foreign
interference, he feels it too, and makes laws accordingly. In a way, he's a
despot, but he's the people's despot."
"That sounds," said Scotti, searching for the appropriate word. "Like ...
bunk."
"Perhaps it is," shrugged Basth. "But he has many rights as the Voice of the
People, including the granting of foreign building and trade contracts. It's
not important whether you believe us. Just think of the Silvenar as being
like one of your mad Emperors, like Pelagius. The problem facing us now is
that since Valenwood is being attacked on all sides, the Silvenar's aspect is
now one of distrust and fear of foreigners. The one hope of his people, and
thus of the Silvenar himself, is that the Emperor will intervene and stop the
war."
"Will he?" asked Scotti.
"You know as well as we do that the Emperor has not been himself lately,"
Jurus helped himself to Reglius's satchel and pulled out the blank contracts.
"Who knows what he'll choose to do or not do? That reality is not our
concern, but these blessings from the late good sir Reglius make our job much
simpler."
They discussed how they would represent themselves to the Silvenar into the
evening. Scotti ate continuously, but not nearly so much as Jurus and Basth.
When the sun had begun to rise in the hills, its light reddening through the
crystal walls of the tavern, Jurus and Basth left to their rooms at the
palace, granted to them diplomatically in lieu of an actual immediate
audience with the Silvenar. Scotti went to his room. He thought about
staying up a little longer to ruminate over Jurus's plans and see what might
be the flaw in them, but upon touching the cool, soft bed, he immediately
fell asleep.
The next afternoon, Scotti awoke, feeling himself again. In other words,
timid. For several weeks now, he had been a creature bent on mere survival.
He had been driven to exhaustion, attacked by several jungle beasts, starved,
nearly drowned, and forced into discussions of ancient Aldmeri poetical
works. The discussion he had with Jurus and Basth about how to dupe the
Silvenar into signing their contracts seemed perfectly reasonable then.
Scotti dressed himself in his old battered clothes and went downstairs in
search of food and a peaceful place to think.
"You're up," cried Basth upon seeing him. "We should go to the palace now."
"Now?" whined Scotti. "Look at me. I need new clothes. This isn't the way
one should dress to pay a call on a prostitute, let alone the Voice of the
People of Valenwood. I haven't even bathed."
"You must cease from this moment forward being a clerk, and become a student
of mercantile trade," said Liodes Jurus grandly, taking Scotti by the arm and
leading him into the sunlit boulevard outside. "The first rule is to
recognize what you represent to the prospective client, and what angle best
suits you. You cannot dazzle him with opulent fashion and professional
bearing, my dear boy, and it would be fatal if you attempted to. Trust me
on this. Several others besides Basth and I are guests at the palace, and
they have made the error of appearing too eager, too formal, too ready for
business. They will never be granted audience with the Silvenar, but we have
remained aloof ever since the initial rejection. I've dallied about the
court, spread my knowledge of life in the Imperial City, had my ears pierced,
attended promenades, eaten and drunk of all that was given to me. I dare say
I've put on a pound or two. The message we've sent is clear: it is in his,
not our, best interest to meet."
"Our plan worked," added Basth. "When I told his minister that our Imperial
representative had arrived, and that we were at last willing to meet with the
Silvenar this morning, we were told to bring you there straightaway."
"Aren't we late then?" asked Scotti.
"Very," laughed Jurus. "But that's again part of the angle we're
representing. Benevolent disinterest. Remember not to confuse the Silvenar
with conventional nobility. His is the mind of the common people. When you
grasp that, you'll understand how to manipulate him."
Jurus spent the last several minutes of the walk through the city expounding
on his theories about what Valenwood needed, how much, and at what price.
They were staggering figures, far more construction and far higher costs than
anything Scotti had been used to dealing with. He listened carefully. All
around them, the city of Silvenar revealed itself, glass and flower, roaring
winds and beautiful inertia. When they reached the palace of the Silvenar,
Decumus Scotti stopped, stunned. Jurus looked at him for a moment and then
laughed.
"It's quite bizarre, isn't it?"
That it was. A frozen scarlet burst of twisted, uneven spires as if a rival
sun rising. A blossom the size of a village, where courtiers and servants
resembled nothing so much as insects walked about it sucking its ichor.
Entering over a bent petal-like bridge, the three walked through the palace
of unbalanced walls. Where the partitions bent close together and touched,
there was a shaded hall or a small chamber. Where they warped away from one
another, there was a courtyard. There were no doors anywhere, no any way to
get to the Silvenar but by crossing through the entire spiral of the palace,
through meetings and bedrooms and dining halls, past dignitaries, consorts,
musicians, and many guards.
"It's an interesting place," said Basth. "But not very much privacy. Of
course, that suits the Silvenar well."
When they reached the inner corridors, two hours after they first entered the
palace, guards, brandishing blades and bows, stopped them.
"We have an audience with the Silvenar," said Jurus, patiently. "This is Lord
Decumus Scotti, the Imperial representative."
One of the guards disappeared down the winding corridor, and returned moments
later with a tall, proud Bosmer clad in a loose robe of patchwork leather.
He was the Minister of Trade: "The Silvenar wishes to speak with Lord Decumus
Scotti alone."
It was not the place to argue or show fear, so Scotti stepped forward, not
even looking toward Jurus and Basth. He was certain they were showing their
masks of benevolent indifference. Following the Minister into the audience
chamber, Scotti recited to himself all the facts and figures Jurus had
presented to him. He willed himself to remember the Angle and the Image he
must project.
The audience chamber of the Silvenar was an enormous dome where the walls
bent from bowl-shaped at the base inward to almost meet at the top. A thin
ray of sunlight streamed through the fissure hundreds of feet above, and
directly upon the Silvenar, who stood upon a puff of shimmering gray powder.
For all the wonder of the city and the palace, the Silvenar himself looked
perfectly ordinary. An average, blandly handsome, slightly tired-looking,
extra-ordinary Wood Elf of the type one might see in any capitol in the
Empire. It was only when he stepped from the dais that Scotti noticed an
eccentricity in his appearance. He was very short.
"I had to speak with you alone," said the Silvenar in a voice common and
unrefined. "May I see your papers?"
Scotti handed him the blank contracts from Lord Vanech's Building Commission.
The Silvenar studied them, running his finger over the embossed seal of the
Emperor, before handing them back. He suddenly seemed shy, looking to the
floor. "There are many charlatans at my court who wish to benefit from the
wars. I thought you and your colleagues were among them, but those contracts
are genuine."
"Yes, they are," said Scotti calmly. The Silvenar's conventional aspect made
it easy for Scotti to speak, with no formal greetings, no deference, exactly
as Jurus had instructed: "It seems most sensible to begin straightaway
talking about the roads which need to be rebuilt, and then the harbors that
the Altmeri have destroyed, and then I can give you my estimates on the cost
of resupplying and renovating the trade routes."
"Why hasn't the Emperor seen fit to send a representative when the war with
Elsweyr began, two years ago?" asked the Silvenar glumly.
Scotti thought a moment before replying of all the common Bosmeri he had met
in Valenwood. The greedy, frightened mercenaries who had escorted him from
the border. The hard-drinking revelers and expert pest exterminating archers
in the Western Cross of Falinesti. Nosy old Mother Pascost in Havel Slump.
Captain Balfix, the poor sadly reformed pirate. The terrified but hopeful
refugees of Athay and Grenos. The mad, murderous, self-devouring Wild Hunt
of Vindisi. The silent, dour boatmen hired by Gryf Mallon. The degenerate,
grasping Basth. If one creature represented their total disposition, and
that of many more throughout the province, what would be his personality?
Scotti was a clerk by occupation and nature, instinctively comfortable
cataloging and filing, making things fit in a system. If the soul of
Valenwood were to be filed, where would it be put?
The answer came upon him almost before he posed himself the question.
Denial.
"I'm afraid that question doesn't interest me," said Scotti. "Now, can we get
back to the business at hand?"
All afternoon, Scotti and the Silvenar discussed the pressing needs of
Valenwood. Every contract was filled and signed. So much was required and
there were so many costs associated that addendums and codicils had to be
scribbled into the margins of the papers, and those had to be resigned.
Scotti maintained his benevolent indifference, but he found that dealing with
the Silvenar was not quite the same as dealing with a simple, sullen child.
The Voice of the People knew certain practical, everyday things very well:
the yields of fish, the benefits of trade, the condition of every township
and forest in his province.
"We will have a banquet tomorrow night to celebrate this commission," said
the Silvenar at last.
"Best make it tonight," replied Scotti. "We should leave for Cyrodiil with
the contracts tomorrow, so I'll need a safe passage to the border. We best
not waste any more time."
"Agreed," said the Silvenar, and called for his Minister of Trade to put his
seal on the contracts and arrange for the feast.
Scotti left the chamber, and was greeted by Basth and Jurus. Their faces
showed the strain of maintaining the illusion of unconcern for too many
hours. As soon as they were out of sight of the guards, they begged Scotti
to tell them all. When he showed them the contract, Basth began weeping with
delight.
"Anything about the Silvenar that surprised you?" asked Jurus.
"I hadn't expected him to be half my height."
"Was he?" Jurus looked mildly surprised. "He must have shrunk since I tried
to have an audience with him earlier. Maybe there is something to all that
nonsense about him being affected by the plight of his people."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 7
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_mercantile5
Weight: 3
Value: 150
Special Notes: Raises Mercantile skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 7
by Waughin Jarth
Scene: Silvenar, Valenwood
Date: 13 Sun's Dusk, 3E 397
The banquet at the palace of the Silvenar was well attended by every jealous
bureaucrat and trader who had attempted to contract the rebuilding of
Valenwood. They looked on Decumus Scotti, Liodes Jurus, and Basth with
undisguised hatred. It made Scotti very uncomfortable, but Jurus delighted
in it. As the servants brought in platter after platter of roasted meats,
Jurus poured himself a cup of Jagga and toasted the clerk.
"I can confess it now," said Jurus. "I had grave doubts about inviting you to
join me on this adventure. All the other clerks and agents of building
commissions I contacted were more outwardly aggressive, but none of them made
it through, let alone to the audience chamber of the Silvenar, let alone
brokered the deals on their own like you did. Come, have a cup of Jagga with
me."
"No thank you," said Scotti. "I had too much of that drug in Falinesti, and
nearly got sucked dry by a giant tick because of it. I'll find something
else to drink."
Scotti wandered about the hall until he saw some diplomats drinking mugs of a
steaming brown liquid, poured from a large silver urn. He asked them if it
was tea.
"Tea made from leaves?" scoffed the first diplomat. "Not in Valenwood. This
is Rotmeth."
Scotti poured himself a mug and took a tentative sip. It was gamy, bitter
and sugared, and very salty. At first it seemed very disagreeable to his
palate, but a moment later he found he had drained the mug and was pouring
another. His body tingled. All the sounds in the chamber seemed oddly
disjointed, but not frighteningly so.
"So you're the fellow who got the Silvenar to sign all those contracts," said
the second diplomat. "That must have required some deep negotiation."
"Not at all, not at all, just a little basic understand of mercantile
trading," grinned Scotti, pouring himself a third mug of Rotmeth. "The
Silvenar was very eager to involve the Imperial state with the affairs of
Valenwood. I was very eager to take a percentage of the commission. With
all that blessed eagerness, it was merely a matter of putting quill to
contract, bless you."
"You have been in the employ of his Imperial Majesty very long?" asked the
first diplomat.
"It's a bite, or rather, a bit more complicated than that in the Imperial
City. Between you and me, I don't really have a job. I used to work for
Lord Atrius and his Building Commission, but I got sacked. And then, the
contracts are from Lord Vanech and his Building Commission, 'cause I got em
from this fellow Reglius who is a competitor but still a very fine fellow
until he was made dead by those Khajiiti," Scotti drained his fifth mug.
"When I go back to the Imperial City, then the real negotiations can begin,
bless you. I can go to my old employer and to Lord Vanech, and say, look
here you, which one of you wants these commissions? And they'll fall over
each other to take them from me. It will be bidding war for my percentage
the likes of which no one nowhere has never seen."
"So you're not a representative of his Imperial Majesty, the Emperor?" asked
the first diplomat.
"Didn't you hear what I'm said? You stupid?" Scotti felt a surge of rage,
which quickly subsided. He chuckled, and poured himself a seventh mug. "The
Building Commissions are privately owned, but they're still representatives
of the Emperor. So I'm a representative of the Emperor. Or I will be. When
I get these contracts in. It's very complicated. I can understand why
you're not following me. Bless you, it's all like the poet said, a dance in
fire, if you follow the illusion, that is to say, allusion."
"And your colleagues? Are they representatives of the Emperor?" asked the
second diplomat.
Scotti burst into laughter, shaking his head. The diplomats bade him their
respects and went to talk to the Minister. Scotti stumbled out of the
palace, and reeled through the strange, organic avenues and boulevards of the
city. It took him several hours to find his way to Prithala Hall and his
room. Once there, he slept, very nearly on his bed.
The next morning, he woke to Jurus and Basth in his room, shaking him. He
felt half-asleep and unable to open his eyes fully, but otherwise fine. The
conversation with the diplomats floated in his mind in a haze, like an
obscure childhood memory.
"What in Mara's name is Rotmeth?" he asked quickly.
"Rancid, strongly fermented meat juices with lots of spices to kill the
poisons," smiled Basth. "I should have warned you to stay with Jagga."
"You must understand the Meat Mandate by now," laughed Jurus. "These Bosmeri
would rather eat each other than touch the fruit of the vine or the field."
"What did I say to those diplomats?" cried Scotti, panicking.
"Nothing bad apparently," said Jurus, pulling out some papers. "Your escorts
are downstairs to bring you to the Imperial Province. Here are your papers
of safe passage. The Silvenar seems very impatient about business proceeding
forward rapidly. He promises to send you some sort of rare treasure when the
contracts are fulfilled. See, he's already given me something."
Jurus showed off his new, bejeweled earring, a beautiful large faceted ruby.
Basth showed that he had a similar one. The two fat fellows left the room so
Scotti could dress and pack.
A full regiment of the Silvenar's guards was on the street in front of the
tavern. They surrounded a carriage crested with the official arms of
Valenwood. Still dazed, Scotti climbed in, and the captain of the guard gave
the signal. They began a quick gallop. Scotti shook himself, and then
peered behind. Basth and Jurus were waving him goodbye.
"Wait!" Scotti cried. "Aren't you coming back to the Imperial Province too?"
"The Silvenar asked that we stay behind as Imperial representatives!" yelled
Liodes Jurus. "In case there's a need for more contracts and negotiations!
He's appointed us Undrape, some sort of special honor for foreigners at
court! Don't worry! Lots of banquets to attend! You can handle the
negotiations with Vanech and Atrius yourself and we'll keep things settled
here!"
Jurus continued to yell advice about business, but his voice became
indistinct with distance. Soon it disappeared altogether as the convoy
rounded the streets of Silvenar. The jungle loomed suddenly and then they
were in it. Scotti had only gone through it by foot or along the rivers by
slow-moving boats. Now it flashed all around him in profusions of greens.
The horses seemed even faster moving through underbrush than on the smooth
paths of the city. None of the weird sounds or dank smells of the jungle
penetrated the escort. It felt to Scotti as if he were watching a play about
the jungle with a background of a quickly moving scrim, which offered only
the merest suggestion of the place.
So it went for two weeks. There was lots of food and water in the carriage
with the clerk, so he merely ate and slept as the caravan pressed endlessly
on. From time to time, he'd hear the sound of blades clashing, but when he
looked around whatever had attacked the caravan had long since been left
behind. At last, they reached the border, where an Imperial garrison was
stationed.
Scotti presented the soldiers who met the carriage with the papers. They
asked him a barrage of questions that he answered monosyllabically, and then
let him pass. It took several more days to arrive at the gates of the
Imperial City. The horses that had flown so fast through the jungle now
slowed down in the unfamiliar territory of the wooded Colovian Estates. By
contrast, the cries of his province's birds and smells of his province's
plant life brought Decumus Scotti alive. It was if he had been dreaming all
the past months.
At the gates of the City, Scotti's carriage door was opened for him and he
stepped out on uncertain legs. Before he had a moment to say something to
the escort, they had vanished, galloping back south through the forest. The
first thing he did now that he was home was go to the closest tavern and have
tea and fruit and bread. If he never ate meat again, he told himself, that
would suit him very nicely.
Negotiations with Lord Atrius and Lord Vanech proceeded immediately
thereafter. It was most agreeable. Both commissions recognized how
lucrative the rebuilding of Valenwood would be for their agency. Lord Vanech
claimed, quite justifiably, that as the contracts had been written on forms
notarized by his commission, he had the legal right to them. Lord Atrius
claimed that Decumus Scotti was his agent and representative, and that he had
never been released from employment. The Emperor was called to arbitrate,
but he claimed to be unavailable. His advisor, the Imperial Battlemage Jagar
Tharn, had disappeared long ago and could not be called on for his wisdom and
impartial mediation.
Scotti lived very comfortably off the bribes from Lord Atrius and Lord
Vanech. Every week, a letter would arrive from Jurus or Basth asking about
the status of negotiations. Gradually, these letters ceased coming, and more
urgent ones came from the Minister of Trade and the Silvenar himself. The
War of the Blue Divide with Summurset Isle ended with the Altmeri winning
several new coastal islands from the Wood Elves. The war with Elsweyr
continued, ravaging the eastern borders of Valenwood. Still, Vanech and
Atrius fought over who would help.
One fine morning in the early spring of the year 3E 398, a courier arrived at
Decumus Scotti's door.
"Lord Vanech has won the Valenwood commission, and requests that you and the
contracts come to his hall at your earliest convenience."
"Has Lord Atrius decided not to challenge further?" asked Scotti.
"He's been unable to, having died very suddenly, just now, from a terribly
unfortunate accident," said the courier.
Scotti had wondered how long it would be before the Dark Brotherhood was
brought in for final negotiations. As he walked toward Lord Vanech's
Building Commission, a long, severe piece of architecture on a minor but
respectable plaza, he wondered if he had played the game, as he ought to
have. Could Vanech be so rapacious as to offer him a lower percentage of the
commission now that his chief competitor was dead? Thankfully, he
discovered, Lord Vanech had already decided to pay Scotti what he had
proposed during the heat of the winter negotiations. His advisors had
explained to him that other, lesser building commissions might come forward
unless the matter were handled quickly and fairly.
"Glad we have all the legal issues done with," said Lord Vanech, fondly. "Now
we can get to the business of helping the poor Bosmeri, and collecting the
profits. It's a pity you weren't our representative for all the troubles
with Bend'r-mahk and the Arnesian business. But there will be plenty more
wars, I'm sure of that."
Scotti and Lord Vanech sent word to the Silvenar that at last they were
prepared to honor the contracts. A few weeks later, they held a banquet in
honor of the profitable enterprise. Decumus Scotti was the darling of the
Imperial City, and no expense was spared to make it an unforgettable evening.
As Scotti met the nobles and wealthy merchants who would be benefiting from
his business dealings, an exotic but somehow faintly familiar smell rose in
the ballroom. He traced it to its source: a thick roasted slab of meat, so
long and thick it covered several platters. The Cyrodilic revelers were
eating it ravenously, unable to find the words to express their delight at
its taste and texture.
"It's like nothing I've ever had before!"
"It's like pig-fed venison!"
"Do you see the marbling of fat and meat? It's a masterpiece!"
Scotti went to take a slice, but then he saw something imbedded deep in the
dried and rendered roast. He nearly collided with his new employer Lord
Vanech as he stumbled back.
"Where did this come from?" Scotti stammered.
"From our client, the Silvenar," beamed his lordship. "It's some kind of
local delicacy they call Unthrappa."
Scotti vomited, and didn't stop for some time. It cast rather a temporary
pall on the evening, but when Decumus Scotti was carried off to his manor
house, the guests continued to dine. The Unthrappa was the delight of all.
Even more so when Lord Vanech himself took a slice and found the first of two
rubies buried within. How very clever of the Bosmer to invent such a dish,
the Cyrodiils agreed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Fair Warning
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: Cumanya's Notes
Weight: 4
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
This being an account of my limited journeys into the Uncharted Depths of the
Greater Caverns of Dubdilla. FAIR WARNING to the would-be adventurer seeking
fortune and fame in these uncharted halls. The flooded paths of Lower
Dubdilla hold certain death to those ill-prepared. The way is treacherous
and foul, the riches meager. Only those of certain aptitude and reason
should venture into these depths.
BE WARNED. These caverns and galleries are exceedingly damp and footing
unsure. Sudden and sheer RAVINES and UNSCALEABLE PITS await the unwary. If
not for my specific skills and abilities, I would have certainly met my doom
in the Blackest Depths. My SPELLS, SCROLLS and POTIONS, allowed me to escape
ONE OF THE MANY sheer walled chambers. ALWAYS have a remedy at hand, for
once you are committed to these depths, NO EXIT IS ASSURED!
Navigation is not your only trial. The denizens of the twisted passages are
of a fiendish and fell brood. Beware the gnashing of their teeth and the
death-flutter of their wings. The sound of talon upon rock and flicking of
tongue may be the last you hear.
If only I had access to a dependable rope, perhaps this route would not have
been so tortuous.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Game at Dinner
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Alchemy1
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Alchemy skill 1 point the first time the book is read
A Game At Dinner
by An Anonymous Spy
Forward From The Publisher:
The history behind this letter is almost as interesting and dark as the story
it tells. The original letter to the mysterious Dhaunayne was copied and
began circulating around the Ashlands of Vvardenfell a few months ago. In
time, a print found its way to the mainland and Prince Hlaalu Helseth's
palace outside Almalexia. While the reader may conclude after reading this
letter that the Prince would be furious about such a work, impugning his
highness with great malevolence, quite the reverse was true. The Prince and
his mother, Queen Barenziah, had it privately printed into bound copies and
sent to libraries and booksellers throughout Morrowind.
As matter of record, the Prince and the Queen have not officially stated
whether the letter is a work of pure imagination or based on an actual
occurrence. The House Dres has publicly denounced the work, and indeed, no
one named Dhaunayne, despite the suggestions in the letter, has ever been
linked to the house. We leave the reader to interpret the letter as he or
she believes.
-- Nerris Gan, Publisher
***
Dark Liege Dhaunayne,
You asked for a detailed description of my experience last night and the
reasons for my plea to House Dres for another assignment. I hope I have
served you well in my capacity as informant in the court of Prince Helseth, a
man who I have stated in many previous reports could teach Molag Bal how to
scheme. As you know, I've spent nearly a year now working my way into his
inner circle of advisors. He was in need of friendship when he first arrived
in Morrowind and eagerly took to me and a few others. Still, he was
disinclined to trust any of us, which is perhaps not surprising, given his
tenuous position in Morrowind society.
For your unholiness's recollection, the Prince is the eldest son of
Barenziah, who was once the Queen of Morrowind and once the Queen of the High
Rock kingdom of Wayrest. At the death of her husband, Prince Helseth's
stepfather, King Eadwyre, there was a power struggle between the Prince and
Eadwyre's daughter, the Princess Elysana. Though details of what transpired
are imperfect, it is clear that Elysana won the battle and became Queen,
banishing Helseth and Barenziah. Barenziah's only other child, Morgiah, had
already left court to marry and become Queen of the Summurset Isle kingdom of
Firsthold.
Barenziah and Helseth crossed the continent to return to Morrowind only last
year. They were well received by Barenziah's uncle, our current king, Hlaalu
Athyn Llethan, who had taken the throne after Barenziah's abdication more
than forty years ago. Barenziah made it clear that she had no designs on
reclaiming the throne, but merely to retire to her family estates. Helseth,
as you know, has lingered in the royal court, and many have whispered that
while he lost the throne of Wayrest, he does not intend to lose the throne of
Morrowind at Llethan's death.
I've kept your unholiness informed of the Prince's movements, meetings, and
plots, as well as the names and characters of his other advisors. As you may
recall, I've often thought that I was not the only spy in Helseth's court. I
told you before that a particular Dunmer counselor of Helseth looked like a
fellow I had seen in the company of Tholer Saryoni, the Archcanon of the
Tribunal Temple. Another, a young Nord woman, has been verified to visit the
Imperial fortress in Balmora. Of course, in their cases, they might well
have been on Helseth's own business, but I couldn't be certain. I had begun
to think myself paranoid as the Prince himself when I found myself doubting
the sincere loyalty of the Prince's chamberlain, Burgess, a Breton who had
been in his employ since his days in the court of Wayrest.
That is the background on that night, last night.
Yesterday morning, I received a curt invitation to dine with the Prince.
Based only on my own paranoia, I dispatched one of my servants, who is a good
and loyal servant of the House Dres, to watch the palace and report back
anything unusual. Just before dinner, he returned and told me what he had
witnessed.
A man cloaked in rags had been given entrance into the palace, and had stayed
there for some time. When he left, my servant saw his face beneath the cloak
-- an alchemist of infamous repute, said to be a leading suppliers of exotic
poisons. A fine observer, my servant also noticed that the alchemist entered
the palace smelling of wickwheat, bittergreen, and something alien and sweet.
When he left, he was odorless.
He had come to the same conclusion as I did. The Prince had procured
ingredients to prepare a poison. Bittergreen alone is deadly when eaten raw,
but the other ingredients suggested something far deeper. As your unholiness
can doubtless imagine, I went to dinner that night, prepared for any
eventuality.
All of Prince Helseth's other counselors were in attendance, and I noticed
that all were slightly apprehensive. Of course, I imagined that I was in a
nest of spies, and all knew of the Prince's mysterious meeting. It is just
as likely that some knew of the alchemist's visit, while others were simply
concerned by the nature of the Prince's invitation, and still others merely
unconsciously adopted the tense disposition of their fellow, better informed
counselors.
The Prince, however, was in fine mettle and soon had everyone relaxed and at
ease. At nine, we were all ushered into his dining hall where the feast had
been laid out. And what a feast! Honeyed gorapples, fragrant stews, roasts
in various blood sauces, and every variety of fish and fowl expertly and
ostentatiously prepared. Crystal and gold flagons of wine, flin, shein, and
mazte were at our seats to be savored as appropriate with each course. As
tantalizing as the aromas were, it occurred to me that in such a maze of
spices and flavors, a discreet poison would be undetectable.
Throughout the meal, I maintained the illusion of eating the food and
drinking the liquor, but I was surreptitious and swallowed nothing. Finally,
the plates and food were cleared from the table, and a tureen of a spicy
broth was placed in the center of the banquet. The servant who brought it
then retired, closing the banquet hall door behind him.
"It smells divine, my Prince," said the Marchioness Kolgar, the Nord woman.
"But I cannot eat another thing."
"Your Highness," I added, feigning a tone of friendliness and slight
intoxication. "You know that every one at this table would gladly die to put
you on the throne of Morrowind, but is it really necessary that we gorge
ourselves to death?"
The others at the table agreed with appreciative groans. Prince Helseth
smiled. I swear by Vaernima the Gifter, my dark liege, even you have never
seen a smile such as this one.
"Ironic words. You see, an alchemist visited me today, as some of you
already doubtless know. He showed me how to make a marvelous poison and its
antidote. A most potent potion, excellent for my purposes. No Restoration
spell will aid you once you've ingested it. Only the antidote in the tureen
will save you from certain death. And what a death, from what I've heard. I
am eager to see if the effects are all that the alchemist promised. It
should be horribly painful for the afflicted, but quite entertaining."
No one said a word. I could feel my heart beating hard in my chest.
"Your Highness," said Allarat, the Dunmer I suspected of alliance with the
Temple. "Have you poisoned someone at this table?"
"You are very astute, Allarat," said Prince Helseth, looking about the table,
eying each of his advisors carefully. "Little wonder I value your counsel.
As indeed I value all in this room. It would be perhaps easiest for me to
say who I haven't poisoned. I haven't poisoned any who serve but one master,
any whose loyalty to me is sincere. I haven't poisoned any person who wants
to see King Helseth on the throne of Morrowind. I haven't poisoned anyone
who isn't a spy for the Empire, the Temple, the House of Telvanni, the House
of Redoran, the House of Indoril, the House of Dres."
Your unholiness, he looked directly at me at his last words. I know that in
certainty. My face is practiced at keeping my thoughts from showing, but I
immediately thought of every secret meeting I've had, every coded message I
sent to you and the House, my dark liege. What could he know? What could
he, even without knowing, suspect?
I felt my heart beating even faster. Was it fear, or poison? I couldn't
speak, certain as I was that my voice would betray my calm facade.
"Those loyal to me who wish harm on my enemies may be wondering how can I be
certain that the poison has been ingested. Is it possible that the guilty
party, or dare I say, parties were suspicious and merely pretended to eat and
drink tonight? Of course. But even the craftiest of pretenders would have
to raise a glass to his or her lips and put empty forks or spoons in their
mouths to play the charade. The food, you see, was not poisoned. The cups
and cutlery were. If you did not partake out of fear, you're poisoned just
the same, and sadly, missed an excellent roast."
Sweat beaded on my face and I turned from the Prince so he would not see. My
fellow advisors, all of them, were frozen in their seats. From the
Marchioness Kolgar, white with fear, to Kema Inebbe, visibly shaking; from
the furrowed, angry brow of Allarat to the statue-like stare of Burgess.
I couldn't help thinking then, could the Prince's entire counsellorship be
comprised of nothing but spies? Was there any person at the table loyal?
And then I thought, what if I were not a spy myself, would I trust Helseth to
know that? No one knows better than his advisors both the depth of the
Prince's paranoia and the utter implacability of his ambition. If I were not
a spy for the House Dres, even then would I be safe? Could a loyalist be
poisoned because of a not-so-innocent misjudgment?
The others must have been thinking the same, loyalists and spies alike.
While my mind whirled, I could hear the Prince's voice, addressing all
assembled: "The poison acts quickly. If the antidote is not taken within one
minute from now, there will be death at the table."
I couldn't decide whether I had been poisoned or not. My stomach ached, but
I reminded myself it might have been the result of sitting at a sumptuous
banquet and not partaking. My heart shook in my chest and a bitter taste
like Trama Root stung my lips. Again, was it fear or poison?
"These are the last words you will hear if you are disloyal to me," said
Prince Helseth, still smiling that damned smile as he watched his advisors
squirming in their seats. "Take the antidote and live."
Could I believe him? I thought of what I knew of the Prince and his
character. Would he kill a self-confessed spy at his court, or would he
rather send the vanquished back to his masters? The Prince was ruthless, but
either possibility was within his manner. Surely the theatricality of this
whole dinner was meant to be a presentation to instill fear. What would my
ancestors say if I joined them after sitting at a table, eventually dying of
poison? What would they say if I took the antidote, confessing my allegiance
to you and the House Dres, and was summarily executed? And, I confess, I
thought of what you might to do me even after I was dead.
I had grown so light-headed and filled with my own thoughts, that I didn't
see Burgess jump from his seat. I was only suddenly aware that he had the
tureen in his hands and was gulping down the liquid within. There were
guards all around, though I never noticed them entering.
"Burgess," said Prince Helseth, still smiling. "You have spent some time at
Ghostgate. House Redoran?"
"You didn't know?" Burgess laughed sourly. "No House. I report to your
stepsister, the Queen of Wayrest. I've always been in her employ. By
Akatosh, you poisoned me because you thought I was working for some damnable
Dark Elves?"
"You're half right," said the Prince. "I didn't guess who you were working
for, or even that you were a spy. But you're also wrong about me poisoning
you. You poisoned yourself when you drank from the tureen."
Your unholiness, you don't need to hear how Burgess died. I know that you
have seen much over the many, many years of your existence, but you truly
don't want to know. I wish I could erase the memory of his agonies from my
own mind.
The council was dismissed shortly thereafter. I do not know if Prince
Helseth knows or suspects that I too am a spy. I do not know how many others
that night, last night, were as close as I was from drinking from the tureen
before Burgess did. I only know that if the Prince does not suspect me now,
he will. I cannot win at the games he mastered long ago at the court of
Wayrest, and I beg your unholiness, my dark liege Dhaunayne to use your
influence in the House Dres and dismiss your loyal servant from this charge.
****
Publisher's Note:
Of course, the anonymous writer's signature has not been on any reprint of
the letter since the original.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Hypothetical Treachery
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_destruction3
Weight: 3
Value: 175
Special Notes: Raises Destruction skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
A Hypothetical Treachery
A One Act Play
by Anthil Morvir
Dramatis Personae
Malvasian: A High Elf battlemage
Inzoliah: A Dark Elf battlemage
Dolcettus: A Cyrodiil healer
Schiavas: An Argonian barbarian
A Ghost
Some bandits
Scene: Eldenwood
As the curtain rises, we see the misty labyrinthian landscape of the
legendary Eldengrove of Valenwood. All around we hear wolves howling. A
bloodied reptilian figure, SCHIAVAS, breaks through the branches of one of
the trees and surveys the area.
SCHIAVAS: It's clear.
INZOLIAH, a beautiful Dark Elf mage, climbs down from the tree, helped by the
barbarian. There is the sound of footsteps nearby. Schiavas readies his
sword and Inzoliah prepares to cast a spell. Nothing comes out.
INZOLIAH: You're bleeding. You should have Dolcettus heal that for you.
SCHIAVAS: He's still drained from all the spells he had to cast down in the
caves. I'm fine. If we get out of this and no one needs it more, I'll take
the last potion of healing. Where's Malvasian?
MALVASIAN, a High Elf battlemage, and DOLCETTUS, a Cyrodiil healer, emerge
from the tree, carrying a heavy chest between the two of them. They
awkwardly try to get down from the tree, carrying their loot.
MALVASIAN: Here I am, though why I'm carrying the heavy load is beyond me. I
always thought that the advantage of dungeon delving with a great barbarian
was that he carried all the loot.
SCHIAVAS: If I carried that, my hands would be too full to fight. And tell
me if I'm wrong, but not one of the three of you has enough magicka reserved
to make it out of here alive. Not after you electrified and blasted all
those homunculuses down below ground.
DOLCETTUS: Homunculi.
SCHIAVAS: Don't worry, I'm not going to do what you think I'm going to do.
INZOLIAH (innocently): What's that?
SCHIAVAS: Kill you all and take the Ebony Mail for myself. Admit it -- you
thought I had that in mind.
DOLCETTUS: What a perfectly horrible thought. I never thought anyone, no
matter how vile and degenerate --
INZOLIAH: Why not?
MALVASIAN: He needs porters, like he said. He can't carry the chest and
fight off the inhabitants of Eldengrove both.
DOLCETTUS: By Stendarr, of all the mean, conniving, typically Argonian --
INZOLIAH: And why do you need me alive?
SCHIAVAS: I don't necessarily. Except that you're prettier than the other
two, for a smoothskin that is. And if something comes after us, it might go
for you first.
There is a noise in some bushes nearby.
SCHIAVAS: Go check that out.
INZOLIAH: It's probably a wolf. These woods are filled with them. You
check it out.
SCHIAVAS: You have a choice, Inzoliah. Go and you might live. Stay here,
and you definitely won't.
Inzoliah considers and then goes to the bushes.
SCHIAVAS (to Malvasian and Dolcettus): The king of Silvenar will pay good
money for the Mail, and we can divide it more nicely between three than four.
INZOLIAH: You're so right.
Inzoliah suddenly levitates up to the top of the stage. A semi-transparent
Ghost appears from the bush and rushes at the next person, who happens to be
Schiavas. As the barbarian screams and thrashes at it with his sword, it
levels blasts of whirling gas at him. He crumbles to the ground. It turns
next to Dolcettus, the healer, and as the Ghost focuses its feasting chill on
the hapless Dolcettus, Malvasian casts a ball of flame at it that causes it
to vaporize into the misty air.
Inzoliah floats back down to the ground as Malvasian examines the bodies of
Dolcettus and Schiavas, who are both white-faced from the draining power of
the ghost.
MALVASIAN: You had some magicka reserved after all.
INZOLIAH: So did you. Are they dead?
Malvasian takes the potion of healing from Dolcettus's pack.
MALVASIAN: Yes. Fortunately, the potion of healing wasn't broken when he
fell. Well, I guess this leaves just the two of us to collect the reward.
INZOLIAH: We can't get out of this place without each other. Like it or not.
The two battlemages pick up the chest and begin plodding carefully through
the undergrowth, pausing from time to time at the sound of footsteps or other
eerie noises.
MALVASIAN: Let me make sure I understand. You have a little bit of magicka
left, so you elected to use it to make Schiavas the ghost's target, forcing
me to use most of my limited reserve to destroy the creature so I wouldn't be
more powerful than you. That's first-rate thinking.
INZOLIAH: Thank you. It's only logical. Do you have enough power to cast
any other spells?
MALVASIAN: Naturally. An experienced battlemage always knows a few minor
but highly effective spells for just such a trial. I take it you, too, have
a few tricks up your sleeve?
INZOLIAH: Of course, like you said.
They pause for a moment before continuing as a fearful wail pierces the air.
When it dies away, they slowly trudge on.
INZOLIAH: Just as an intellectual exercise, I wonder what spell you would
cast at me if we made it out of here without any more combat.
MALVASIAN: I hope you're not implying that I would dream of killing you so I
would keep the treasure all to myself.
INZOLIAH: Of course not, nor would I do that to you. It is merely an
intellectual exercise.
MALVASIAN: Well, in that case, purely as an intellectual exercise, I would
probably cast a leech spell on you, to take away your life force and heal
myself. After all, there are brigands on the road between here and Silvenar,
and a wounded battlemage with a valuable artifact would make a tempting
target. I'd hate to survive Eldengrove merely to die in the open.
INZOLIAH: That's a well-reasoned response. As for myself, again, not saying
I would ever do this, but I think a simple, sudden electrical bolt would
serve my purposes admirably. I agree about the danger of brigands, but don't
forget, we also have a potion of healing. I could easily slay you and heal
myself to full capacity.
MALVASIAN: Very true. It would end up a question then of whose spell was
more effective at that instant. If our spells counteracted one another and I
leeched your life energy only to be crippled by your lightning bolt, then we
could both be killed. Or so near death that a mere potion of healing would
scarcely help either one of us, let alone both. How ironic it would be if
two scheming battlemages, not saying we are scheming but for the purpose of
this intellectual exercise, were left on the brink of death, completely
drained of magicka, with one healing potion to choose from. Who would get it
then?
INZOLIAH: Logically, whoever drank it first, which in this case would be you
since you're holding it. Now, what if one of us were injured, but not
killed?
MALVASIAN: Logic would dictate that a scheming battlemage would take the
potion, leaving the injured party to the mercy of the elements, I suppose.
INZOLIAH: That does seem most sensible. But suppose that the battlemages,
while certainly scheming types, had a certain respect for one another.
Perhaps in that case, the victorious one might, for instance, put the potion
up a tree near his or her gravely wounded victim. Then when the wounded
party had enough magicka replenished, he or she would be able to levitate to
the tree branches and recover the potion. By that time, the victorious
battlemage would have already collected the reward.
They pause for a moment at the sound of something in the bushes nearby.
Carefully, they climb across the branches of a tree to bypass it.
MALVASIAN: I understand what you're saying, but it seems out of character for
our hypothetic scheming battlemage to allow his or her victim to live.
INZOLIAH: Perhaps. But it's been my observation that most scheming
battlemages enjoy the feeling of having bested someone in combat, and having
that person alive to live with the humiliation.
MALVASIAN: These hypothetical scheming battlemages sound ... (excitedly)
Daylight! Do you see it?
The two scurry across the branch dropping behind a bush, so we can no longer
see them. We can, however, see the shimmering halo of sunlight.
MALVASIAN (behind the tall bush): We made it.
INZOLIAH (likewise, behind the tall bush): Indeed.
There is a sudden explosion of electrical energy and a wild howling aura of
red light, and then silence. After a few moment's pause, we hear someone
climbing up the tree. It is Malvasian, putting the potion high up in the
bough. He chuckles as he climbs back down and the curtain drops.
Epilogue.
The curtain rises on a road to Silvenar. A gang of bandits have surrounded
Malvasian, who is propped up on his staff, barely able to stand. They pull
his chest away from him with ease.
BANDIT #1: What have we got here? Don't you know it ain't safe to be out on
the road, all sick like you are? Why don't we help you with your load?
MALVASIAN (weakly): Please ... Let me be ...
BANDIT #2: Go on, spellcaster, fight us for it!
MALVASIAN: I can't ... too weak ...
Suddenly, Inzoliah flies in, casting lightning bolts from her fingers at the
bandits, who quickly scramble away. She lands on the ground and picks up the
chest. Malvasian collapses, dying.
MALVASIAN: Hypothetically, what if ... a battlemage cast a spell on another
which didn't harm him at once, but ... drained his life force and his
magicka, bit by bit, so he wouldn't know at the time, but ... feel confident
enough to leave the potion of healing behind?
INZOLIAH: A most treacherous battlemage she'd be.
MALVASIAN: And ... hypothetically ... would she be likely to help her fallen
foe ... so that she could enjoy the humiliation of him continuing ... to
live?
INZOLIAH: From my experience, hypothetically, no. She doesn't sound like a
fool.
As Inzoliah lugs the chest off toward Silvenar, and Malvasian expires on the
stage, we drop the curtain.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Less Rude Song
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_istunondescosmology
Weight: 3
Value: 40
Special Notes: None
A Less Rude Song
by Anonymous
They say
The Iliac Bay
Is the place to barrel around
Without a bit of apparel on,
As advertised in that carol song
A tune that's sung as the west wind blows
About it lovely not wearing any clothes.
Ladies singing high notes, men singing lows,
Implying that the most luscious depravity
And complete absence of serious gravity
Can only be found in the waterous cavity
Of Iliac Bay.
If you are the type who is more a sinner than a sinned,
You'll find it all in Morrowind.
But the truth, my child,
Is that nothing more wild
That an ordinary fashion
Kind of slightly mad passion
Can be detected if at all
In Sentinel and Daggerfall.
Whatever your odd needs: feathered, scaled, or finned,
You'll find it all in Morrowind
It's an invention of bards
That Bretons and Redguards
Have more than some staid fun
And suffer deviant fornication.
For the most of madness, not the least,
The wise debaucher heads out east.
Where your once steely reserve is now merely tinned,
You'll find it all in Morrowind.
In Morrowind,
There is sin.
But, pray, do not confuse Dunmer variety
With that found in tepid Western society
Compared to which, it nearly is piety.
It isn't terribly ingenious calling it prudery
Observing the Dark Elf aversion to nudity.
After all, the preferred sort of lewdity
In these parts is far more pernicious.
From the Ashlanders to the wettest fishes
You'll find pleasure and pain quite delicious
In Morrowind.
If you find yourself with unkind kinship with your kin
You'll find it all in Morrowind.
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A Short History of Morrowind
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_ShortHistoryMorrowind
Weight: 4
Value: 5
Special Notes: None
A Short History of Morrowind
by Jeanette Sitte
[from the Introduction]
Led by the legendary prophet Veloth, the ancestors of the Dunmer, exiles from
Altmer cultures in present-day Summerset Isle, came to the region of
Morrowind. In earliest times the Dunmer were harassed or dominated by Nord
sea raiders. When the scattered Dunmer tribes consolidated into the
predecessors of the modern Great House clans, they threw out the Nord
oppressors and successfully resisted further incursions.
The ancient ancestor worship of the tribes was in time superseded by the
monolithic Tribunal Temple theocracy, and the Dunmer grew into a great nation
called Resdayn. Resdayn was the last of the provinces to submit to Tiber
Septim; like Black Marsh, it was never successfully invaded, and was
peacefully incorporated by treaty into the Empire as the Province of
Morrowind.
Almost four centuries after the coming of the Imperial Legions, Morrowind is
still occupied by Imperial legions, with a figurehead Imperial King, though
the Empire has reserved most functions of the traditional local government to
the Ruling Councils of the Five Great Houses....
[on Vvardenfell District]
In 3E 414, Vvardenfell Territory, previously a Temple preserve under Imperial
protection, was reorganized as an Imperial Provincial District. Vvardenfell
had been maintained as a preserve administrated by the Temple since the
Treaty of the Armistice, and except for a few Great House settlements
sanctioned by the Temple, Vvardenfell was previously uninhabited and
undeveloped. But when the centuries-old Temple ban on trade and settlement of
Vvardenfell was revoked by King of Morrowind, a flood of Imperial colonists
and Great House Dunmer came to Vvardenfell, expanding old settlements and
building new ones.
The new District was divided into Redoran, Hlaalu, Telvanni, and Temple
Districts, each separately administered by local House Councils or Temple
Priesthoods, and all under the advice and consent of Duke Dren and the
District Council in Ebonheart. Local law became a mixture of House Law and
Imperial Law in House Districts, jointly enforced by House guards and Legion
guards, with Temple law and Imperial law enforced in the Temple district by
Ordinators. The Temple was still recognized as the majority religion, but
worship of the Nine Divines was protected by the legions and encouraged by
Imperial cult missions.
The Temple District included the city of Vivec, the fortress of Ghostgate,
and all sacred and profane sites (including those Blighted areas inside the
Ghostfence) and all unsettled and wilderness areas on Vvardenfell. In
practice, this district included all parts of Vvardenfell not claimed for
Redoran, Hlaalu, or Telvanni Districts. The Temple stubbornly fought all
development in their district, and were largely successful.
House Hlaalu in combination with Imperial colonists embarked on a vigorous
campaign of settlement and development. In the decades after reorganization,
Balmora and the Ascadian Isles regions have grown steadily. Caldera and
Pelagiad are completely new settlements, and all legion forts were expanded
to accommodate larger garrisons.
House Telvanni, normally conservative and isolationist, has been surprisingly
aggressive in expanding beyond their traditional tower villages. Disregarding
the protests of the other Houses, the Temple, the Duke, and the District
council, Telvanni pioneers have been encroaching on the wild lands reserved
to the Temple. The Telvanni council officially disavows responsibility for
these rogue Telvanni settlements, but it is an open secret that they are
encouraged and supported by ambitious Telvanni mage-lords.
Under pressure from the Temple, conservative House Redoran has steadfastly
resisted expansion in their district. As a result, House Redoran and the
Temple are in danger of being politically and economically marginalized by
the more aggressive and expansionist Hlaalu and Telvanni interests.
The Imperial administration faces many challenges in the Vvardenfell
district, but the most serious are the Great House rivalries, animosity from
the Ashlander nomads, internal conflicts within the Temple itself, and the
Red Mountain blight. Struggles between Great House, Temple, and Imperial
interests to control Vvardenfell's resource could at any time erupt into
full-scale war. Ashlanders raid settlements, plunder caravans, and kill
foreigners on their wild lands. The Temple has unsuccessfully attempted to
silence criticism and calls for reform within its ranks.
But most serious are the plagues and diseased hosts produced by the blight
storms sweeping out from Red Mountain. Vvardenfell and all Morrowind have
long been menaced by the legendary evils of Dagoth Ur and his ash vampire kin
dwelling beneath Red Mountain. For centuries the Temple has contained this
threat within the Ghostfence. But recently the Temple's resources and will
have faltered, and the threat from Red Mountain has grown in scale and
intensity. If the Ghostfence should fail, and hosts of blighted monsters were
to spill out across Vvardenfell's towns and villages, the Empire might have
no choice but to evacuate Vvardenfell district and abandon it to disease and
corruption.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
ABCs for Barbarians
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_ABCs
Weight: 2
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
A is for Atronach.
B is for Bungler's Bane.
C is for Comberry.
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Aedra and Daedra
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_AedraAndDaedra
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
Aedra and Daedra
The designations of Gods, Demons, Aedra, and Daedra, are universally
confusing to the layman. They are often used interchangeably.
"Aedra" and "Daedra" are not relative terms. They are Elvish and exact. Azura
is a Daedra both in Skyrim and Morrowind. "Aedra" is usually translated as
"ancestor," which is as close as Cyrodilic can come to this Elven concept.
"Daedra" means, roughly, "not our ancestors." This distinction was crucial to
the Dunmer, whose fundamental split in ideology is represented in their
mythical genealogy.
Aedra are associated with stasis. Daedra represent change.
Aedra created the mortal world and are bound to the Earth Bones. Daedra, who
cannot create, have the power to change.
As part of the divine contract of creation, the Aedra can be killed. Witness
Lorkhan and the moons.
The protean Daedra, for whom the rules do not apply, can only be banished.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ancestors and the Dunmer
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_AncestorsAndTheDunmer
Weight: 3
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
Ancestors and the Dunmer
Ghosts Walk Among Them
The departed spirits of the Dunmeri, and perhaps those of all races, persist
after death. The knowledge and power of departed ancestors benefits the
bloodlines of Dunmeri Houses. The bond between the living family members and
immortal ancestors is partly blood, partly ritual, partly volitional. A
member brought into the House through marriage binds himself through ritual
and oath into the clan, and gains communication and benefits from the clan's
ancestors; however, his access to the ancestors is less than his offspring,
and he retains some access to the ancestors of his own bloodline.
The Family Shrine
Each residence has a family shrine. In poorer homes, it may be no more than a
hearth or alcove where family relics are displayed and venerated. In wealthy
homes, a room is set aside for the use of the ancestors. This shrine is
called the Waiting Door, and represents the door to Oblivion.
Here the family members pay their respects to their ancestors through
sacrifice and prayer, through oaths sworn upon duties, and through reports on
the affairs of the family. In return, the family may receive information,
training, and blessings from the family's ancestors. The ancestors are thus
the protectors of the home, and especially the precincts of the Waiting Door.
The Ghost Fence
It is a family's most solemn duty to make sure their ancestor's remains are
interred properly in a City of the Dead such as Necrom. Here the spirits draw
comfort from one another against the chill of the mortal world. However, as a
sign of great honor and sacrifice, an ancestor may grant that part of his
remains be retained to serve as part of a ghost fence protecting the clan's
shrine and family precincts. Such an arrangement is often part of the family
member's will, that a knucklebone shall be saved out of his remains and
incorporated with solemn magic and ceremony into a clan ghost fence. In more
exceptional cases, an entire skeleton or even a preserved corpse may be bound
into a ghost fence.
These remains become a beacon and focus for ancestral spirits, and for the
spirit of the remains in particular. The more remains used to make a ghost
fence, the more powerful the fence is. And the most powerful mortals in life
have the most powerful remains.
The Great Ghost Fence created by the Tribunal to hold back the Blight
incorporates the bones of many heroes of the Temple and of the Houses Indoril
and Redoran who dedicated their spirits to the Temple and Clan as their
surrogate families. The Ghost Fence also contains bones taken from the
Catacombs of Necrom and the many battlefields of Morrowind.
The Mortal Chill
Spirits do not like to visit the mortal world, and they do so only out of
duty and obligation. Spirits tell us that the otherworld is more pleasant, or
at least more comfortable for spirits than our real world, which is cold,
bitter, and full of pain and loss.
Mad Spirits
Spirits that are forced to remain in our world against their will may become
mad spirits, or ghosts.
Some spirits are bound to this world because of some terrible circumstances
of their death, or because of some powerful emotional bond to a person,
place, or thing. These are called hauntings.
Some spirits are captured and bound to enchanted items by wizards. If the
binding is involuntary, the spirit usually goes mad. A willing spirit may or
may not retain its sanity, depending on the strength of the spirit and the
wisdom of the enchanter.
Some spirits are bound against their wills to protect family shrines. This
unpleasant fate is reserved for those who have not served the family
faithfully in life. Dutiful and honorable ancestral spirits often aid in the
capture and binding of wayward spirits.
These spirits usually go mad, and make terrifying guardians. They are
ritually prevented from harming mortals of their clans, but that does not
necessary discourage them from mischievous or peevish behavior. They are
exceedingly dangerous for intruders. At the same time, if an intruder can
penetrate the spirit's madness and play upon the spirit's resentment of his
own clan, the angry spirits may be manipulated.
Oblivion
The existence of Oblivion is acknowledged by all Tamriel cultures, but there
is little agreement on the nature of that otherworld, other than it is the
place where the Aedra and Daedra live, and that communication and travel are
possible between this world and Oblivion through magic and ritual.
The Dunmer do not emphasize the distinction between this world and Oblivion
as do the human cultures of Tamriel. They regard our world and the otherworld
as a whole with many paths from one end to the other rather than two separate
worlds of different natures with distinct borders. This philosophical
viewpoint may account for the greater affinity of Elves for magic and its
practices.
Foreign Views of Dunmeri Ancestor Worship and Spirit Magic
The Altmeri and Bosmeri cultures also venerate their ancestors, but only by
respecting the orderly and blissful passage of these spirits from this world
to the next. That is, Wood Elves and High Elves believe it is cruel and
unnatural to encourage the spirits of the dead to linger in our world. Even
more grotesque and repugnant is the display of the bodily remains of
ancestors in ghost fences and ash pits. The presentation of fingerbones in a
family shrine, for example, is sacrilegious to the Bosmer (who eat their
dead) and barbaric to the Altmer (who inter their dead).
The human cultures of Tamriel are ignorant and fearful of Dark Elves and
their culture, considering them to be inhuman and evil, like Orcs and
Argonians, but more sophisticated. The human populations of Tamriel associate
Dunmeri ancestor worship and spirit magic with necromancy; in fact, this
association of the Dark Elves with necromancy is at least partly responsible
for the dark reputation of Dunmer throughout Tamriel. This is generally an
ignorant misconception, for necromancy outside the acceptable clan rituals is
a most abhorrent abomination in the eyes of the Dunmer.
The Dark Elves would never think of practicing sorcerous necromancy upon any
Dark Elf or upon the remains of any Elf. However, Dark Elves consider the
human and orcish races to be little more than animals. There is no injunction
against necromancy upon such remains, or on the remains of any animal, bird,
or insect.
Imperial Policy officially recognizes the practices of Dunmeri ancestor
veneration and spirit magic as a religion, and protects their freedom to
pursue such practices so long as they do not threaten the security of the
Empire. Privately, most Imperial officials and traders believe Dark Elf
ancestor worship and displays of remains are barbaric or even necromantic.
Telvanni "Necromancy"
The Telvanni are adept masters of necromancy. They do not, however, practice
necromancy upon the remains of Dark Elves. Sane Telvanni regard such
practices with loathing and righteous anger. They do practice necromancy upon
the remains of animals and upon the remains of Humans, Orcs, and Argonians --
who are technically no more than animals in Morrowind.
Publisher's Note: This book was written by an unknown scholar as a guide for
foreign visitors to Morrowind shortly after the Armistice was signed. Many of
these practices have since fallen into disfavor. The most obvious changes are
those regarding the practice of Necromancy and the Great Ghostfence. Dunmer
today regard Necromancy upon any of the accepted races as an abomination. The
Ghostfence has forced many changes in the practice of ancestor worship. With
the vast majority of ancestors' remains going to strengthen the Great
Ghostfence around the mountain of Dagoth Ur, there are very few clan ghost
fences in Morrowind. The Temple discourages such practices among the Houses
as selfish. The upkeep of family tombs and private Waiting Doors has also
fallen into disfavor, as very few remains have been buried in these tombs and
shrines since the Armistice. In recent years most Dunmer venerate a small
portion of their ancestor's remains kept at a local temple.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Antecedants of Dwemer Law
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_AntecedantsDwemerLaw
Weight: 3
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
Antecedents of Dwemer Law
[This book is a historical account of the development of Dwemer law and
custom from its roots in High Elven culture.]
In short, so far as I am able to trace the order of development in the
customs of the Bosmeri tribes, I believe it to have been in all ways
comparable to the growth of Altmeri law. The earlier liability for slaves and
animals was mainly confined to surrender, which, as in Sumerset Isles, later
became compensation.
And what does this matter for a study of our laws today? So far as concerns
the influence of the Altmeri law upon our own, especially the Altmeri law of
master and servant, the evidence of it is to be found in every judgment which
has been recorded for the last five hundred years. It has been stated already
that we still repeat the reasoning of the Altmeri magistrates, empty as it
is, to the present day. And I will quickly show how Altmeri custom can be
followed into the courts of the Dwemer.
In the laws of Karndar Watch (P.D. 1180) it is said, "If one who is owned by
another slays one who owns himself, the owner must pay the associates three
fine instruments and the body of the one who his owned." There are many other
similar citations. And the same principle is extended even to the case of a
centurion by which a man is killed. "If, at the common workbench, one is
slain by an Animunculi, the associates of the slain may disassemble the
Animunculi and take its parts within thirty days."
It is instructive to compare what Dhark has mentioned concerning the rude
beasts of the Tenmar forests. "If a marsh cat was killed by an Argonian, his
family were in disgrace till they retaliated by killing the Argonian, or
another like it; but further, if a marsh cat was killed by a fall from a
tree, his relatives would take their revenge by toppling the tree, and
shattering its branches, and casting them to every part of the forest."
Arcana Restored
A Handbook
By Wapna Neustra
Praceptor Emeritus
FORM THE FIRST: Makest thou the Mana Fountain to be Primed with Pure Gold,
for from Pure Gold only may the Humors be rectified, and the Pure Principles
coaxed from the chaos of Pure Power. Droppest thou then the Pure Gold upon
the surface of the Mana Fountain. Takest thou exceeding great care to
safeguard yourself from the insalubrious tempests of the Mana Fountain, for
through such Assaults may one's health be utterly Blighted.
FORM THE SECOND: Make sure that thou havest with you this Excellent Manual,
so that thou might speak the necessary Words straightaway, and without error,
so that thou not in carelessness cause thyself and much else to discorporate
and disorder the World with your component humors.
FORM THE THIRD: Take in hand the item to be Restored, and hold it forth
within the Primed Fountain, murmuring all the while the appropriate phrases,
which are to be learned most expeditiously and faultlessly from this Manual,
and this Manual alone, notwithstanding the vile calumnies of Kharneson and
Rattor, whose bowels are consumed by envy of my great learning, and who do
falsely give testament to the efficacies of their own Manuals, which are in
every way inferior and steeped in error.
FORM THE FOURTH: Proceed instantly to Heal thyself of all injuries, or to
avail yourself of the Healing powers of the Temples and Healers, for though
the agonies of manacaust must be borne by any who would Restore a prized
Arcana to full Potency, yet it is not wise that suffering be endured unduly,
nor does the suffering in any way render the Potency more Sublime,
notwithstanding the foolish speculations of Kharneson and Rattor, whose
faults and wickednesses are manifest even to the least learned of critics.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Arkay the Enemy
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_ArkayTheEnemy
Weight: 4
Value: 40
Special Notes: None
Hear me, children. Once I was a lowly man such as yourselves. By my will I
entered the ranks of the gods. By your unquestioning devotion, you can share
my glory.
Most Necromancers are fools and weaklings. Fodder for the witchhunters. But
you, my servants, you are among the chosen. In the days to come, few will
dare to stand against your might. But one obstacle remains. His name is
Arkay.
He was also a man who entered the ranks of the gods. The similarities between
his mortal life and my own astonish even me. It is only proper that we should
be enemies.
Arkay's Blessing prevents the souls of men, beastmen, and elves from being
used without consent. Arkay's Law prevents those buried with the proper
rituals from being raised to serve my children's will. As you know, my
children, Arkay's Blessing is flexible to those with daring, but Arkay's Law
is unwavering.
To the Scholars: Humiliate the priests of Arkay. Reveal the primitive burial
customs to be mere superstition. Befriend kings with honeyed words and bind
them to your will. Look to my children in Cyrodiil for guidance.
To the Priests: Use your servants sparingly, let none be seen by the living.
Let the memories of the undead waste away from the people. Send missionaries
to the unbound dead, to the Vampires and the Liches. Let all the nations of
dead carry my banner and my banner alone.
To the Hidden: Wait, as always, in the darkness.
For soon we shall strike. The Temples of Arkay will be torn stone from stone.
The blood of his priests will sate our thirst; their bones will rise as our
servants. The name Arkay will be stuck from the records. Only I shall hold
sway over life and death. Only one name shall be whispered in fear. The name
of your lord and master.
[This is a volume of folk verses collected from Ashlanders. 'Wondrous Love'
is from the Urshilaku Ashlanders of the northern Ashlands.]
What a wondrous love it is
To bind two souls in faith,
Chained completely together
With never a false word,
Weal and woe, wish and real,
Woven each together
From first kiss to last breath,
First and last whispered in love.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Azura and the Box
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Sneak3
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Sneak skill 1 point the first time the book is read
Azura and the Box
Ancient Tales of the Dwemer, Part XI
By Marobar Sul
Nchylbar had enjoyed an adventurous youth, but had grown to be a very wise,
very old Dwemer who spent his life searching for the truth and dispelling
superstitions. He invented much and created many theorems and logic
structures that bore his name. But much of the world still puzzled him, and
nothing was a greater enigma to him that the nature of the Aedra and Daedra.
Over the course of his research, he came to the conclusion that many of the
Gods were entirely fabricated by man and mer.
Nothing, however, was a greater question to Nchylbar than the limits of
divine power. Were the Greater Beings the masters of the entire world, or
did the humbler creatures have the strength to forge their own destinies? As
Nchylbar found himself nearing the end of his life, he felt he must
understand this last basic truth.
Among the sage's acquaintances was a holy Chimer priest named Athynic. When
the priest was visiting Bthalag-Zturamz, Nchylbar told him what he intended
to do to find the nature of divine power. Athynic was terrified and pleaded
with his friend not to break this great mystery, but Nchylbar was resolute.
Finally, the priest agreed to assist out of love for his friend, though he
feared the results of this blasphemy.
Athynic summoned Azura. After the usual rituals by which the priest declared
his faith in her powers and Azura agreed to do no harm to him, Nchylbar and a
dozen of his students entered the summoning chamber, carrying with them a
large box.
"As we see you in our land, Azura, you are the Goddess of the Dusk and Dawn
and all the mysteries therein," said Nchylbar, trying to appear as kindly and
obsequious as he could be. "It is said that your knowledge is absolute."
"So it is," smiled the Daedra.
"You would know, for example, what is in this wooden box," said Nchylbar.
Azura turned to Athynic, her brow furrowed. The priest was quick to explain,
"Goddess, this Dwemer is a very wise and respected man. Believe me, please,
the intention is not to mock your greatness, but to demonstrate it to this
scientist and to the rest of his skeptical race. I have tried to explain
your power to him, but his philosophy is such that he must see it
demonstrated."
"If I am to demonstrate my might in a way to bring the Dwemer race to
understanding, it might have been a more impressive feat you would have me
do," growled Azura, and turned to look Nchylbar in the eyes. "There is a red-
petalled flower in the box."
Nchylbar did not smile or frown. He simply opened the box and revealed to
all that it was empty.
When the students turned to look to Azura, she was gone. Only Athynic had
seen the Goddess's expression before she vanished, and he could not speak, he
was trembling so. A curse had fallen, he knew that truly, but even crueler
was the knowledge of divine power that had been demonstrated. Nchylbar also
looked pale, uncertain on his feet, but his face shone with not fear, but
bliss. The smile of a Dwemer finding evidence for a truth only suspected.
Two of his students supported him, and two more supported the priest as they
left the chamber.
"I have studied very much over the years, performed countless experiments,
taught myself a thousand languages, and yet the skill that has taught me the
finally truth is the one that I learned when I was but a poor, young man,
trying only to have enough gold to eat," whispered the sage.
As he was escorted up the stairs to his bed, a red flower petal fell from the
sleeve of his voluminous robe. Nchylbar died that night, a portrait of peace
that comes from contented knowledge.
Publisher's Note:
This is another tale whose origin is unmistakably Dwemer. Again, the words of
some Aldmeris translations are quite different, but the essence of the story
is the same. The Dunmer have a similar tale about Nchylbar, but in the Dunmer
version, Azura recognizes the trick and refuses to answer the question. She
slays the Dwemer present for their skepticism and curses the Dunmer for
blasphemy.
In the Aldmeris versions, Azura is tricked not by an empty box, but by a box
containing a sphere which somehow becomes a flat square. Of course the
Aldmeris versions, being a few steps closer to the original Dwemer, are much
more difficult to understand. Perhaps this "stage magic" explanation was
added by Gor Felim because of Felim's own experience with such tricks in his
plays when a mage was not available.
"Marobar Sul" left even the character of Nchylbar alone, and he represents
many "Dwemer" virtues. His skepticism, while not nearly as absolute as in
the Aldmeris version, is celebrated even though it brings a curse upon the
Dwemer and the unnamed House of the poor priest.
Whatever the true nature of the Gods, and how right or wrong the Dwemer were
about them, this tale might explain why the dwarves vanished from the face of
Tamriel. Though Nchylbar and his kind may not have intended to mock the
Aedra and Daedra, their skepticism certainly offended the Divine Orders.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Biography of Barenziah v I
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BiographyBarenziah1
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
Biography of Queen Barenziah
by Stern Gamboge, Imperial Scribe
Late in the Second Era, a girl-child, Barenziah, was born to the rulers of
the kingdom of Mournhold in what is now the Imperial Province of Morrowind.
She was reared in all the luxury and security befitting a royal Dark Elven
child until she reached five years of age. At that time, His Excellency
Tiber Septim I, the first Emperor of Tamriel, demanded that the decadent
rulers of Morrowind yield to him and institute imperial reforms. Trusting to
their vaunted magic, the Dark Elves impudently refused until Tiber Septim's
army was on the borders. An Armistice was hastily signed by the now-eager
Dunmer, but not before there were several battles, one of which laid waste to
Mournhold, now called Almalexia.
Little Princess Barenziah and her nurse were found among the wreckage. The
Imperial General Symmachus, himself a Dark Elf, suggested to Tiber Septim
that the child might someday be valuable, and she was therefore placed with a
loyal supporter who had recently retired from the Imperial Army.
Sven Advensen had been granted the title of Count upon his retirement; his
fiefdom, Darkmoor, was a small town in central Skyrim. Count Sven and his
wife reared the princess as their own daughter, seeing to it that she was
educated appropriately-and more importantly, that the imperial virtues of
obedience, discretion, loyalty, and piety were instilled in the child. In
short, she was made fit to take her place as a member of the new ruling class
of Morrowind.
The girl Barenziah grew in beauty, grace, and intelligence. She was sweet-
tempered, a joy to her adoptive parents and their five young sons, who loved
her as their elder sister. Other than her appearance, she differed from
young girls of her class only in that she had a strong empathy for the woods
and fields, and was wont to escape her household duties to wander there at
times.
Barenziah was happy and content until her sixteenth year, when a wicked
orphan stable-boy, whom she had befriended out of pity, told her he had
overheard a conspiracy between her guardian, Count Sven, and a Redguard
visitor to sell her as a concubine in Rihad, as no Nord or Breton would marry
her on account of her black skin, and no Dark Elf would have her because of
her foreign upbringing.
"Whatever shall I do?" the poor girl said, weeping and trembling, for she had
been brought up in innocence and trust, and it never occurred to her that her
friend the stable-boy would lie to her.
The wicked boy, who was called Straw, said that she must run away if she
valued her virtue, but that he would come with her as her protector.
Sorrowfully, Barenziah agreed to this plan; and that very night, she
disguised herself as a boy and the pair escaped to the nearby city of
Whiterun. After a few days there, they managed to get jobs as guards for a
disreputable merchant caravan. The caravan was heading east by side roads in
a mendacious attempt to elude the lawful tolls charged on the imperial
highways. Thus the pair eluded pursuit until they reached the city of
Rifton, where they ceased their travels for a time. They felt safe in
Rifton, close as it was to the Morrowind border so that Dark Elves were
enough of a common sight.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Biography of Barenziah v II
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BiographyBarenziah2
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
Biography of Queen Barenziah, Vol 2
by Stern Gamboge, Imperial Scribe
The first volume of this series told the story of Barenziah's origin-heiress
to the throne of Mournhold until her father rebelled against His Excellency
Tiber Septim I and brought ruin to the province of Morrowind. Thanks largely
to the benevolence of the Emperor, the child Barenziah was not destroyed with
her parents, but reared by Count Sven of Darkmoor, a loyal Imperial trustee.
She grew up into a beautiful and pious child, trustful of her guardian's
care. This trust, however, was exploited by a wicked orphan stable boy at
Count Sven's estate, who with lies and fabrications tricked her into fleeing
Darkmoor with him when she turned sixteen. After many adventures on the
road, they settled in Rifton, a Skyrim city near the Morrowind borders.
The stable boy, Straw, was not altogether evil. He loved Barenziah in his
own selfish fashion, and deception was the only way he could think of that
would cement possession of her. She, of course, felt only friendship toward
him, but he was hopeful that she would gradually change her mind. He wanted
to buy a small farm and settle down into a comfortable marriage, but at the
time his earnings were barely enough to feed and shelter them.
After only a short time in Rifton, Straw fell in with a bold, villainous
Khajiit thief named Therris, who proposed that they rob the Imperial
Commandant's house in the central part of the city. Therris said that he had
a client, a traitor to the Empire, who would pay well for any information
they could gather there. Barenziah happened to overhear this plan and was
appalled. She stole away from their rooms and walked the streets of Rifton
in desperation, torn between her loyalty to the Empire and her love for her
friends.
In the end, loyalty to the Empire prevailed over personal friendship, and she
approached the Commandant's house, revealed her true identity, and warned him
of her friends' plan. The Commandant listened to her tale, praised her
courage, and assured her that no harm would come to her. He was none other
than General Symmachus, who had been scouring the countryside in search of
her since her disappearance, and had just arrived in Rifton, hot in pursuit.
He took her into his custody, and informed her that, far from being sent away
to be sold, she was to be reinstated as the Queen of Mournhold as soon as she
turned eighteen. Until that time, she was to live with the Septim family in
the newly built Imperial City, where she would learn something of government
and be presented at the Imperial Court.
At the Imperial City, Barenziah befriended the Emperor Tiber Septim during
the middle years of his reign. Tiber's children, particularly his eldest son
and heir Pelagius, came to love her as a sister. The ballads of the day
praised her beauty, chastity, wit, and learning. On her eighteenth birthday,
the entire Imperial City turned out to watch her farewell procession
preliminary to her return to her native land. Sorrowful as they were at her
departure, all knew that she was ready for her glorious destiny as sovereign
of the kingdom of Mournhold.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Biography of Barenziah v III
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BiographyBarenziah3
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
Biography of Queen Barenziah, Vol 3
by Stern Gamboge, Imperial Scribe
In the second volume of this series, it was told how Barenziah was kindly
welcomed to the newly constructed Imperial City by the Emperor Tiber Septim
and his family, who treated her like a long-lost daughter during her almost
one-year stay. After several happy months there learning her duties as
vassal queen under the Empire, the Imperial General Symmachus escorted her to
Mournhold where she took up her duties as Queen of her people under his wise
guidance. Gradually they came to love one another and were married and
crowned in a splendid ceremony at which the Emperor himself officiated.
After several hundred years of marriage, a son, Helseth, was born to the
royal couple amid celebration and joyous prayer. Although it was not
publicly known at the time, it was shortly before this blessed event that the
Staff of Chaos had been stolen from its hiding place deep in the Mournhold
mines by a clever, enigmatic bard known only as the Nightingale.
Eight years after Helseth's birth, Barenziah bore a daughter, Morgiah, named
after Symmachus' mother, and the royal couple's joy seemed complete. Alas,
shortly after that, relations with the Empire mysteriously deteriorated,
leading to much civil unrest in Mournhold. After fruitless investigations
and attempts at reconciliation, in despair Barenziah took her young children
and travelled to the Imperial City herself to seek the ear of then Emperor
Uriel Septim VII. Symmachus remained in Mournhold to deal with the grumbling
peasants and annoyed nobility, and do what he could to stave off an impending
insurrection.
During her audience with the Emperor, Barenziah, through her magical arts,
came to realize to her horror and dismay that the so-called Emperor was an
impostor, none other than the bard Nightingale who had stolen the Staff of
Chaos. Exercising great self-control she concealed this realization from
him. That evening, news came that Symmachus had fallen in battle with the
revolting peasants of Mournhold, and that the kingdom had been taken over by
the rebels. Barenziah, at this point, did not know where to seek help, or
from whom.
The gods, that fateful night, were evidently looking out for her as if in
redress of her loss. King Eadwyre of High Rock, an old friend of Uriel
Septim and Symmachus, came by on a social call. He comforted her, pledged
his friendship-and furthermore, confirmed her suspicions that the Emperor was
indeed a fraud, and none other than Jagar Tharn, the Imperial Battlemage, and
one of the Nightingale's many alter egos. Tharn had supposedly retired into
seclusion from public work and installed his assistant, Ria Silmane, in his
stead. The hapless assistant was later put to death under mysterious
circumstances-supposedly a plot implicating her had been uncovered, and she
had been summarily executed. However, her ghost had appeared to Eadwyre in a
dream and revealed to him that the true Emperor had been kidnapped by Tharn
and imprisoned in an alternate dimension. Tharn had then used the Staff of
Chaos to kill her when she attempted to warn the Elder Council of his
nefarious plot.
Together, Eadwyre and Barenziah plotted to gain the false Emperor's
confidence. Meanwhile, another friend of Ria's, known only as the Champion,
who apparently possessed great, albeit then untapped, potential, was
incarcerated at the Imperial Dungeons. However, she had access to his
dreams, and she told him to bide his time until she could devise a plan that
would effect his escape. Then he could begin on his mission to unmask the
impostor.
Barenziah continued to charm, and eventually befriended, the ersatz Emperor.
By contriving to read his secret diary, she learned that he had broken the
Staff of Chaos into eight pieces and hidden them in far-flung locations
scattered across Tamriel. She managed to obtain a copy of the key to Ria's
friend's cell and bribed a guard to leave it there as if by accident. Their
Champion, whose name was unknown even to Barenziah and Eadwyre, made his
escape through a shift gate Ria had opened in an obscure corner of the
Imperial Dungeons using her already failing powers. The Champion was free at
last, and almost immediately went to work.
It took Barenziah several more months to learn the hiding places of all eight
Staff pieces through snatches of overheard conversation and rare glances at
Tharn's diary. Once she had the vital information, however -- which she
communicated to Ria forthwith, who in turn passed it on to the Champion-she
and Eadwyre lost no time. They fled to Wayrest, his ancestral kingdom in the
province of High Rock, where they managed to fend off the sporadic efforts of
Tharn's henchmen to haul them back to the Imperial City, or at the very least
obtain revenge. Tharn, whatever else might be said of him, was no one's
fool-save perhaps Barenziah's -- and he concentrated most of his efforts
toward tracking down and destroying the Champion.
As all now know, the courageous, indefatigable, and forever nameless Champion
was successful in reuniting the eight sundered pieces of the Staff of Chaos.
With it, he destroyed Tharn and rescued the true Emperor, Uriel Septim VII.
Following what has come to be known as the Restoration, a grand state
memorial service was held for Symmachus at the Imperial City, befitting the
man who had served the Septim Dynasty for so long and so well.
Barenziah and good King Eadwyre had come to care deeply for one another
during their trials and adventures, and were married in the same year shortly
after their flight from the Imperial City. Her two children from her
previous marriage with Symmachus remained with her, and a regent was
appointed to rule Mournhold in her absence.
Up to the present time, Queen Barenziah has been in Wayrest with Prince
Helseth and Princess Morgiah. She plans to return to Mournhold after
Eadwyre's death. Since he was already elderly when they wed, she knows that
that event, alas, could not be far off as the Elves reckon time. Until then,
she shares in the government of the kingdom of Wayrest with her husband, and
seems glad and content with her finally quiet, and happily unremarkable,
life.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Biography of the Wolf Queen
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Speechcraft1
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Speechcraft skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Biography of the Wolf Queen
by Katar Eriphanes
Few historic figures are viewed as unambiguously evil, but Potema, the so-
called Wolf Queen of Solitude, surely qualifies for that dishonor. Born to
the Imperial Family in the sixty-seventh year of the third era, Potema was
immediately presented to her grandfather, the Emperor Uriel Septim II, a
famously kindhearted man, who viewed the solemn, intense babe and whispered,
"She looks like a she-wolf about ready to pounce."
Potema's childhood in the Imperial City was certainly difficult from the
start. Her father, Prince Pelagius Septim, and her mother, Qizara, showed
little affection for their brood. Her eldest brother Antiochus, sixteen at
Potema's birth, was already a drunkard and womanizer, infamous in the empire.
Her younger brothers Cephorus and Magnus were born much later, so for years
she was the only child in the Imperial Court.
By the age of 14, Potema was a famous beauty with many suitors, but she was
married to cement relations with King Mantiarco of the Nordic kingdom of
Solitude. She entered the court, it was said, as a pawn, but she quickly
became a queen. The elderly King Mantiarco loved her and allowed her all the
power she wished, which was total.
When Uriel Septim II died the following year, her father was made emperor,
and he faced a greatly depleted treasury, thanks to his father's poor
management. Pelagius II dismissed the Elder Council, forcing them to buy
back their positions. In 3E 97, after many miscarriages, the Queen of
Solitude gave birth to a son, who she named Uriel after her grandfather.
Mantiarco quickly made Uriel his heir, but the Queen had much larger
ambitions for her child.
Two years later, Pelagius II died -- many say poisoned by a vengeful former
Council member -- and his son, Potema's brother Antiochus took the throne.
At age forty-eight, it could be said that Antiochus's wild seeds had yet to
be sown, and the history books are nearly pornographic in their depictions of
life at the Imperial court during the years of his reign. Potema, whose
passion was for power not fornication, was scandalized every time she visited
the Imperial City.
Mantiarco, King of Solitude, died the springtide after Pelagius II. Uriel
ascended to the throne, ruling jointly with his mother. Doubtless, Uriel had
the right and would have preferred to rule alone, but Potema convinced him
that his position was only temporary. He would have the Empire, not merely
the kingdom. In Castle Solitude, she entertained dozens of diplomats from
other kingdoms of Skyrim, sowing seeds of discontent. Her guest list over
the years expanded to include kings and queens of High Rock and Morrowind as
well.
For thirteen years, Antiochus ruled Tamriel, and proved an able leader
despite his moral laxity. Several historians point to proof that Potema cast
the spell that ended her brother's life, but evidence one way or another is
lost in the sands of time. In any event, both she and her son Uriel were
visiting the Imperial court in 3E 112 when Antiochus died, and immediately
challenged the rule of his daughter and heir, Kintyra.
Potema's speech to the Elder Council is perhaps helpful to students of public
speaking.
She began with flattery and self-abasement: "My most august and wise friends,
members of the Elder Council, I am but a provincial queen, and I can only
assume to bring to issue what you yourselves must have already pondered."
She continued on to praise the late Emperor, who was a popular ruler in spite
of his flaws: "He was a true Septim and a great warrior, destroying -- with
your counsel -- the near invincible armada of Pyandonea."
But little time was wasted, before she came to her point: "The Empress Magna
unfortunately did nothing to temper my brother's lustful spirits. In point
of fact, no whore in the slums of the city spread out on more beds than she.
Had she attended to her duties in the Imperial bedchamber more faithfully, we
would have a true heir to the Empire, not the halfwit, milksop bastards who
call themselves the Emperor's children. The girl called Kintyra is popularly
believed to be the daughter of Magna and the Captain of the Guard. It may be
that she is the daughter of Magna and the boy who cleans the cistern. We can
never know for certain. Not as certainly as we can know the lineage of my
son, Uriel. The last of the Septim Dynasty."
Despite Potema's eloquence, the Elder Council allowed Kintyra to assume the
throne as the Empress Kintyra II. Potema and Uriel angrily returned to
Skyrim and began assembling the rebellion.
Details of the War of the Red Diamond are included in other histories: we
need not recount the Empress Kintyra II's capture and eventual execution in
High Rock in the year 3E 114, nor the ascension of Potema's son, Uriel III,
seven years later. Her surviving brothers, Cephorus and Magnus, fought the
Emperor and his mother for years, tearing the Empire apart in a civil war.
When Uriel III fought his uncle Cephorus in Hammerfell at the Battle of
Ichidag in 3E 127, Potema was fighting her other brother, Uriel's uncle
Magnus in Skyrim at the Battle of Falconstar. She received word of her son's
defeat and capture just as she was preparing to mount an attack on Magnus's
weakest flank. The sixty-one-year-old Wolf Queen flew into a rage and led
the assault herself. It was a success, and Magnus and his army fled. In the
midst the victory celebration, Potema heard the news that her son the Emperor
had been killed by an angry mob before he had even made it for trial in the
Imperial City. He had been burned to death within his carriage.
When Cephorus was proclaimed Emperor, Potema's fury was terrible to behold.
She summoned daedra to fight for her, had her necromancers resurrect her
fallen enemies as undead warriors, and mounted attack after attack on the
forces of the Emperor Cephorus I. Her allies began leaving her as her
madness grew, and her only companions were the zombies and skeletons she had
amassed over the years. The kingdom of Solitude became a land of death.
Stories of the ancient Wolf Queen being waited on by rotting skeletal
chambermaids and holding war plans with vampiric generals terrified her
subjects.
Potema died after a month long siege on her castle in the year 3E 137 at the
age of 90. While she lived, she had been the Wolf Queen of Solitude,
Daughter of the Emperor Pelagius II, Wife of King Mantiarco, Aunt of the
Empress Kintyra II, Mother of Emperor Uriel III, and Sister of the Emperors
Antiochus and Cephorus. Three years after her death, Antiochus died, and his
-- and Potema's -- brother Magnus took the throne.
Her death has hardly diminished her notoriety. Though there is little direct
evidence of this, some theologians maintain that her spirit was so strong,
she became a daedra after her death, inspiring mortals to mad ambition and
treason. It is also said that her madness so infused Castle Solitude that it
infected the next king to rule there. Ironically, that was her 18-year-old
nephew Pelagius, the son of Magnus. Whatever the truth of the legend, it is
undeniable that when Pelagius left Solitude in 3E 145 to assume the title of
the Emperor Pelagius III, he quickly became known as Pelagius The Mad. It is
even widely rumored that he murdered his father Magnus.
The Wolf Queen must surely have had the last laugh.
..not into the world, nor out of it, but between worlds they linger, held to
the hearth and tomb by blood and loyalty. And if they come unbidden, from
love of kin or faith to duty, it is not unholy. It is but the answering of
the ancestors, the awakening of those who never sleep, the summoning to
service of those bound through Hearth and House to the protection of the
clan.
But if sorcerers bring them forth, then such a summons is blasphemy, an
abomination before the Tribes and Temple, and a sin so great that ages of
burning cannot cleanse the fault. Abide not the sorcerer among you, for he
comes to steal the bones of your fathers and dust of your tombs. He seeks to
bind by power what is yours by right, to drag forth the warm spirits from
their world between and bind them to their service like slaves and beasts.
Who can know the shame of the dead, the ceaseless weeping of the
necromancer's thrall? Cruel enough is the ancestor's service given in love to
Hearth and Kin. But ghost or guardian, bonewalker or bonelord, summoned by
profane ritual and bound by force to the corpse miner's will, how may such a
spirit ever find rest? How may it ever find its way back to its blood and
clan?
Only a righteous Dunmer, bound by blood to hearth and kin, bound by oath and
service to the Temple, can call upon the spirits of the Dunmer dead. Those
foreign sorcerers of other races that invade our shores, shall they be
permitted to rob our tombs, to bind our kin-spirits into sorcerous slavery,
to steal the lives of our dead as well as our land of the living? No, I say,
no, and no, three times more. Such necromancers must die, and their profane
magicks must die with them.
And shall we tolerate the hidden hosts of the undead, the arrogant princes of
necromancers, the ancient vampire demons who creep from their lairs in the
West, seeking refuge in profane Daedric shrines, abandoned Dunmer
strongholds, and corrupted subterranean labyrinths of the detested Dwemer
race? For ages the Great Houses and the Temple have kept our land clean of
the vampire's taint, but now these undead lords and their vile cattle have
returned. These vampires must die, and their corrupt cattle with them, and
their blood taint must be forever erased by fire and stake.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Boethiah's Glory
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_Boethiah's Glory_unique
Weight: 2
Value: 25
Special Notes: Part of the Thieves Guild Quests
Boethiah's Glory
Look upon the face of Boethiah and wonder. Raise your arms that Boethiah may
look on them and bestow a blessing. Know that battle is a blessing. Know that
death is an eventuality. Know that you are dust in the eyes of Boethiah.
Long is the arm of Boethiah, and swift is the blade.
Deep is the cut, and subtle is the poison.
Worship, o faithful. Pray your death is short.
Worship, o faithful. Pray your death is quiet.
Worship, o faithful. Worship the glory that is Boethiah.
Into battle strides the Daedra Prince, blade at the ready to cleave the
unworthy.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Boethiah's Pillow Book
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BoethiahPillowBook
Weight: 10
Value: 0
Special Notes: Part of a thieves guild quest
[No words can describe what you see. Or what you think you see.]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bone, Part One
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Medium Armor2
Weight: 4
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Medium Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Bone, Part I
By Tavi Dromio
"It seems to me," said Garaz, thoughtfully looking into the depths of his
flin. "That all great ideas come from pure happenstance. Take for instance,
the story I told you last night about my cousin. If he hadn't fallen off
that horse, he never would have become one of the Empire's foremost
alchemists."
It was late one Middas night at the King's Ham, and the regulars were always
especially inclined toward philosophy.
"I disagree," replied Xiomara, firmly but politely. "Great ideas and
inventions are most often formed slowly over time by diligence and hard work.
If you'll recall my tale from last month, the young lady -- who I assure you
is based on a real person -- only recognized her one true love after she had
slept with practically everyone in Northpoint."
"I put it to you that neither is the case," said Hallgerd, pouring a topper
on his mug of greef. "The greatest inventions are created by extraordinary
need. Must I remind you of the story I told some time ago about Arslic Oan
and the invention of bonemold?"
"The problem with your theory is that your example is entirely fictional,"
sniffed Xiomara.
"I don't believe I remember the story of Arslic Oan and the invention of
bonemold," frowned Garaz. "Are you sure you told us?"
"Well, this happened many, many, many years ago, when Vvardenfell was a
beauteous green land, when Dunmer were Chimer and Dwemer and Nord lived
together in relative peace when they weren't trying to kill one another,"
Hallgerd relaxed in his chair, warming to his theme. "When the sun and moons
all hung in the sky together--"
"Lord, Mother, and Wizard!" grumbled Xiomara. "If I'm going to be forced to
hear your ridiculous story again, pray don't embellish and make it any longer
than it has to be."
This all happened in Vvardenfell quite some time ago (said Hallgerd, ignoring
Xiomara's interruption with admirable restraint) during an era of a king you
would never have heard of. Arslic Oan was one of this king's nobles and
very, very disagreeable fellow. Because of his allegiance to the crown, the
king had felt the need to grant him a castle and land, but he didn't
necessarily want him as a neighbor so the land he granted was far from
civilization. Right in an area of Vvardenfell that is, even today, not quite
civilized to this day. Arslic Oan built a walled stronghold and settled down
with his unhappy slaves to enjoy a quiet if somewhat grim life.
It was not long before his stronghold's integrity was tested. A tribe of
cannibalistic Nords had been living in the valley for some time, mostly
dining on one another, but occasionally foraging what they liked to call dark
meat, the Dunmer.
Xiomara laughed with appreciation. "Marvelous! I don't remember that from
before. It's funny how you don't hear much about the Nords' rampant
cannibalism nowadays."
This was obviously, as I've said, quite some time ago (said Hallgerd, glaring
at part of his audience with civil malevolence) and things were in many ways
quite different. These cannibalistic Nords began attacking Arslic Oan's
slaves in the fields, and then slowly grew bolder, until they held the very
stronghold itself under siege. They were quite a fearsome sight you can
imagine: a horde of wild-eyed men and women with dagger-like teeth filed to
tear flesh, wielding massive clubs, cloaked only in the skins of their
victims.
Arslic Oan assumed that if he ignored them, they'd go away.
Unfortunately, the first thing that the Nords did was to poison the stream
that carried water into the walled stronghold. All the livestock and most of
the slaves died very quickly before this was discovered. There was no hope
of rescue, at least for several months when the king's emissaries would come
reluctantly to visit the disagreeable vassal. The next closest source of
water was on the other side of the hill, so Arslic Oan sent three of his
slaves with empty jugs to bring some back.
They were beaten with clubs and eaten before they were a few feet outside the
stronghold gates. The next group he sent through he gave sticks to defend
themselves. They made it a few feet farther, but were also overwhelmed,
beaten, and devoured. It was obvious that better personal defensive was
required. Arslic Oan went to talk to his armorer, one of his few slaves with
specific talents and duties.
"The slaves need armor if they're going to make it to the river and back," he
said. "Collect every scrap of steel and iron you can find, every hinge,
knife, ring, cup, everything that isn't needed to keep the walls sturdy,
smelt it, and give me the most and the best armor you can, very, very
quickly."
The armorer, whose name was Gorkith, was used to Arslic Oan's demands, and
knew that there could be no compromise on the quality and quantity of the
armor, or the speed at which he worked. He labored for thirty hours without
a break - and, recall, without any water to slake his thirst as he struggled
with the kiln and anvil - until finally, he had six suits of mixed-metal
armor.
Six slaves were chosen, clad in the armor, and sent with jars to collect
river water. At first, the mission progressed well. The Nord attacked the
armored slaves with their clubs, but they continued their march forward,
warding off the blows. Gradually, however, the slaves seemed to be walking
uncertainly, dazed by the endless barrage. Eventually, one by one, they
fell, the armor was peeled from their bodies, and they were eaten.
"The slaves couldn't move quickly enough in that heavy armor you made," said
Arslic Oan to Gorkith. "I need you to collect all the cadavers of the
poisoned livestock, strip their skin, and give me the most and the best
leather armor you can, very, very quickly."
Gorklith did as he was told, though it was a particularly repulsive task
given the rancid state of the livestock. Normally it takes quite a time to
treat and cure leather, so I understand, but Gorklith worked at it
tirelessly, and in a half a day he had twelve suits of leather armor.
Twelve slaves were chosen, clad in the armor, and sent with jars to collect
river water. They progressed, at first, much better than the earlier
expedition. Two fell almost immediately, but the others had some luck out-
maneuvering their assailants while deflecting an occasional blow of the club.
Several got to the river, three were able to fill up their jars, and one
fellow very nearly made it back to the stronghold gates. Alas, he fell and
was eaten. The Nords possessed a remarkably healthy appetite.
"What we need before I completely run out of slaves," said Arslic Oan
thoughtfully to Gorkith. "Is an armor sturdier than leather but lighter than
metal."
The armorer had already considered that and taken stock of the materials
available. He had thought about doing something with stone or wood, but
there were practical problems with demolishing more of the stronghold. The
next most prevalent stuff present in the stronghold was skinned dead bodies,
hunks of muscle, fat, blood, and bone. For six hours, he toiled relentlessly
until he produced eighteen suits of bonemold, the first ones ever created.
Arslic Oan was somewhat dubious at the sight (and smell) but he was very
thirsty, and willing to sacrifice another eighteen slaves if necessary.
"Might I suggest," Gorklith queried tremulously, "Having the slaves practice
moving about in the armor, here in the courtyard, before sending them to face
the Nords?"
Arslic Oan coolly allowed it, and for a few hours, the slaves wandered about
the stronghold courtyard in their suits of bonemold. They grew used to the
give of the joints, the rigidity of the backplate, the weight pushed onto
their shoulders and hips. They discovered how to plant their feet slightly
askew to keep their balance steady; how to quickly turn, pivoting without
falling down; how to break into a run and stop quickly. By the time they
were sent out of the castle gates, they were easily very nearly almost
amateurs in the use of their medium weight armor.
Seventeen of them were killed and eaten, but one made it back with a jar of
water.
"It's perfect nonsense," said Xiomara. "But my point is still valid even so.
Like all great inventors, even in fiction, the armorer worked diligently to
create the bonemold."
"I think there was a good deal of happenstance as well," frowned Garaz. "But
it is an appalling story. I wish you hadn't told me."
"If you think that's appalling," grinned Hallgerd. "You should hear what
happened next."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bone, Part Two
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Medium Armor3
Weight: 4
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Medium Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Bone, Part II
By Tavi Dromio
"What do you mean the story gets more appalling?" Garaz was incredulous. "How
in Boethiah's name could it get more appalling?"
"It's a ruse," Xiomara scoffed, ordering two more mugs of greef and a glass
of flin for Garaz. "How much worse can a tale get which prominently features
cannibalism, abuse of slaves, and the regular placement of rotting animal
carcasses?"
"Don't you dare dare me," growled Hallgerd, annoyed by his listeners' lack of
appreciation of his prose styling. "Remind me where we were?"
"Arslic Oan is the owner of a stronghold under siege by savage, cannibalistic
Nords," said Xiomara, keeping a straight face. "After a lot of deaths and
several unsuccessful attempts to get water, he had his armorer with the
unlikely name of Gorkith outfit his slaves with the first ever bonemold
armor. One of them finally makes it back with some water."
It was only one jarful of water (said Hallgerd, pulling back in his chair and
continuing the tale), and Arslic Oan drank most of it, passing the remains to
his dear armorer Gorkith and the last dribbles to the few dozen slaves who
still lived. It was hardly enough to sustain health and well-being. Another
expedition was necessary, but they had only one suit of bonemold left, as
there was only one survivor of the trip.
"One out of eighteen slaves made it through the gauntlet of Nords wearing
that marvelous bonemold armor of yours," said Arslic Oan to Gorkith. "And one
can only carry back enough water for one. Therefore, mathematically, as we
have, counting you and me, fifty-six remaining people at the stronghold, we
need armor for fifty-four. Since we already have one, you only need to make
fifty-three to make the total. That way, three will make it back, with
enough water for you and me and whoever's in the best condition to partake.
I don't know what we'll do after that, but if we wait, we won't have enough
slaves to fetch even a couple days' worth of water."
"I understand," whimpered Gorkith. "But how am I going to make the armor? I
used all the livestock bones to make the first batch of bonemold."
Arslic Oan gave an order which Gorkith fearfully complied with. In eighteen
hours -
"What do you mean 'Arslic Oan gave an order which Gorkith fearfully complied
with'?" asked Xiomara. "What was the order?"
"All will be clear," smiled Hallgerd. "I have to chose what to reveal and
what to conceal. Such is the way of the tale teller."
In eighteen hours, Gorkith had fifty-three suits of bonemail (said Hallgerd,
continuing, not really minding the interruption) prepared for the slaves.
Without prompting, he ordered the slaves to practice using the armor, and
even allowed them more training time than their predecessors. They not only
learned how to move and stop quickly in bonemold, but how to adjust their
peripheral vision to see a blow before it came, and to sway to dodge, and
where the sturdiest reinforcement points on the arm were -- the center of the
chest and the abdomen -- and how to position themselves to take blows there,
against their natural instincts. The slaves even had time for a mock battle
before being sent out among the cannibals.
The slaves handled themselves admirably. Very few, just fifteen slaves, were
killed and eaten out right. Only ten were killed and eaten when they reached
the river. That was when things did not go according to Arslic Oan's plans.
Twenty-one slaves with jars of water took off for the hills. Only eight
returned to the castle, largely because they were blocked by the cannibal
Nords. It was a larger percentage than he had anticipated surviving, but
Arslic Oan felt righteous indignation at the paucity of loyalty.
"Are you absolutely certain you wouldn't rather flee?" he hollered from the
battlements.
Finally, he allowed the survivors in. Three had been killed waiting for the
gate to open. Two more died almost upon stepping into the courtyard. One
was delirious, walking around in circles, laughing and dancing before
suddenly collapsing. That meant five jars of water for four people, the two
surviving slaves, Arslic Oan, and Gorkith. As the lord of the manor, Arslic
Oan took the extra jar, but he was democratic with the others.
"You're quite correct," frowned Garaz. "This story is getting more and more
appalling."
"Just wait," smiled Hallgerd.
The next morning (Hallgerd continued) Arslic Oan awoke to a perfectly still
and quiet stronghold. There was no murmuring in the corridors, no sound of
hard labor in the courtyard. He dressed and surveyed the scene. It appeared
that the fortress was utterly deserted. Arslic Oan walked down to the
armorer's quarters, but the door was locked.
"Open up," said Arslic Oan, patiently. "We need to speak. Thirty out of
fifty-four slaves successfully made it to the river and gathered water.
Admittedly, some then fled, and a couple didn't survive because I needed to
correct their fickleness, but mathematically, that's a fifty-five percent
survival rate. If you and I and the two remaining slaves made the next run
to the river, we two should survive."
"Zilian and Gelo left last night with their armor," cried Gorklith through
the door.
"Who are Zilian and Gelo?"
"The two remaining slaves! They don't remain anymore!"
"Well, that's vexing," said Arslic Oan. "Still we must continue on.
Mathematically--"
"I heard something last night," whimpered Gorklith in a funny voice. "Like
footsteps, only different, and they were moving through the walls. And there
were voices too. They sounded strange, like they couldn't move their jaws
very well, but I knew one."
Arslic Oan sighed, humoring his poor armorer: "And who was it?"
"Ponik."
"And who is Ponik?"
"One of the slaves that died when the Nords poisoned our water. One of the
many, many slaves that died, and we made use of. He was always a nice,
uncomplaining fellow, that's why I noticed his voice above all the others,"
Gorklith began to sob. "I understood what he was saying."
"Which was what?" asked Arslic Oan with a sigh.
"'Give me back my bones!'" Gorklith's voice shrieked. There was silence for
a moment, and then more hysterical sobbing.
"I saw that coming," laughed Xiomara.
There was nothing more to be done with the armorer for the time being (said
Hallgerd, a trifle annoyed at the regular interruptions), so Arslic Oan
stripped one of the dead slaves of his suit of bonemold and put it on. He
practiced in the courtyard, impressing himself with his natural comfortably
with medium weight armor. For hours, he boxed, feinted, dodged, sprinted,
skipped, jumped, and generally cavorted about. When he felt tired, he
retired to the shade and took a nap.
The sound of the king's trumpet woke him with a start. Night had fallen, and
for a moment, he thought he had been dreaming. Then the alarum sounded
again, far in the distance, but clear. Arslic Oan leapt to his feet and ran
to the ramparts. Several miles away, he could see the emissaries and their
vast and well-armed escort approach. They were there early! The cannibal
Nords below looked at one another with consternation. Savages they might be,
but they knew when a superior force was approaching.
Arslic Oan joyously dashed down the stairs to Gorklith's chamber. The door
was still locked. He beat on it, cajoling, demanding, threatening. Finally,
he found a key, one of the few scraps of metal that had not been smelted days
before.
Gorklith appeared to be sleeping, but as Arslic Oan approached, he noticed
that the armorer's mouth and eyes were wide open and his arms were folded
unnaturally behind his back. On closer inspection, the armorer was obviously
dead. What was more, his face and whole body were sunken, like an empty
pig's bladder.
Something moved through the walls, like a footfall only... squishy. Arslic
Oan expertly and gracefully turned to face it, completely in balance.
At first, it seemed like nothing more than a bubble expanding through one of
the cracks in the stone. As more of the flesh-colored gelatinous matter
emerged, it more clearly resembled part of a face. A flaccid, almost
shapeless face with a low brow and a slack, toothless jaw. The rest of the
body oozed out of the crack, a soft bag of muscle and blood. Behind Arslic
Oan and to the side, there was more movement, more slaves welling up through
the cracks in the stone. They were all around him, reaching out.
"Give us," moaned Ponik, his tongue rolling about his hanging jaw. "Give us
back our bones."
Arslic Oan began to rip off his bonemold, throwing it to the floor. A
hundred figures, more, pooled into the small chamber.
"That's not enough."
The cannibals had cleared away by the time the king's emissaries arrived at
Arslic Oan's gates. They had not been looking forward to this visit. It was
best, they though philosophically, to begin with the worst of the king's
noblemen, so to end their trip well. They sounded the alarum once again, but
the gates did not open. There was no sound from Arslic Oan's stronghold.
It took a few hours to gain access. If the emissaries had not brought a
professional acrobat with them for entertainment, it might have taken longer.
The place seemed to be abandoned. They searched every room, until finally
they came to the armorer's.
There they found the master of the manor, folded neatly, legs behind his
head, arms behind the legs, like a fine gown. Not a bone in his body.
"The first part of your story was complete nonsense," cried Xiomara. "But now
it doesn't hold true on any level. How could bonemold be made again if the
armorer who invented it died before he could tell anyone how he did it?"
"I said that this was the first time it was created, not the first time
people learned the craft."
"And when did someone first teach someone else the craft?" asked Garaz.
"That, my friends," replied Hallgerd with a sinister smile. "Is a tale for
another night."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Book of Life and Service
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BookOfLifeAndService
Weight: 3
Value: 40
Special Notes: None
THE RANKS OF THE BLESSED
Blessed are the Bonemen, for they serve without self in spirit forever.
Blessed are the Mistmen, for they blend in the glory of the transcendent
spirit.
Blessed are the Wrathmen, for they render their rage unto the ages.
Blessed are the Masters, for they bridge the past and span the future.
THE LITANY OF SERVICE
The Boneman's Oath
We die.
We pray.
To live.
We serve.
The Master's Voice
You swore.
To Serve.
Your Lord.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Book of Rest and Endings
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BookOfRestAndEndings
Weight: 3
Value: 40
Special Notes: None
[The pages of the BOOK OF REST AND ENDINGS are filled with obscure bits of
cult mumbo-jumbo.]
THE RITUAL FOR ENDING OF WRATHMEN
From fifty Fathers
Frozen in slavepast
Rip from the wraithloom
Sunder the lifeweave
Lock tight in earthgrip
Hold firm in gravefast
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Breathing Water
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Alteration1
Weight: 2
Value: 400
Special Notes: Raises Alteration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Breathing Water
by Haliel Myrm
He walked through the dry, crowded streets of Bal Fell, glad to be among so
many strangers. In the wharfs of Vivec, he had no such anonymity. They knew
him to be a smuggler, but here, he could be anyone. A lower-class peddler
perhaps. A student even. Some people even pushed against him as he walked
past as if to say, "We would not dream of being so rude as to acknowledge
that you don't belong here."
Seryne Relas was not in any of the taverns, but he knew she was somewhere,
perhaps behind a tenement window or poking around in a dunghill for an exotic
ingredient for some spell or another. He knew little of the ways of
sorceresses, but that they always seemed to be doing something eccentric.
Because of this prejudice, he nearly passed by the old Dunmer woman having a
drink from a well. It was too prosaic, but he knew from the look of her that
she was Seryne Relas, the great sorceress.
"I have gold for you," he said to her back. "If you will teach me the secret
of breathing water."
She turned around, a wide wet grin stretched across her weathered features.
"I ain't breathing it, boy. I'm just having a drink."
"Don't mock me," he said, stiffly. "Either you're Seryne Relas and you will
teach me the spell of breathing water, or you aren't. Those are the only
possibilities."
"If you're going to learn to breath water, you're going to have to learn
there are more possibilities than that, boy. The School of Alteration is
all about possibilities, changing patterns, making things be what they could
be. Maybe I ain't Seryne Relas, but I can teach how to breathe water," she
wiped her mouth dry. "Or maybe I am Seryne Relas and I won't. Or maybe even
I can teach you to breath water, but you can't learn."
"I'll learn," he said, simply.
"Why don't you just buy yourself a spell of water breathing or a potion over
at the Mages Guild?" she asked. "That's how it's generally done."
"They're not powerful enough," he said. "I need to be underwater for a long
time. I'm willing to pay whatever you ask, but I don't want any questions.
I was told you could teach me."
"What's your name, boy?"
"That's a question," he replied. His name was Tharien Winloth, but in Vivec,
they called him the Tollman. His job, such as it was, was collecting a
percentage of the loot from the smugglers when they came into harbor to bring
to his boss in the Camonna Tong. Of the value of that percentage, he earned
another percentage. In the end it was very small indeed. He had scarcely
any gold of his own, and what he had, he gave to Seryne Relas.
The lessons began that very day. The sorceress brought her pupil, who she
simply called "boy," out to a low sandbank along the sea.
"I will teach you a powerful spell for breathing water," she said. "But you
must become a master of it. As with all spells and all skills, you more you
practice, the better you get. Even that ain't enough. To achieve true
mastery, you must understand what it is you're doing. It ain't simply enough
to perform a perfect thrust of a blade -- you must also know what you are
doing and why."
"That's common sense," said Tharien
"Yes, it is," said Seryne, closing her eyes. "But the spells of Alteration
are all about uncommon sense. The infinite possibilities, breaking the sky,
swallowing space, dancing with time, setting ice on fire, believing that the
unreal may become real. You must learn the rules of the cosmos and then
break them."
"That sounds ... very difficult," replied Tharien, trying to keep a straight
face.
Seryne pointed to the small silver fish darting along the water's edge: "They
don't find it so. They breath water just fine."
"But that's not magic."
"What I'm saying to you, boy, is that it is."
For several weeks, Seryne drilled her student, and the more he understood
about what he was doing and the more he practiced, the longer he could breath
underwater. When he found that he could cast the spell for as long as he
needed, he thanked the sorceress and bade her farewell.
"There is one last lesson I have to teach you," she said. "You must learn
that desire is not enough. The world will end your spell no matter how good
you are, and no matter how much you want it."
"That's a lesson I'm happy not to learn," he said, and left at once for the
short journey back to Vivec.
The wharfs were much the same, with all the same smells, the same sounds, and
the same characters. His boss had found a new Tollman, he learned from his
mates. They were still looking out for the smuggler ship Morodrung, but they
had given up hope of ever seeing it. Tharien knew they would not. He had
seen it sink from the wharf a long time ago.
On a moonless night, he cast his spell and dove into the thrashing purple
waves. He kept his mind on the world of possibilities, that books could
sing, that green was blue, that that water was air, that every stroke and
kick brought him closer to a sunken ship filled with treasure. He felt
magicka surge all around him as he pushed his way deeper down. Ahead he saw
a ghostly shadow of the Morodrung, its mast billowing in a wind of deep water
currents. He also felt his spell begin to fade. He could break reality long
enough to breath water all the way back up to the surface, but not enough to
reach the ship.
The next night, he dove again, and this time, the spell was stronger. He
could see the vessel in detail, clouded over and dusted in sediment. The
wound in its hull where it had struck the reef. A glint of gold beckoning
from within. But still he felt reality closing in, and he had to surface.
The third night, he made it into the steerage, past the bloated corpses of
the sailors, nibbled and picked apart by fish. Their glassy eyes bulging,
their mouths stretched open. Had they only known the spell, he thought
briefly, but his mind was more occupied by the gold scattered along the
floor, the boxes that contained them shattered. He considered scooping as
much he could carry into his pockets, but a sturdy iron box seemed to bespeak
more treasures.
On the wall was a row of keys. He took each down and tried it on the locked
box, but none opened it. One key, however, was missing. Thalien looked
around the room. Where could it be? His eyes went to the corpse of one of
the sailors, floating in a dance of death not far from the box, his hands
tightly clutching something. It was a key. When the ship had begun to sink,
this sailor had evidently gone for the iron box. Whatever was in it had to
be very valuable.
Thalien took the sailor's key and opened the box. It was filled with broken
glass. He rummaged around until he felt something solid, and pulled out two
flasks of some kind of wine. He smiled as he considered the foolishness of
the poor alcoholic. This was what was important to the sailor, out of all
the treasure in the Morodrung.
Then, suddenly, Thalien Winloth felt reality.
He had not been paying attention to the grim, tireless advance of the world
on his spell. It was fading away, his ability to breath water. There was no
time to surface. There was no time to do anything. As he sucked in, his
lungs filled with cold, briny water.
A few days later, the smugglers working on the wharf came upon the drowned
body of the former Tollman. Finding a body in the water in Vivec was not in
itself noteworthy, but the subject that they discussed over many bottles of
flin was how did it happen that he drowned with two potions of water
breathing in his hands.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Brief History of the Empire v 1
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BriefHistoryEmpire1
Weight: 4
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
A Brief History of the Empire
Part One
by Stronach k'Thojj III
Imperial Historian
Before the rule of Tiber Septim, all Tamriel was in chaos. The poet Tracizis
called that period of continuous unrest "days and nights of blood and venom."
The kings were a petty lot of grasping tyrants, who fought Tiber's attempts
to bring order to the land. But they were as disorganized as they were
dissolute, and the strong hand of Septim brought peace forcibly to Tamriel.
The year was 2E 896. The following year, the Emperor declared the beginning
of a new Era-thus began the Third Era, Year Aught.
For thirty-eight years, the Emperor Tiber reigned supreme. It was a lawful,
pious, and glorious age, when justice was known to one and all, from serf to
sovereign. On Tiber's death, it rained for an entire fortnight as if the
land of Tamriel itself was weeping.
The Emperor's grandson, Pelagius, came to the throne. Though his reign was
short, he was as strong and resolute as his father had been, and Tamriel
could have enjoyed a continuation of the Golden Age. Alas, an unknown enemy
of the Septim Family hired that accursed organization of cutthroats, the Dark
Brotherhood, to kill the Emperor Pelagius I as he knelt at prayer at the
Temple of the One in the Imperial City. Pelagius I's reign lasted less than
three years.
Pelagius had no living children, so the Crown Imperial passed to his first
cousin, the daughter of Tiber's brother Agnorith. Kintyra, former Queen of
Silvenar, assumed the throne as Kintyra I. Her reign was blessed with
prosperity and good harvests, and she herself was an avid patroness of art,
music, and dance.
Kintyra's son was crowned after her death, the first Emperor of Tamriel to
use the imperial name Uriel. Uriel I was the great lawmaker of the Septim
Dynasty, and a promoter of independent organizations and guilds. Under his
kind but firm hand, the Fighters Guild and the Mages Guild increased in
prominence throughout Tamriel. His son and successor Uriel II reigned for
eighteen years, from the death of Uriel I in 3E64 to Pelagius II's accession
in 3E82. Tragically, the rule of Uriel II was cursed with blights, plagues,
and insurrections. The tenderness he inherited from his father did not serve
Tamriel well, and little justice was done.
Pelagius II inherited not only the throne from his father, but the debt from
the latter's poor financial and judicial management. Pelagius dismissed all
of the Elder Council, and allowed only those willing to pay great sums to
resume their seats. He encouraged similar acts among his vassals, the kings
of Tamriel, and by the end of his seventeen year reign, Tamriel had returned
to prosperity. His critics, however, have suggested that any advisor
possessed of wisdom but not of gold had been summarily ousted by Pelagius.
This may have led to some of the troubles his son Antiochus faced when he in
turn became Emperor.
Antiochus was certainly one of the more flamboyant members of the usually
austere Septim Family. He had numerous mistresses and nearly as many wives,
and was renowned for the grandeur of his dress and his high good humor.
Unfortunately, his reign was rife with civil war, surpassing even that of his
grandfather Uriel II. The War of the Isle in 3E110, twelve years after
Antiochus assumed the throne, nearly took the province of Summurset Isle away
from Tamriel. The united alliance of the kings of Summurset and Antiochus
only managed to defeat King Orghum of the island-kingdom of Pyandonea due to
a freak storm. Legend credits the Psijic Order of the Isle of Artaeum with
the sorcery behind the tempest.
The story of Kintyra II, heiress to her father Antiochus' throne, is
certainly one of the saddest tales in imperial history. Her first cousin
Uriel, son of Queen Potema of Solitude, accused Kintyra of being a bastard,
alluding to the infamous decadence of the Imperial City during her father's
reign. When this accusation failed to stop her coronation, Uriel bought the
support of several disgruntled kings of High Rock, Skyrim, and Morrowind, and
with Queen Potema's assistance, he coordinated three attacks on the Septim
Empire.
The first attack occurred in the Iliac Bay region, which separates High Rock
and Hammerfell. Kintyra's entourage was massacred and the Empress taken
captive. For two years, Kintyra II languished in an Imperial prison believed
to be somewhere in Glenpoint or Glenmoril before she was slain in her cell
under mysterious circumstances. The second attack was on a series of
Imperial garrisons along the coastal Morrowind islands. The Empress' consort
Kontin Arynx fell defending the forts. The third and final attack was a
siege of the Imperial City itself, occurring after the Elder Council had
split up the army to attack western High Rock and eastern Morrowind. The
weakened government had little defence against Uriel's determined aggression,
and capitulated after only a fortnight of resistance. Uriel took the throne
that same evening and proclaimed himself Uriel III, Emperor of Tamriel. The
year was 3E 121. Thus began the War of the Red Diamond, described in Volume
II of this series.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Brief History of the Empire v 2
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BriefHistoryEmpire2
Weight: 4
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
A Brief History of the Empire
Part Two
by Stronach k'Thojj III
Imperial Historian
Volume I of this series described in brief the lives of the first eight
Emperors of the Septim Dynasty, beginning with the glorious Tiber Septim and
ending with his great, great, great, great, grandniece Kintyra II. Kintyra's
murder in Glenpoint while in captivity is considered by some to be the end of
the pure strain of Septim blood in the imperial family. Certainly it marks
the end of something significant.
Uriel III not only proclaimed himself Emperor of Tamriel, but also Uriel
Septim III, taking the eminent surname as a title. In truth, his surname was
Mantiarco from his father's line. In time, Uriel III was deposed and his
crimes reviled, but the tradition of taking the name Septim as a title for
the Emperor of Tamriel did not die with him.
For six years, the War of the Red Diamond (which takes its name from the
Septim Family's famous badge) tore the Empire apart. The combatants were the
three surviving children of Pelagius II-Potema, Cephorus, and Magnus-and
their various offspring. Potema, of course, supported her son Uriel III, and
had the combined support of all of Skyrim and northern Morrowind. With the
efforts of Cephorus and Magnus, however, the province of High Rock turned
coat. The provinces of Hammerfell, Summurset Isle, Valenwood, Elsweyr, and
Black Marsh were divided in their loyalty, but most kings supported Cephorus
and Magnus.
In 3E127, Uriel III was captured at the Battle of Ichidag in Hammerfell. En
route to his trial in the Imperial City, a mob overtook his prisoner's
carriage and burned him alive within it. His captor and uncle continued on
to the Imperial City, and by common acclaim was proclaimed Cephorus I,
Emperor of Tamriel.
Cephorus' reign was marked by nothing but war. By all accounts, he was a
kind and intelligent man, but what Tamriel needed was a great warrior -- and
he, fortunately, was that. It took an additional ten years of constant
warfare for him to defeat his sister Potema. The so-called Wolf Queen of
Solitude who died in the siege of her city-state in the year 137. Cephorus
survived his sister by only three years. He never had time during the war
years to marry, so it was his brother, the fourth child of Pelagius II, who
assumed the throne.
The Emperor Magnus was already elderly when he took up the imperial diadem,
and the business of punishing the traitorous kings of the War of the Red
Diamond drained much of his remaining strength. Legend accuses Magnus' son
and heir Pelagius III of patricide, but that seems highly unlikely-for no
other reason than that Pelagius was King of Solitude following the death of
Potema, and seldom visited the Imperial City.
Pelagius III, sometimes called Pelagius the Mad, was proclaimed Emperor in
the 145th year of the Third Era. Almost from the start, his eccentricities
of behaviour were noted at court. He embarrassed dignitaries, offended his
vassal kings, and on one occasion marked the end of an imperial grand ball by
attempting to hang himself. His long-suffering wife was finally awarded the
Regency of Tamriel, and Pelagius III was sent to a series of healing
institutions and asylums until his death in 3E153 at the age of thirty-four.
The Empress Regent of Tamriel was proclaimed Empress Katariah I upon the
death of her husband. Some who do not mark the end of the Septim bloodline
with the death of Kintyra II consider the ascendancy of this Dark Elf woman
the true mark of its decline. Her defenders, on the other hand, assert that
though Katariah was not descended from Tiber, the son she had with Pelagius
was, so the imperial chain did continue. Despite racist assertions to the
contrary, Katariah's forty-six-year reign was one of the most celebrated in
Tamriel's history. Uncomfortable in the Imperial City, Katariah travelled
extensively throughout the Empire such as no Emperor ever had since Tiber's
day. She repaired much of the damage that previous emperor's broken
alliances and bungled diplomacy created. The people of Tamriel came to love
their Empress far more than the nobility did. Katariah's death in a minor
skirmish in Black Marsh is a favorite subject of conspiracy minded
historians. The Sage Montalius' discovery, for instance, of a
disenfranchised branch of the Septim Family and their involvement with the
skirmish was a revelation indeed.
When Cassynder assumed the throne upon the death of his mother, he was
already middle-aged. Only half Elven, he aged like a Breton. In fact, he
had left the rule of Wayrest to his half-brother Uriel due to poor health.
Nevertheless, as the only true blood relation of Pelagius and thus Tiber, he
was pressed into accepting the throne. To no one's surprise, the Emperor
Cassynder's reign did not last long. In two years he joined his predecessors
in eternal slumber.
Uriel Lariat, Cassynder's half-brother, and the child of Katariah I and her
Imperial consort Gallivere Lariat (after the death of Pelagius III), left the
kingdom of Wayrest to reign as Uriel IV. Legally, Uriel IV was a Septim:
Cassynder had adopted him into the royal family when he had become King of
Wayrest. Nevertheless, to the Council and the people of Tamriel, he was a
bastard child of Katariah. Uriel did not possess the dynamism of his mother,
and his long forty-three-year reign was a hotbed of sedition.
Uriel IV's story is told in the third volume of this series.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Brief History of the Empire v 3
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BriefHistoryEmpire3
Weight: 4
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
A Brief History of the Empire
Part Three
by Stronach k'Thojj III
Imperial Historian
The first volume of this series told in brief the story of the succession of
the first eight Emperors of the Septim Dynasty, from Tiber I to Kintyra II.
The second volume described the War of the Red Diamond and the six Emperors
that followed its aftermath, from Uriel III to Cassynder I. At the end of
that volume, it was described how the Emperor Cassynder's half-brother Uriel
IV assumed the throne of the Empire of Tamriel.
It will be recalled that Uriel IV was not a Septim by birth. His mother,
though she reigned as Empress for many years, was a Dark Elf married to a
true Septim Emperor, Pelagius III. Uriel's father was actually Katariah I's
consort after Pelagius' death, a Breton nobleman named Gallivere Lariat.
Before taking the throne of Empire, Cassynder I had ruled the kingdom of
Wayrest, but poor health had forced him to retire. Cassynder had no
children, so he legally adopted his half-brother Uriel and abdicated the
kingdom. Seven years later, Cassynder inherited the Empire at the death of
his mother. Three years after that, Uriel once again found himself the
recipient of Cassynder's inheritance.
Uriel IV's reign was a long and difficult one. Despite being a legally
adopted member of the Septim Family, and despite the Lariat Family's high
position -- indeed, they were distant cousins of the Septims -- few of the
Elder Council could be persuaded to accept him fully as a blood descendant of
Tiber. The Council had assumed much responsibility during Katariah I's long
reign and Cassynder I's short one, and a strong-willed "alien" monarch like
Uriel IV found it impossible to command their unswerving fealty. Time and
again the Council and Emperor were at odds, and time and again the Council
won the battles. Since the days of Pelagius II, the Elder Council had
consisted of the wealthiest men and women in the Empire, and the power they
wielded was conclusive.
The Council's last victory over Uriel IV was posthumous. Andorak, Uriel IV's
son, was disinherited by vote of Council, and a cousin more closely related
to the original Septim line was proclaimed Cephorus II in 3E268. For the
first nine years of Cephorus II's reign, those loyal to Andorak battled the
Imperial forces. In an act that the Sage Eraintine called "Tiber Septim's
heart beating no more," the Council granted Andorak the High Rock kingdom of
Shornhelm to end the war, and Andorak's descendants still rule there.
By and large, Cephorus II had foes that demanded more of his attention than
Andorak. "From out of a cimmerian nightmare," in the words of Eraintine, a
man who called himself the Camoran Usurper led an army of Daedra and undead
warriors on a rampage through Valenwood, conquering kingdom after kingdom.
Few could resist his onslaughts, and as month turned to bloody month in the
year 3E249, even fewer tried. Cephorus II sent more and more mercenaries
into Hammerfell to stop the Usurper's northward march, but they were bribed
or slaughtered and raised as undead.
The story of the Camoran Usurper deserves a book of its own. (It is
recommended that the reader find Palaux Illthre's The Fall of the Usurper for
more detail.) In short, however, the destruction of the forces of the
Usurper had little do with the efforts of the Emperor. The result was a
great regional victory and an increase in hostility toward the seemingly
inefficacious Empire.
Uriel V, Cephorus II's son and successor, swivelled opinion back toward the
latent power of the Empire. Turning the attention of Tamriel away from
internal strife, Uriel V embarked on a series of invasions beginning almost
from the moment he took the throne in 3E268. Uriel V conquered Roscrea in
271, Cathnoquey in 276, Yneslea in 279, and Esroniet in 284. In 3E288, he
embarked on his most ambitious enterprise, the invasion of the continent
kingdom of Akavir. This ultimately proved a failure, for two years later
Uriel V was killed in Akavir on the battlefield of Ionith. Nevertheless,
Uriel V holds a reputation second only to Tiber as one of the two great
Warrior Emperors of Tamriel.
The last four Emperors, beginning with Uriel V's infant son, are described in
the fourth and final volume of this series.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Brief History of the Empire v 4
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BriefHistoryEmpire4
Weight: 4
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
A Brief History of the Empire
Part Four
by Stronach k'Thojj III
Imperial Historian
The first book of this series described, in brief, the first eight Emperors
of the Septim Dynasty beginning with Tiber I. The second volume described
the War of the Red Diamond and the six Emperors who followed. The third
volume described the troubles of the next three Emperors-the frustrated Uriel
IV, the ineffectual Cephorus II, and the heroic Uriel V.
On Uriel V's death across the sea in distant, hostile Akavir, Uriel VI was
but five years old. In fact, Uriel VI was born only shortly before his
father left for Akavir. Uriel V's only other progeny, by a morganatic
alliance, were the twins Morihatha and Eloisa, who had been born a month
after Uriel V left. Uriel VI was crowned in the 290th year of the Third Era.
The Imperial Consort Thonica, as the boy's mother, was given a restricted
Regency until Uriel VI reached his majority. The Elder Council retained the
real power, as they had ever since the days of Katariah I.
The Council so enjoyed its unlimited and unrestricted freedom to promulgate
laws (and generate profits) that Uriel VI was not given full license to rule
until 307, when he was already 22 years old. He had been slowly assuming
positions of responsibility for years, but both the Council and his mother,
who enjoyed even her limited Regency, were loath to hand over the reins. By
the time he came to the throne, the mechanisms of government gave him little
power except for that of the imperial veto.
This power, however, he regularly and vigorously exercised. By 313, Uriel VI
could boast with conviction that he truly did rule Tamriel. He utilized
defunct spy networks and guard units to bully and coerce the difficult
members of the Elder Council. His half-sister Morihatha was (not
surprisingly) his staunchest ally, especially after her marriage to Baron
Ulfe Gersen of Winterhold brought her considerable wealth and influence. As
the Sage Ugaridge said, "Uriel V conquered Esroniet, but Uriel VI conquered
the Elder Council."
When Uriel VI fell off a horse and could not be resuscitated by the finest
Imperial healers, his beloved sister Morihatha took up the imperial tiara.
At 25 years of age, she had been described by (admittedly self-serving)
diplomats as the most beautiful creature in all of Tamriel. She was
certainly well-learned, vivacious, athletic, and a well-practised politician.
She brought the Archmagister of Skyrim to the Imperial City and created the
second Imperial Battlemage since the days of Tiber Septim.
Morihatha finished the job her brother had begun, and made the Imperial
Province a true government under the Empress (and later, the Emperor).
Outside the Imperial Province, however, the Empire had been slowly
disintegrating. Open revolutions and civil wars had raged unchallenged since
the days of her grandfather Cephorus II. Carefully coordinating her
counterattacks, Morihatha slowly claimed back her rebellious vassals, always
avoiding overextending herself.
Though Morihatha's military campaigns were remarkably successful, her
deliberate pace often frustrated the Council. One Councilman, an Argonian
who took the Colovian name of Thoricles Romus, furious at her refusal to send
troops to his troubled Black Marsh, is commonly believed to have hired the
assassins who claimed her life in 3E 339. Romus was summarily tried and
executed, though he protested his innocence to the last.
Morihatha had no surviving children, and Eloisa had died of a fever four
years before. Eloisa's 25-year-old son Pelagius was thus crowned Pelagius
IV. Pelagius IV continued his aunt's work, slowly bringing back under his
wing the radical and refractory kingdoms, duchies, and baronies of the
Empire. He exercised Morihatha's poise and circumspect pace in his
endeavours-but alas, he did not attain her success. The kingdoms had been
free of constraint for so long that even a benign Imperial presence was
considered odious. Nevertheless, when Pelagius died after an astonishing
forty-nine-year reign, Tamriel was closer to unity than it had been since the
days of Uriel I.
Our current Emperor, His Awesome and Terrible Majesty, Uriel Septim VII, son
of Pelagius IV, has the diligence of his great-aunt Morihatha, the political
skill of his great-uncle Uriel VI, and the military prowess of his great
grand-uncle Uriel V. For twenty-one years he reigned and brought justice and
order to Tamriel. In the year 3E389, however, his Imperial Battlemage, Jagar
Tharn, betrayed him.
Uriel VII was imprisoned in a dimension of Tharn's creation, and Tharn used
his sorcery of illusion to assume the Emperor's aspect. For the next ten
years, Tharn abused imperial privilege but did not continue Uriel VII's
schedule of reconquest. It is not yet entirely known what Tharn's goals and
personal accomplishments were during the ten years he masqueraded as his
liege lord. In 3E399, an enigmatic Champion defeated the Battlemage in the
dungeons of the Imperial Palace and freed Uriel VII from his other-
dimensional jail.
Since his emancipation, Uriel Septim VII has worked diligently to renew the
battles that would reunite Tamriel. Tharn's interference broke the momentum,
it is true -- but the years since then have proven that there is hope of the
Golden Age of Tiber Septim's rule glorifying Tamriel once again.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Brown Book of 3E 426
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BrownBook426
Weight: 3
Value: 75
Special Notes: Opens Telvanni councilor conversation topics
Brown Book of Great House Telvanni
[The Brown Book is a yearbook of the affairs of the Telvanni Council of
Vvardenfell District for 3E 426. It lists the current members of the council,
their residences, and their representatives in Sadrith Mora. It also
chronicles significant events and council actions for the year.]
Councilors of House Telvanni, Vvardenfell District, Imperial Era 426
Archmagister Gothren, Lord High Magus of Telvanni Council, Vvardenfell
District, Tower of Tel Aruhn, East Molag Amur, District of Vvardenfell,
Province of Morrowind
Master Aryon, Mage Lord of Telvanni Council, Vvardenfell District, Tower of
Tel Vos, Village of Vos, The Grazelands, District of Vvardenfell, Province of
Morrowind
Master Neloth, Mage Lord of Telvanni Council, Vvardenfell District, Tower of
Tel Naga, Sadrith Mora, District of Vvardenfell, Province of Morrowind
Mistress Dratha, Mage Lord of Telvanni Council, Vvardenfell District, Tower
of Tel Mora, The Grazelands, District of Vvardenfell, Province of Morrowind
Mistress Therana, Mage Lord of Telvanni Council, Vvardenfell District, Tower
of Tel Branora, Azura's Coast, District of Vvardenfell, Province of Morrowind
Councilor Representatives of House Telvanni, Council Hall, Sadrith Mora
For Archmagister Gothren: Mouth Mallam Ryon, Mage
For Master Aryon: Mouth Arara Uvulas
For Master Neloth: Mouth Raven Omayn
For Mistress Therana: Felisa Ulessen
For Mistress Dratha: Mouth Mallam Ryon
Council Actions
In response to repeated protests from Duke Dren and representative of the
other Great Houses, Telvanni Council reminded them that, according to ancient
law and custom, Telvanni Council places no constraint on the ambitions and
enterprise of its individual members. If the Empire or other House Councils
wish to dispute Telvanni exploration and colonization of the wastes and
wildernesses of Vvardenfell, they are welcome to do so, with the Councilors'
best wishes, but Telvanni Council will not contribute its resources or
authority to such endeavors.
The council renews its objection to proposals placed before Duke Dren and the
Grand Council concerning slavery and slave trading in Vvardenfell District.
The right to own and trade slaves is guaranteed by the terms of the Treaty of
the Armistice, and Telvanni Council will not entertain any discussion of
abridgements of those rights.
[This book shows the ebony mined in and shipped from Caldera. You don't see
anything suspicious in the figures.]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Capn's Guide to the Fishy Stick
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_fishystick
Weight: 2
Value: 5
Special Notes: None
[This book is supposedly the definitive reference to fishy sticks throughout
Tamriel, but the pages are so smeared with fishy stick sauce it is impossible
to read any of them.]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chance's Folly
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_security4
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Security skill 1 point the first time the book is read
Chance's Folly
by Zylmoc Golge
By the time she was sixteen, Minevah Iolos had been an unwelcome guest in
every shop and manor in Balmora. Sometimes, she would take everything of
value within; other times, it was enough to experience the pure pleasure of
finding a way past the locks and traps. In either situation, she would leave
a pair of dice in a prominent location as her calling card to let the owners
know who had burgled them. The mysterious ghost became known to the locals as
Chance.
A typical conversation in Balmora at this time:
"My dear, whatever happened to that marvelous necklace of yours?"
"My dear, it was taken by Chance."
The only time when Chance disliked her hobby was when she miscalculated, and
she came upon an owner or a guard. So far, she had never been caught, or even
seen, but dozens of times she had uncomfortably close encounters. There came
a day when she felt it was time to expand her reach. She considered going to
Vivec or Gnisis, but one night at the Eight Plates, she heard a tale of the
Heran Ancestral Tomb, an ancient tomb filled with traps and possessing
hundreds of years of the Heran family treasures.
The idea of breaking the spell of the Heran Tomb and gaining the fortune
within appealed to Chance, but facing the guardians was outside of her
experience. While she was considering her options, she saw Ulstyr Moresby
sitting at a table nearby, by himself as usual. He was huge brute of a Breton
who had a reputation as a gentle eccentric, a great warrior who had gone mad
and paid more attention to the voices in his head than to the world around
him.
If she must have a partner in this enterprise, Chance decided, this man would
be perfect. He would not demand or understand the concept of getting an equal
share of the booty. If worse came to worse, he would not be missed if the
inhabitants of the Heran Tomb were too much for him. Or if Chance found his
company tiresome and elected to leave him behind.
"Ulstyr, I don't think we've ever met, but my name is Minevah," she said,
approaching the table. "I'm fancying a trip to the Heran Ancestral Tomb. If
you think you could handle the monsters, I could take care of unlocking doors
and popping traps. What do you think?"
The Breton took a moment to reply, as if considering the counsel of the
voices in his head. Finally he nodded his head in the affirmative, mumbling,
"Yes, yes, yes, prop a rock, hot steel. Chitin. Walls beyond doors. Fifty-
three. Two months and back."
"Splendid," said Chance, not the least put off by his rambling. "We'll leave
early tomorrow."
When Chance met Ulstyr the next morning, he was wearing chitin armor and had
armed himself with an unusual blade that glowed faintly of enchantment. As
they began their trek, she tried to engage him in conversation, but his
responses were so nonsensical that she quickly abandoned the attempts. A
sudden rainstorm swelled over the plain, dousing them, but as she was wearing
no armor and Ulstyr was wearing slick chitin, their progress was not impeded.
Into the dark recesses of the Heran Tomb, they delved. Her instincts had been
correct -- they made very good partners.
She recognized the ancient snap-wire traps, deadfalls, and brittle backs
before they were triggered, and cracked all manners of lock: simple tumbler,
combination, twisted hasp, double catch, varieties from antiquity with no
modern names, rusted heaps that would have been dangerous to open even if one
possessed the actual key.
Ulstyr for his part slew scores of bizarre fiends, the likes of which Chance,
a city girl, had never seen before. His enchanted blade's spell of fire was
particularly effective against the Frost Atronachs. He even saved her when
she lost her footing and nearly plummeted into a shadowy crack in the floor.
"Not to hurt thyself," he said, his face showing genuine concern. "There are
walls beyond doors and fifty-three. Drain ring. Two months and back. Prop a
rock. Come, Mother Chance."
Chance had not been listening to much of Ulstyr's babbling, but when he said
"Chance," she was startled. She had introduced herself to him as Minevah.
Could it be that the peasants were right, and that when mad men spoke, they
were talking to the daedra prince Sheogorath who gave them advice and
information beyond their ken? Or was it rather, more sensibly, that Ulstyr
was merely repeating what he heard tell of in Balmora where in recent years
"Chance" had become synonymous with lockpicking?
As the two continued on, Chance thought of Ulstyr's mumblings. He had said
"chitin" when they met as if it had just occurred to him, and the chitin
armor that he wore had proven useful. Likewise, "hot steel." What could
"walls beyond doors" mean? Or "two months and back"? What numbered "fifty-
three"?
The notion that Ulstyr possessed secret knowledge about her and the tomb they
were in began to unnerve Chance. She made up her mind then to abandon her
companion once the treasure had been found. He had cut through the living and
undead guardians of the dungeon: if she merely left by the path they had
entered, she would be safe without a defender.
One phrase he said made perfect sense to her: "drain ring." At one of the
manors in Balmora, she had picked up a ring purely because she thought it was
pretty. It was not until later that she discovered that it could be used to
sap other people's vitality. Could Ulstyr be aware of this? Would he be taken
by surprise if she used it on him?
She formulated her plan on how best to desert the Breton as they continued
down the hall. Abruptly the passage ended with a large metal door, secured by
a golden lock. Using her pick, Chance snapped away the two tumblers and bolt,
and swung the door open. The treasure of the Heran Tomb was within.
Chance quietly slipped her glove off her hand, exposing the ring as she
stepped into the room. There were fifty-three bags of gold within. As she
turned, the door closed between her and the Breton. On her side, it did not
resemble a door anymore, but a wall. Walls beyond doors.
For many days, Chance screamed and screamed, as she tried to find a way out
of the room. For some days after that, she listened dully to the laughter of
Sheogorath within her own head. Two months later, when Ulstyr returned, she
was dead. He used a rock to prop open the door and remove the gold.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 1
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_unarmored2
Weight: 3
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Unarmored skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Charwich-Koniinge Letters, Book I
6 Suns Height, 3E 411
Kambria, High Rock
My Dear Koniinge,
I hope this letter reaches you in Sadrith Mora. It's been many weeks since
I've heard from you, and I hope that the address that I have for you is still
up-to-date. I gave the courier some extra gold, so if he doesn't find you,
he is to make inquiries to your whereabouts. As you can see, after a rather
tedious crossing, I've at long last made my way from Bhoriane to my favorite
principality in High Rock, surprisingly literate and always fascinating
Kambria. I at once ensconced myself in one of the better libraries here,
becoming reacquainted with the locals and the lore. At the risk of being
overly optimistic, I think I might have struck on something very interesting
about this mysterious fellow, Hadwaf Neithwyr.
Many here in town remember him, though few very fondly. When Hadwaf Neithwyr
left, so too did a great plague. No one thinks it a coincidence.
According to my contacts here, Azura is not his only master. It may be that
when he summoned forth the Daedra and accepted her Star, he was doing so for
someone named Baliasir. Apparently, Neithwyr worked for this Baliasir in
some capacity, but I never could find out from anyone exactly what Baliasir's
line of business was, nor what Neithwyr did for him. Zenithar, the God of
Work and Commerce, is the most revered deity in Kambria, which served my
(that is to say our) purposes well, as the people are naturally receptive to
bribery. Still, it did me little good. I could find nothing specific about
our quarry. After days of inquiry, an old crone recommended that I go to a
nearby village called Grimtry Garden, and find the cemetery caretaker there.
I set off at once.
I know you are impatient when it comes to details, and have little taste for
Breton architecture, but if you ever find yourself in mid-High Rock, you owe
it to yourself to visit this quaint village. Like a number of other similar
towns in High Rock, there is a high wall surrounded it. As well as being
picturesque, it's a remnant of the region's turbulent past and a useful
barrier against the supernatural creatures that sometimes stalk the
countryside. More about that in a moment.
The cemetery is actually outside of the city gates, I discovered. The locals
warned me to wait until morning to speak to the caretaker, but I was
impatient for information, and did not want to waste a moment. I trekked
through the woods to the lonely graveyard, and immediately found the
shuffling, elderly man who was the caretaker. He bade me leave, that the
land was haunted and if I chose to stay I would be in the greatest danger. I
told him that I would not go until he told me what he knew about Hadwaf
Neithwyr and his patron Baliasir. On hearing their names, he fled deeper
into the jumble of broken tombstones and decrepit mausoleums. I naturally
pursued.
I saw him scramble down into an enormous crypt and gave chase. There was no
light within, but I had planned enough to bring with me a torch. The minute
I lit it, I heard a long, savage howl pierce the silence, and I knew that the
caretaker had left quickly not merely because he feared speaking of Neithwyr
and Baliasir. Before I saw the creature, I heard its heavy breath and the
clack of its clawed feet on stone moving closer to me. The werewolf emerged
from the gloom, brown and black, with slavering jaws, looking at me with the
eyes of the cemetery caretaker, now given only to animal hunger.
I instantly had three different instinctive reactions. The first was, of
course, flight. The second was to fight. But if I fled, I might never find
the caretaker again, and learn what he knew. If I fought, I might injure or
even kill the creature and be even worse off. So I elected to go with my
third option: to hold my ground and keep the creature within its tomb until
the night became morning, and the caretaker resumed his humanity.
I've sparred often enough unarmored, but surely never with so much at stake,
and never with so savage an opponent. My mind was always on danger not only
of injury but the dread disease of lycanthropy. Every rake of its claw I
parried, every snap of its foaming jaws I ducked. I sidestepped when it
tried to rush me, but closed the distance to keep it from escaping into the
night. For hours we fought, I always on the defense, it always trying to
free itself, or slay me, or both. I have no doubt that a werewolf has
greater energy reserves than a man, but it is a beast and does not know how
to save and temper its movements. As the dawn rose, we were both nearly
unconscious from fatigue, but I received my reward. The creature became a
man once again.
He was quite considerably friendlier than he had been before. In fact, when
he realized that I had prevented him from going on his nocturnal rampage
through the countryside, he became positively affable.
Here's what I learned: Neithwyr never returned to High Rock. As far as the
old man knows, he is still in Morrowind. I visited the gravesite of his
sister Peryra, and learned that it was probably through her that Neithwyr
first met his patron. It would seem that she was quite a well-known
courtesan in her day, and very well traveled, though she chose to return home
to die. Unlike Neithwyr, Baliasir is not far away from me. He is a shadowy
character, but lately, according to the caretaker, he has been paying court
to Queen Elysana in Wayrest. I leave at once.
Please write to me as soon as possible to tell me of your progress. I should
be in Wayrest at the home of my friend Lady Elysbetta Moorling in a week's
time. If Baliasir is at court, Lady Moorling will be able to arrange an
introduction.
I feel confident in saying that we are very close to Azura's Star.
Your Friend,
Charwich
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 2
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_hand to hand3
Weight: 3
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Hand-to-Hand skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Charwich-Koniinge Letters, Book II
3 Last Seed, 3E 411
Tel Aruhn, Morrowind
My Good Friend Charwich,
I only just last week received your letter dated 6 Sun's Height, addressed to
me in Sadrith Mora. I did not know how to reach you before to tell you of my
progress finding Hadwaf Neithwyr, so I send this to you now care of the lady
you mentioned in your letter, the Lady Elysbetta Moorling of Wayrest. I hope
that if you have left her palace, she will know where you've gone and can
send this to you. And I hope further that you receive it in a timelier manner
that I received your letter. It is essential that I hear from you soon so we
may coordinate our next course of action.
My adventures here have two acts, one before I received your letter, and one
immediately after. While you searched for the elusive possessor of Azura's
Star in his homeland to the west, I searched for him here where we understood
he conjured up the Daedra Prince and received from her the artifact.
Like you, I had little difficulty finding people who had heard of or even
knew Neithwyr. In fact, not long after we parted company and you left for the
Iliac Bay, I met someone who knew where he went to perform the ceremony, so I
left at once to come here to Tel Aruhn. It took some time to locate my
contact, for he is a Dissident Priest named Minerath. The Temple and
Tribunal, the real powers of Morrowind, tend to frown on his Order, and while
they haven't begun so much of crusade to stamp them out, there are certainly
rumors that they will soon. This tends to make priests like Minerath skittish
and paranoid. Difficult people to set appointments with.
Finally I was told that he would be willing to talk to me at the Plot and
Plaster, a tiny tavern without even a room to rent. Downstairs, there were
several cloaked men crammed around the tavern's only table, and they searched
me to see if I had any weaponry. Of course, I hadn't. You know that isn't my
preferred method of doing business.
When it decided that I was harmless, one of the cloaked figures revealed
himself to be Minerath. I paid him the gold I promised and asked him what he
knew about Hadwaf Neithwyr. He remembered him well enough, saying that after
he received the Star, the lad intended to return to High Rock. It seemed he
had unfinished business there, presumably of a violent nature, which Azura's
Star would facilitate. He had no other information, and I did not know what
else to ask.
We parted company and I waited for your letter, hoping you had found Neithwyr
and perhaps even the Star. I confess that as I lingered in Morrowind and
never heard from you, I began to have doubts about your character. You'll
forgive me for saying so, but I began to fear that you had taken the artifact
for yourself. In fact, I was making plans to come to High Rock myself when
your letter came at last.
The tale of your adventure in the cemetery at Grimtry Garden, and the
information you gathered from the lycanthropic caretaker inspired me to have
another meeting with Minerath. Thus began the second act of my story.
I returned to the Pot and Plaster, reasoning that the priest must frequent
that area of the city to feel so comfortable setting clandestine meetings
there. It took some time searching, but I finally found him, and as luck
would have it, he was alone. I called his name, and he quickly drew me to a
dark alleyway, nervous that we would be seen by a Temple ordinator.
It is a rare and beautiful thing when a victim insists on dragging his killer
to a remote location.
I began at once asking about this fellow you mentioned, Neithwyr's mysterious
patron Baliasir. He denied ever having heard the name. We were still in that
easy, fairly conversational state when I attacked the priest. Of course, he
was completely taken by surprise. In some ways, that can be more effective
than an ambush from behind. No matter how many times I've done it, no one
ever expected the friendly man they're talking to grip them by the neck.
I pressed hard against my favorite spot in the soft part of the throat, just
below the thyroid cartilage, and it took him too long to react to my lunge
and try pushing back. He began to lose consciousness, and I whispered that if
I released my grip a little so he could talk and breath, but he tried to call
for help, I would snap his neck. He nodded, and I relaxed the pressure, just
a bit.
I asked him again about Baliasir, and he shook his head, insisting that he
had never heard the name. As frightened as he was, it seemed most likely that
he was telling the truth, so I asked him more generally if he knew anyone
else who might know something about Hadwaf Neithwyr. He told me that there
was a woman present also during the ceremony, someone he introduced as his
sister.
I remembered then the part of your letter about seeing the grave of
Neithwyr's sister, Peryra. When I mentioned the name to the priest he nodded
frantically, but I could see that the interrogation had reached an ending.
There is, after all, something about being throttled that causes a man to
answer yes to every question. I snapped Minerath's neck, and returned home.
So now I'm again unsure how to proceed. I've made several more inquiries and
several of the same people who met Neithwyr remember him being with a woman.
A few recall him saying that she was his sister. One or two believe they
remember her name as being Peryra, though they're not certain. No one,
however, has heard of anyone named Baliasir.
If I do not hear word from you in response to this in the next couple of
weeks, I will come to High Rock, because it's there that most people believe
Neithwyr returned. I will only stay here long enough to see if there are
other inquiries I can make only in Morrowind to bring us closer to our goal
of recovering Azura's Star.
Your Friend,
Koniinge
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 3
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Mysticism5
Weight: 3
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Mysticism skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Charwich-Koniinge Letters, Book III
13 Last Seed, 3E 411
Wayrest, High Rock
My Dear Koniinge,
Please forgive the quality of the handwriting on this note, but I have not
long to live. I can only reply in detail to one part of your letter, and that
is that I fear Baliasir, contrary to what you've heard, is very much real.
Had he been but a figment of that caretaker's imagination, I would not be
feeling life ebb from me as I write this.
Lady Moorling has sent for healers, but I know they won't arrive in time. I
just need to explain what happened so that you'll understand, and then all my
affairs in this world will be ended. The one advantage of my condition is
that I must be brief, without my habitually ornamental descriptions of people
and places. I know that you will appreciate that at least.
It started when I came to Wayrest, and through my friend Lady Moorling and
her court connections was introduced to Baliasir himself. I had to proceed
carefully, not wanting him to know of our designs on Azura's Star which I
presumed he possessed, given to him by his servant Hadwaf Neithwyr. His
function in Queen Elysana's court seemed to be decorative, like so many of
her courtiers, and it was not hard to differentiate myself from the others
when we began conversing on the school of mysticism. Many of the other
hangers-on at the palace can speak eloquently on the subject of the magickal
arts, but it seemed that only he and I had deep knowledge of the craft.
Many a nobleman or adventurer who aren't mages by profession learn a spell or
two from the useful schools of restoration or destruction. I told Baliasir
quite truthfully that I had never learned any of that (oh, but I wish I knew
some healing spells of the school of restoration now), but that I had
developed some small skill in mysticism. Not enough to be a Psijic, of
course, but in telekinesis, password, and spell reflection I had some amateur
ability. He responded with compliments, which allowed me to segue into the
topic of another spell of mysticism, the soul trap.
I told him I was unlearned but curious about that spell. And very naturally
and comfortably, I was able to bring up the subject of Azura's Star, the
endless well of souls.
Imagine how I had to hold back my excitement when he leaned in and whispered
to me, "If that interests you, come to Klythic's Cairn west of the city
tomorrow night."
I couldn't sleep at all. The only thing I could think of was how I would get
the Star when he showed it to me. I still knew so little about Baliasir, his
past and his power, but the opportunity was too great to let pass. Still, I
must admit that I held hopes that you would arrive, as you threatened you
might in your letter, so I might have someone of physical strength to aid me
in my adventure.
I am growing weaker and weaker as I write this, so I must proceed with the
basic facts. I went to the crypt the following night, and Baliasir led me
through the maze of it to the repository where he kept the Star. We were
talking quite casually, and as you've so often said, it seemed an excellent
time for an ambush. I grabbed the Star and unsheathed my blade in what I felt
was amazing speed.
He turned to me and I suddenly felt that I was moving like a snail. In a
flash, Baliasir changed his form and became his true self, not man or mer,
but daedra. A colossal daedra lord who swiped back the Star from my grasp and
laughed at my sword as it thudded against his impenetrable hide.
I knew I had been beaten, and I threw myself towards the corridor. A blue
flash of energy coursed through me, flung by Baliasir's claws. At once, I
began to feel death. He could have smote me with a thousand spells, but he
chose the one where I could lie down, and suffer, and hear him laugh. At the
very least, I did not give him that pleasure.
Already struck, it was too late for me to cast a counterspell of mysticism,
one to dispel the magicka, reflect it or absorb it as my own. But I did still
know how to teleport myself, what mystics term 'Recall,' to whatever place
I'd last set a spiritual anchor. I confess that at the time, I didn't
remember where that would be. Perhaps in Bhoriane when I arrived in the Iliac
Bay, or in Kambria, or in Grimtry Garden where I met the caretaker, or my
hostess's palace in Wayrest. I prayed that I had not set the anchor last when
I was with you in Morrowind, for it said that if the distance is too great,
one can be caught between dimensions. Still, I was willing to take that
chance, rather than being the plaything of Baliasir.
I cast the spell and found myself back on the doorstep of Lady Moorling's
palace. To be out of the crypt and away from the daedra was a relief, but I
had so hoped that I had been smart enough to cast an anchor near a Mages
Guild or a temple where I could find a healer. Instead, knowing I was too
weak to walk far, I beat on the door and was taken here, where I write this
letter, lying in my bed.
As I wrote those words, dear Elysbetta, Lady Moorling, came in, quite
tearfully and frantic, to tell me the healers should be hre withn but a few
minute. But I wil be ded ere they arrve. I know thes are m last wors. Der
frend, stay away frm this cursd place.
Yr Frend,
Charwich
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 4
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_hand to hand4
Weight: 3
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Hand-to-Hand skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Charwich-Koniinge Letters, Book IV
8 Sun's Dawn, 3E 412
Amiglith, Summurset Isle
My Good Friend, Lord Gemyn,
You must forgive me for not meeting you at the palace personally, but I've
been unavoidably, tragically detained. I've left the front gate and door
unlocked, and if you're reading this, you must have made it at least as far
the antechamber to the east drawing room. Perhaps you've already wandered
the estate and seen some of its delights before coming to this chamber: the
seven fountains of marble and porphyry, the reflecting pool, the various
groves, the colonnades and quincunx. I don't think you would have already
gone to the second floor suites and the west wing as you would have had to
pass this room first, and picked up this letter. But believe me, they're
beautifully appointed with magnificent balustrades, winding staircases,
intimate salons, and bedchambers worthy of your affluence.
The price of this property is exorbitant, certainly, but for a man like you
who seeks only the best, this is the villa you must have. As you undoubtedly
noticed as you arrived through the gates, there are several smaller buildings
ideally suited to be guard stations. I know you are concerned with security.
I am an intensely greedy man, and there is nothing I would have liked more
than to meet you here today, show you the grounds, fawn on you obsequiously,
and collect a fat percentage of the cost of the sale when you bought this
marvelous palace, as I'm sure you would have. My dilemma that caused my
inexcusable absence began shortly after I arrived here early to make certain
the villa was well-cleaned for your inspection. A man named Koniinge crept
up behind me, and gripped me by the throat. Clamping his left hand over my
mouth and nose, and throttling me with his right hand, crushing the soft spot
on my throat just below the thyroidal cartilage, he effectively strangled me
in a few quick but very painful minutes.
I am currently buried in a pile of leaves in the north statuary parterre,
close to the exceptional sculptural representation of the Transformation of
Trinimac. It should not be too long before I am discovered: someone at my
bank will surely notice my absence in due time. Koniinge might have buried
me deeper, but he wanted to be ready for the arrival of his old partner,
Charwich.
Perhaps part of you thinks it best to stop reading now, Lord Gemyn. You are
looking around the antechamber and seeing nothing but doors. The large one
you took to come in from the garden is locked now behind you, and without a
better knowledge of the layout of the estate, I could not recommend you
attempt to flee down a corridor that might easily come to a dead end. No.
Much better to keep reading, and see where this is going.
Koniinge, it seems, was in a partnership with his friend Charwich to try to
recover Azura's Star. They understood it to be in the possession of someone
named Hadwaf Neithwyr, a man who conjured up the Daedra Prince Azura herself
to acquire it. As Neithwyr originally haled from High Rock, Charwich went
there to look for him, while his partner searched Morrowind. They planned to
communicate their findings by letters sent through couriers.
Charwich's first letter stated that he had found information that Neithwyr
had a mysterious patron named Baliasir, a fact he had learned at a cemetery
with a gravestone of Neithwyr's sister Peryra and a lycanthropic caretaker.
Koniinge replied back that he could find nothing about Baliasir, but believed
that Neithwyr had returned to High Rock with Peryra after getting the Star.
Charwich's last letter was a written on his deathbed, having sustained mortal
wounds from his battle with Baliasir, who it seemed had been a mighty daedra
lord.
Koniinge grieved for his friend, and traveled the span of the Empire to
Wayrest, to pay his call of condolences on Lady Moorling, the woman at whose
house Charwich had been staying. After making some inquiries, Koniinge
learned that her ladyship had left the city, quite suddenly. She had been
entertaining a guest named Charwich, and it was understood that he had died,
though no one ever saw the body. Certainly no healers had been sent to her
house on the 13th of Last Seed of last year. And no one in Wayrest, just
like no one in Tel Aruhn, had ever heard of Baliasir.
Poor Koniinge was suddenly unsure of everything. He retraced his late
partner's path through Boriane and Grimtry Gardens, but found that the
Neithwyr family crypt was elsewhere, in a small town in the barony of
Dwynnen. There was indeed a lycanthropic caretaker, fortunately in human
form at the time. When questioned (using the technique of strangulation,
release, strangulation, release), he told Koniinge the story that he had told
Charwich many months before.
Hadwaf and Peryra Neithwyr had returned to Dwynnen, intent on settling old
business. As the Star requires potent spirits for power, they thought they
would begin small by capturing the spirit of the werewolf they knew of in the
family graveyard. Sadly, for them, their grasp exceeded their reach. When
the poor caretaker resumed his human form one morning, he found himself lying
next to the shredded, bloody bodies of the Neithwyr siblings. Distressed and
fearful, he brought the corpses and all their possessions down into the
crypt. They were still there when Charwich came, and so too was Azura's
Star.
Koniinge now saw things clearly. The letters he had received from Charwich
were lies, intended to keep him away. Undoubtedly with the assistance of
Lady Moorling, his new partner, he had concocted stories, including one of
his own demise, to trick Koniinge into abandoning the quest for the Star. It
was clearly a sad statement on the nature of friendship, and one that needed
immediate correction.
It took the better part of six months for Koniinge to find his old partner.
Charwich and Lady Moorling had used the power of the Star to make themselves
very wealthy and powerful. They assumed a number of different identities in
their travels through High Rock and Skyrim, and then down to Valenwood and
the Summurset Isle. Along the way, of course, the Star itself disappeared,
as great daedric artifacts always do. The couple still had much wealth, but
their love sadly fell on troubled times. When they reached Alinor, they
parted ways.
One must assume that during their months together, Charwich must have told
Lady Moorling about Koniinge. It's pleasant to think of the loving couple
laughing over the stories they were telling him about the mythical and
dangerous Baliasir. Charwich must not have given his former beloved a very
accurate physical description, however, because when Lady Moorling (then
under the identity of the Countess Zyliana) met Koniinge, she had no idea who
he was. It came as quite a surprise to her when he began strangling her and
requesting information about her former paramour.
Before she died, she told Koniinge what Charwich's new name and title was,
and where he was looking for a new palace. She even told him about me.
Given all the twists and bends the last months' chase took him on, it was not
difficult to find which palace Charwich was looking to buy, and what time his
appointment was to view it. Then he had merely to arrive early, dispose of
me, and wait.
There our story must sadly end. I look forward to seeing you soon.
Yours,
Syrix Goinithi,
Former Estate Banker
P.S.: Charwich -- Turn around now, or don't. Your choice. Your friend,
Koniinge.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Cherim's Heart of Anequina
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_medium armor1
Weight: 4
Value: 225
Special Notes: Raises Medium Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Interviews With Tapestrists
Volume Eighteen
Cherim's Heart of Anequina
by Livillus Perus
Professor at the Imperial University
Contemporary with Maqamat Lusign (interviewed in volume seventeen of this
series) is the Khajiti Cherim, whose tapestries have been hailed as
masterpieces all over the Empire for nigh on thirty years now. His four
factories located throughout Elsweyr make reproductions of his work, but his
original tapestries command stellar prices. The Emperor himself owns ten
Cherim tapestries, and his representatives are currently negotiating the sale
of five more.
The muted use of color contrasted with the luminous skin tones of Cherim's
subjects is a marked contrast with the old style of tapestry. The subjects
of his work in recent years have been fabulous tales of the ancient past: the
Gods meeting to discuss the formation of the world; the Chimer following the
Prophet Veloth into Morrowind; the Wild Elves battling Morihaus and his
legions at the White Gold Tower. His earliest designs dealt with more
contemporary subjects. I had the opportunity to discuss with him one of his
first masterpieces, The Heart of Anequina, at his villa in Orcrest.
The Heart of Anequina presents an historic battle of the Five Year War
between Elsweyr and Valenwood which raged from 3E 394 (or 3E 395, depending
on what one considers to be the beginning of the war) until 3E 399. In most
fair accounts, the war lasted 4 years and 9 months, but artistic license from
the great epic poets added an additional three months to the ordeal.
The actual details of the battle itself, as interpreted by Cherim, are
explicit. The faces of a hundred and twenty Wood Elf archers can be
differentiated one from the other, each registering fear at the approach of
the Khajiti army. Their hauberks catch the dim light of the sun. The
menacing shadows of the Elsweyr battlecats loom on the hills, every muscle
strained, ready to pounce in command. It is not surprising that he got all
the details right, because Cherim was in the midst of it, as a Khajiti foot
soldier.
Every minute part of the Khajiti medium-weight armor can be seen in the
soldiers in the foreground. The embroidered edging and striped patterns on
the tunics. Each lacquered plate on loose-fitting leather in the Elsweyr
style. The helmets of cloth and fluted silver.
"Cherim does not understand the point of plate mail," said Cherim. "It is
hot, for one, like being both burned and buried alive. Cherim wore it at the
insistence of our Nord advisors during the Battle of Zelinin, and Cherim
couldn't even turn to see what my fellow Khajiit were doing. Cherim did some
sketches for a tapestry of the Battle of Zelinin, but Cherim finds that to
make it realistic, the figures came out very mechanical, like iron golems or
dwemer centurions. Knowing our Khajiti commanders, Cherim would not be
surprised if giving up the heavy plate was more aesthetic than practical."
"Elsweyr lost the Battle of Zelinin, didn't she?"
"Yes, but Elsweyr won the war, starting at the next battle, the Heart of
Anequina," said Cherim with a smile. "The tide turned as soon as we Khajiit
sent our Nordic advisors back to Solitude. We had to get rid of all the
heavy armor they brought to us and find enough traditional medium armor our
troops felt comfortable wearing. Obviously, the principle advantage of the
medium armor was that we could move easily in it, as you can see from the
natural stances of the soldiers in the tapestry.
"Now if you look at this poor perforated Cathay-raht who just keeps battling
on in the bottom background, you see the other advantage. It seems strange
to say, but one of the best features of medium armor is that an arrow will
either deflect completely or pass all the way through. An arrow head is like
a hook, made to stick where it strikes if it doesn't pass through. A soldier
in medium armor will find himself with a hole in his body and the bolt on the
other side. Our healers can fix such a wound easily if it isn't fatal, but if
the arrow still remains in the armor, as it does with heavier armor, the
wound will be reopened every time the fellow moves. Unless the Khajiit strips
off the armor and pulls out the arrow, which is what we had to do at the
Battle of Zelinin. A difficult and time-consuming process in the heat of
battle, to say the least."
I asked him next, "Is there a self portrait in the battle?"
"Yes," Cherim said with another grin. "You see the small figure of the
Khajiit stealing the rings off the dead Wood Elf? His back is facing you,
but he has a brown and orange striped tail like Cherim's. Cherim does not say
that all stereotypes about the Khajiit are fair, but Cherim must sometimes
acknowledge them."
A self-deprecating style in self-portraiture is also evident in the
tapestries of Ranulf Hook, the next artist interviewed in volume nineteen of
this series.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Children of the Sky
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_ChildrenOfTheSky
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
Children of the Sky
Nords consider themselves to be the children of the sky. They call Skyrim the
Throat of the World, because it is where the sky exhaled on the land and
formed them. They see themselves as eternal outsiders and invaders, and even
when they conquer and rule another people; they feel no kinship with them.
The breath and the voice are the vital essence of a Nord. When they defeat
great enemies they take their tongues as trophies. These are woven into ropes
and can hold speech like an enchantment. The power of a Nord can be
articulated into a shout, like the kiai of an Akaviri swordsman. The
strongest of their warriors are called "Tongues." When the Nords attack a
city, they take no siege engines or cavalry; the Tongues form in a wedge in
front of the gatehouse, and draw in breath. When the leader lets it out in a
kiai, the doors are blown in, and the axemen rush into the city. Shouts can
be used to sharpen blades or to strike enemies. A common effect is the shout
that knocks an enemy back, or the power of command. A strong Nord can instill
bravery in men with his battle-cry, or stop a charging warrior with a roar.
The greatest of the Nords can call to specific people over hundreds of miles,
and can move by casting a shout, appearing where it lands.
The most powerful Nords cannot speak without causing destruction. They must
go gagged, and communicate through a sign language and through scribing
runes.
The further north you go into Skyrim, the more powerful and elemental the
people become, and the less they require dwellings and shelters. Wind is
fundamental to Skyrim and the Nords; those that live in the far wastes always
carry a wind with them.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chimarvamidium
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Heavy Armor3
Weight: 4
Value: 225
Special Notes: Raises Heavy Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Chimarvamidium
Ancient Tales of the Dwemer, Part VI
By Marobar Sul
After many battles, it was clear who would win the War. The Chimer had great
skills in magick and bladery, but against the armored battalions of the
Dwemer, clad in the finest shielding wrought by Jnaggo, there was little hope
of their ever winning. In the interests of keeping some measure of peace in
the Land, Sthovin the Warlord agreed to a truce with Karenithil Barif the
Beast. In exchange for the Disputed Lands, Sthovin gave Barif a mighty
golem, which would protect the Chimer's territory from the excursions of the
Northern Barbarians.
Barif was delighted with his gift and brought it back to his camp, where all
his warriors gaped in awe at it. Sparkling gold in hue, it resembled a
Dwemer cavalier with a proud aspect. To test its strength, they placed the
golem in the center of an arena and flung magickal bolts of lightning at it.
Its agility was such that few of the bolts struck it. It had the wherewithal
to pivot on its hips to avoid the brunt of the attacks without losing its
balance, feet firmly planted on the ground. A vault of fireballs followed,
which the golem ably dodged, bending its knees and its legs to spin around
the blasts. The few times it was struck, it made certain to be hit in the
chest and waist, the strongest parts of its body.
The troops cheered at the sight of such an agile and powerful creation. With
it leading the defense, the Barbarians of Skyrim would never again
successfully raid their villages. They named it Chimarvamidium, the Hope of
the Chimer.
Barif has the golem brought to his chambers with all his housethanes. There
they tested Chimarvamidium further, its strength, its speed, its resiliency.
They could find no flaw with its design.
"Imagine when the naked barbarians first meet this on one of their raids,"
laughed one of the housethanes.
"It is only unfortunate that it resembles a Dwemer instead of one of our
own," mused Karenithil Barif. "It is revolting to think that they will have a
greater respect for our other enemies than us."
"I think we should never accepted the peace terms that we did," said another,
one of the most aggressive of the housethanes. "Is it too late to surprise
the warlord Sthovin with an attack?"
"It is never too late to attack," said Barif. "But what of his great armored
warriors?"
"I understand," said Barif's spymaster. "That his soldiers always wake at
dawn. If we strike an hour before, we can catch them defenseless, before
they've had a chance to bathe, let alone don their armor."
"If we capture their armorer Jnaggo, then we too would know the secrets of
blacksmithery," said Barif. "Let it be done. We attack tomorrow, an hour
before dawn."
So it was settled. The Chimer army marched at night, and swarmed into the
Dwemer camp. They were relying on Chimarvamidium to lead the first wave, but
it malfunctioned and began attacking the Chimer's own troops. Added to that,
the Dwemer were fully armored, well-rested, and eager for battle. The
surprise was turned, and most of the high-ranking Chimer, including
Karenithil Barif the Beast, were captured.
Though they were too proud to ask, Sthovin explained to them that he had been
warned of their attack by a Calling by one of his men.
"What man of yours is in our camp?" sneered Barif.
Chimarvamidium, standing erect by the side of the captured, removed its head.
Within its metal body was Jnaggo, the armorer.
"A Dwemer child of eight can create a golem," he explained. "But only a truly
great warrior and armorer can pretend to be one."
Publisher's Note:
This is one of the few tales in this collection, which can actually be traced
to the Dwemer. The wording of the story is quite different from older
versions in Aldmeris, but the essence is the same. "Chimarvamidium" may be
the Dwemer "Nchmarthurnidamz." This word occurs several times in plans of
Dwemer armor and Animunculi, but it's meaning is not known. It is almost
certainly not "Hope of the Chimer," however.
The Dwemer were probably the first to use heavy armors. It is important to
note how a man dressed in armor could fool many of the Chimer in this story.
Also note how the Chimer warriors react. When this story was first told,
armor that covered the whole body must have still been uncommon and new,
whereas even then, Dwemer creations like golems and centurions were well
known.
In a rare scholarly moment, Marobar Sul leaves a few pieces of the original
story intact, such as parts of the original line in Aldmeris, "A Dwemer of
eight can create a golem, but an eight of Dwemer can become one."
Another aspect of this legend that scholars like myself find interesting is
the mention of "the Calling." In this legend and in others, there is a
suggestion that the Dwemer race as a whole had some sort of silent and
magickal communication. There are records of the Psijic Order which suggest
they, too, share this secret. Whatever the case, there are no documented
spells of "calling." The Cyrodiil historian Borgusilus Malier first proposed
this as a solution to the disappearance of the Dwemer. He theorized that in
1E 668, the Dwemer enclaves were called together by one of their powerful
philosopher-sorcerers ("Kagrnak" in some documents) to embark on a great
journey, one of such sublime profundity that they abandoned all their cities
and lands to join the quest to foreign climes as an entire culture.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chronicles of Nchuleft
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_ChroniclesNchuleft
Weight: 2
Value: 250
Special Notes: None
Chronicles of Nchuleft
[This is a chronicle of events of historical significance to the Dwemer
Freehold Colony of Nchuleft. The text was probably recorded by an Altmer, for
it is written in Aldmeris.]
23. The Death of Lord Ihlendam
It happened in Second Planting (P.D. 1220) that Lord Ihlendam, on a journey
in the Western Uplands, came to Nchuleft; and Protector Anchard and General
Rkungthunch met him there, and Dalen-Zanchu also came to the meeting. They
talked together long by themselves; but this only was known of their
business, that they were to be friends of each other. They parted, and each
went home to his own colony.
Bluthanch and her sons came to hear of this meeting, and saw in this secret
meeting a treasonable plot against the Councils; and they often talked of
this among themselves. When spring came, the Councils proclaimed, as usual,
a Council Meet, in the halls of Bamz-Amschend. The people accordingly
assembled, handfasted with ale and song, drinking bravely, and much and many
things were talked over at the drink-table, and, among other things, were
comparisons between different dwemer, and at last among the Councilors
themselves.
One said that Lord Ihlendam excelled his fellow Councilors by far, and in
every way. At this Councilor Bluthanch was very angry, and said that she was
in no way less than Lord Ihlendam, and that she was eager to prove it.
Instantly both parties were so inflamed that they challenged each other to
battle, and ran to their arms. But some citizens who were less drunk, and
more understanding, came between them, and quieted them; and each went back
to his colony, but nobody expected that they would ever meet in peace again
together.
But then, in the fall, Lord Ihlendam received a message from Councilor
Bluthanch, inviting him to a parlay at Hendor-Stardumz. And all Ihlendam's
kin and citizens strongly urged him not to come, fearing treachery, but Lord
Ihlendam would not listen to counsel, not even to carrying with him his honor
guard. And sadly, it came to pass that, while traveling to Hendor-Stardumz,
in Chinzinch Pass, a host of foul creatures set upon Lord Ihlendam and killed
him, and all of his party. And many citizens said thereafter that Bluthanch
and her sons had conjured these beasts and set them upon Lord Ihlendam, but
nothing was proven. Lord Ihlendam lies buried at a place called Leftunch.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Confessions of a Skooma-Eater
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_Confessions
Weight: 3
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
CONFESSIONS OF A DUNMER SKOOMA-EATER
Nothing is more revolting to Dunmer feeling than the sorry spectacle of
another Dunmer enslaved by that derivative moon-sugar known as 'skooma.' And
nothing is less appetising than listening to the pathetic tales of
humiliation and degradation associated with a victim of this addictive drug.
Why, then, do I force myself upon you with this extended and detailed account
of my sins and sorrows?
Because I hope that by telling my tale, the hope of redemption from this
sorry state shall be more widely known. And because I hope that others who
have also fallen into the sorry state of skooma addiction may therefore hear
of my story, of how I fell into despair, and how I once again found myself
and freed myself from my own self-imposed chains.
Because it is widely known to all Khajiit, who may be expected to know, that
there is no cure for addiction to skooma, that once a slave to skooma, always
a slave to skooma. Because this is widely known, it is taken to be true. But
it is not true, and I am living proof.
There is no miracle cure. There is no potion to be taken. There is no magical
incantation which frees you from the thrill of skooma running through your
blood.
But it is through the understanding of that thrill, and the acceptance of the
lust within oneself for that thrill, and the casting aside of the shame that
the thrillseeker feels when he cannot set aside what becomes in the end his
only comfort and pleasure, it is through this knowledge and understanding
that the victim comes to the place where choices may be made, where despair
and hope may be separated.
In short, only knowledge and acceptance can deliver into the slave's hands
the key that opens his shackles and sets him free.
[The narrative of Tilse Sendas' tale carries the reader through the stages of
early infatuation, ecstatic obsession, and profound degradation of her
addiction, and in the course of the story she subtly enables the reader to
discover that the hopelessness of the addict comes from the addict's own
unconscious assumption that only a helpless and foolish person could become
addicted to skooma, and that, consequently, no such helpless and foolish
person could ever achieve the admittedly difficult task of renouncing, once
tasted, the exquisite delights of the skooma. Tilse Sendas shows that once
the addict overcomes the burden of her own self-despising, that there is the
possibility of redemption. And, against all of society's dearly held beliefs,
she says that it is not altogether clear that the addict SHOULD renounce the
sugar, but that it is only one of the choices that the skooma addict must
make. Tilse Sendas' casual proposition that skooma addiction is not
necessarily a sign of moral and personal weakness is essential to her thesis
that a cure is possible, but it has not endeared her or her book to the
upright and conservative elements of Dunmer society.]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Corpse Preparation v I
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_corpsepreperation1_c
Or
bk_corpsepreperation1_o
Weight: 2
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
On the Preparation of the Corpse
Volume One: The Acquisition of the Corpse
While the Arts of Necromancy are only illegal in the province of Morrowind,
few citizens of the Empire have an enlightened view of our Art. Thus, the
acquisition of corpses on which to experiment is often difficult.
In Cyrodiil, a few Necromancers who have served the Empire are given the
corpses of criminals and traitors to use legally. This provides those who
have acquired such a post with a fresh supply of corpses, most of them young,
strong, and intact.
In Morrowind, the outlawing of Necromancy would make its practice impossible
were it not for the fortunate institution of slavery. While the Temple will
investigate obvious signs of Necromancy such as hastily emptied graves or ash
stolen from one of their ashpits, a careful and discrete Necromancer can
thrive in Morrowind by taking slaves at a modest rate. Most will assume the
slave escaped or died in the Ashlands.
Finding suitable corpses in Black Marsh is nearly impossible due to their
rapid decay. There are also diseases, Argonian tribesmen, and other
difficulties that must be dealt with. I know of only a few Sload Necromancers
who operate successfully in Black Marsh, and even they stay near coast.
While the forests of Elsweyr pose some of the same problems as those of Black
Marsh, the deserts preserve corpses for hundreds of years in a way that
requires very little preparation. Khajiit of the desert tribes are often
buried with only a small cairn of stones which are easy to find and uncover.
The Khajiit show remarkably enlightened indifference to graves being
uncovered. It is said that in the port of Senchal, one may purchase anything
one desires. This is true if you desire fresh corpses.
While few Bosmer perform Arkay's rituals when burying the dead, the more
primitive Bosmer still practice cannibalism upon their enemies, which reduces
the number of available corpses. As would be expected from such a backwards
people, they have an intolerance of Necromancy that goes beyond all reason.
Many Necromancers who practice our Arts in Valenwood become "one with the
trees" themselves.
Summerset Isle is even worse in some ways. Some Altmer born into the most
respected noble and scholarly families are actually allowed to study the dead
in the open. Their research, however, seems to be centered on finding ways to
extend their lives even further rather than the more practical uses of our
Art. A Necromancer of any other race caught in Summerset Isle can expect the
worst possible punishments.
In Hammerfell, where worship of Arkay is strongest, the dead are almost
always subject to Arkay's Law. There are exceptions after large battles or in
remote areas where death occurs far from meddlesome priests. Fortunately, the
dangerous terrain and creatures in the deserts and mountains of Hammerfell
makes the acquisition of corpses possible, though they are often in poor
condition and require special care in preparation.
The newly formed Orsinium presents a unique opportunity. As you know, Orc
corpses are among the most sought after for the durability of their skin and
the strength of their bones. If King Gortwog will listen to reason, we could
offer the services of our Art in defense of his young nation in exchange for
disposing of the Orcish dead. A mutually beneficial arrangement as I'm sure
the Orcs will agree. To this end, a delegation has been sent to Orsinium,
though we have not yet heard any word on the state of these negotiations.
In my native High Rock, traditions dating back to the witch kings and nomadic
horsemen mandate cremation of the dead. This is practiced almost without
exception in the north, through an Imperial burial in a tomb or city cemetery
is more common in the south. There are still many corpses easily taken from
the battlefields of the War of Betony and the lawless times that followed.
There are even rumors that King Gothryd of Daggerfall may institute the
Imperial practice of donating the corpses of criminals for Necromantic study
as a deterrent to the bandits and pirates that still threaten the Iliac Bay.
In Skyrim, the cold weather and isolated terrain allow a few Necromancers to
operate freely. Alas, the availability of corpses is limited to Nords who die
from exposure or in battle. While the cold is preservative, the snow makes
these corpses difficult to find. More research dedicated to the magical
detection of corpses would be invaluable to the Necromancers of Skyrim.
The Sload are the most famous Necromancers, but little is known of their
native Thras. In Tamriel, Sload only practice Necromancy on other races. It
is uncertain whether this is true in Thras as well. If so, it would explain
the number of slaves that are purchased in Tear by Sload merchants and the
rumors of Sload airships carrying corpses from Senchal.
These difficulties lead many Necromancers to create their own corpses. While
I prefer to work with those who have died a natural death, a more expedient
approach is sometimes necessary to further the study of the Art.
While the Arts of Necromancy can be practiced on animals, such experiments
rarely produce interesting results. The servant's ability to follow
directions seems to be related to the subject's intelligence in life. While
raising the corpse of a man, elf, or beastman can produce a useful servant,
the corpses of animals produce mere guard dogs at best. Often a raised animal
is unable to distinguish its master from the rest of the living and many
amateur practitioners have been torn apart by the animal servants they
created. Let such stories be a lesson to you.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Corpse Preparation v II
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_corpsepreperation2_c
Weight: 2
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
On the Preparation of the Corpse
Volume Two: The Skeletal Corpse
When raising a skeleton servant, it is most important that the body of the
skeleton be complete. If the skeleton is missing crucial bones, the results
can be frustrating. One should only attempt to raise skeletons when you are
sure that all or nearly all the bones are present.
While the magic involved in raising a skeleton will assemble the bones in the
proper order, skeletons may be strengthened considerably by the addition of
support on their joints. The most common are leather straps that bind the
bones together more tightly. Some practitioners also drive metal spikes are
between the joints, which is more expensive and time consuming, but they
protect the servant where it is weakest. The details of this are unimportant
as even an amateur can strengthen a skeleton significantly. Only practice
will reveal the best methods of binding and reinforcing the skeletal servant.
Amateurs often make the mistake of binding the bones too tightly, limiting
the skeleton's movements and making it useless. Again, only practice can give
the necessary experience in these matters, though it is best to err towards
tight bindings. One may always loosen them at a later date.
One more note to the student: While most undead can be raised again and
again, skeletons are often damaged in ways that make raising them again
impossible. This is another reason that care should be given to the
skeleton's preparation. Too many young Necromancers raise every skeleton they
see with little or no preparation at all. Given the difficulty of obtaining
corpses, this kind of inefficiency cannot be tolerated.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Corpse Preparation v III
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_corpsepreperation3_c
Weight: 2
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
On the Preparation of the Corpse
Volume 3: The Fresh Corpse
Fresh and decayed corpses are those that still have flesh upon them. If their
decay is advanced, or if you wish a skeletal servant instead, place the
corpse along a coast or in a swamp or marsh. Animals are the Necromancer's
greatest allies when it comes to stripping the flesh from a corpse. The
ravenous mudcrabs of Morrowind can strip a corpse down to its bones in a
matter of days. Lesser crabs in other provinces can do the same in a matter
of weeks.
If you wish to create a zombie servant, one need only bring the corpse to a
suitable site and enact the proper rituals. However, there are a few tips
that a young Necromancer might want to know. For instance, a decayed servant
may be raised many times, even if they have been dismembered by those who do
not appreciate our Art. If one of your servants comes to an unfortunate end,
you may raise the servant again by carefully gathering as many parts as you
can find, binding the bones with leather straps, and sewing the flesh (if it
not too decayed) with catgut. Your servant may be weaker each time this is
done, but with care and maintenance, one may raise zombies dozens of times.
However, creating a mere zombie is a method best left to lazy or desperate
practitioners. With only a bit more time and effort, one may create a far
more useful mummified servant.
The first step to creating a mummified servant is to soak the decaying corpse
in a bath of salt or natron for at least one month. This will halt the decay
of the corpse, and if the corpse is fresh enough to have an unpleasant odor,
the salts will remove that as well. In a moist climate, such as Argonian or
Thras, you may have to apply more salts if they become saturated. Some
Necromancers remove the vital organs before or after this process, but I have
never found any practical reason for doing this.
The next step is to wrap the servant in cloth or linen. This will further
preserve the body against decay and, if done properly, will offer some
protection as well. Do not worry if the corpse seems too stiff or desiccated
to be a useful servant, the proper rituals will imbue the mummified corpse
with the strength to move itself. Most importantly, you will have a much
stronger servant who will follow your commands with more independence and
understanding.
In Morrowind, both worshippers and sorcerers summon lesser Daedra and bound
Daedra as servants and instruments.
Most Daedric servants can be summoned by sorcerers only for very brief
periods, within the most fragile and tenuous frameworks of command and
binding. This fortunately limits their capacity for mischief, though in only
a few minutes, most of these servants can do terrible harm to their summoners
as well as their enemies.
Worshippers may bind other Daedric servants to this plane through rituals and
pacts. Such arrangements result in the Daedric servant remaining on this
plane indefinitely -- or at least until their bodily manifestations on this
plane are destroyed, precipitating their supernatural essences back to
Oblivion. Whenever Daedra are encountered at Daedric ruins or in tombs, they
are almost invariably long-term visitors to our plane.
Likewise, lesser entities bound by their Daedra Lords into weapons and armor
may be summoned for brief periods, or may persist indefinitely, so long as
they are not destroyed and banished. The class of bound weapons and bound
armors summoned by Temple followers and conjurors are examples of short-term
bindings; Daedric artifacts like Mehrunes Razor and the Mask of Clavicus Vile
are examples of long-term bindings.
The Tribunal Temple of Morrowind has incorporated the veneration of Daedra as
lesser spirits subservient to the immortal Almsivi, the Triune godhead of
Almalexia, Sotha Sil, and Vivec. These subordinate Daedra are divided into
the Good Daedra and the Bad Daedra. The Good Daedra have willingly submitted
to the authority of Almsivi; the Bad Daedra are rebels who defy Almsivi --
treacherous kin who are more often adversaries than allies.
The Good Daedra are Boethiah, Azura, and Mephala. The hunger is a powerful
and violent lesser Daedra associated with Boethiah, Father of Plots -- a
sinuous, long-limbed, long-tailed creature with a beast-skulled head, noted
for its paralyzing touch and its ability to disintegrate weapons and armor.
The winged twilight is a messenger of Azura, Goddess of Dusk and Dawn. Winged
twilights resemble the feral harpies of the West, though the feminine aspects
of the winged twilights are more ravishing, and their long, sharp, hooked
tails are immeasurably more deadly. Spider Daedra are the servants of
Mephala, taking the form of spider-humanoid centaurs, with a naked upper
head, torso, and arms of human proportions, mounted on the eight legs and
armored carapace of a giant spider. Unfortunately, these Daedra are so fierce
and irrational that they cannot be trusted to heed the commands of the
Spinner. As a consequence, few sorcerers are willing to either summon or bind
such creatures in Morrowind.
The Bad Daedra are Mehrunes Dagon, Malacath, Sheogorath, and Molag Bal. Three
lesser Daedra are associated with Mehrunes Dagon: the agile and pesky scamp,
the ferocious and beast-like clannfear, and the noble and deadly dremora. The
crocodile-headed humanoid Daedra called the daedroth is a servant of Molag
Bal, while the giant but dim-witted ogrim is a servant of Malacath.
Sheogorath's lesser Daedra, the golden saint, a half-clothed human female in
appearance, is highly resistant to magic and a dangerous spellcaster.
Another type of lesser Daedra often encountered in Morrowind is the Atronach,
or Elemental Daedra. Atronachs have no binding kinship or alignments with the
Daedra Lords, serving one realm or another at whim, shifting sides according
to seduction, compulsion, or opportunity.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Death Blow of Abernanit
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Block1
Weight: 3
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Block skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Death Blow of Abernanit
With Explains by the sage Geocrates Varnus
Broken battlements and wrecked walls
Where worship of the Horror (1) once embraced.
The bites of fifty winters (2) frost and wind
Have cracked and pitted the unholy gates,
And brought down the cruel, obscene spire.
All is dust, all is nothing more than dust.
The blood has dried and screams have echoed out.
Framed by hills in the wildest, forelorn place
Of Morrowind
Sits the barren bones of Abernanit.
When thrice-blessed Rangidil (3) first saw Abernanit,
It burnished silver bright with power and permanence.
A dreadful place with dreadful men to guard it
With fever glassed eyes and strength through the Horror.
Rangidil saw the foes' number was far greater
Than the few Ordinators and Buoyant Armigers he led,
Watching from the hills above, the field and castle of death
While it stood, it damned the souls of the people
Of Morrowind.
Accursed, iniquitous castle Abernanit.
The alarum was sounded calling the holy warriors to battle
To answer villiany's shield with justice's spear,
To steel themselves to fight at the front and be brave.
Rangidil too grasped his shield and his thin ebon spear
And the clamor of battle began with a resounding crash
To shake the clouds down from the sky.
The shield wall was smashed and blood staunched
The ground of the field, a battle like no other
Of Morrowind
To destroy the evil of Abernanit.
The maniacal horde were skilled at arms, for certes,
But the three holy fists of Mother, Lord, and Wizard (4) pushed
The monster's army back in charge after charge.
Rangidil saw from above, urging the army to defend,
Dagoth Thras (5) himself in his pernicious tower spire,
And knew that only when the heart of evil was caught
Would the land e'er be truly saved.
He pledge then by the Temple and the Holy Tribunal
Of Morrowind
To take the tower of Abernanit.
In a violent push, the tower base was pierced,
But all efforts to fell the spire came to naught
As if all the strength of the Horror held that one tower.
The stairwell up was steep and so tight
That two warriors could not ascend it side by side.
So single-file the army clambered up and up
To take the tower room and end the reign
Of one of the cruellest petty tyrants in the annals
Of Morrowind,
Dagoth Thras of Abernanit.
They awaited a victory cry from the first to scale the tower
But silence only returned, and then the blood,
First only a rivulet and then a scarlet course
Poured down the steep stairwell, with the cry from above,
"Dagoth Thras is besting our army one by one!"
Rangidil called his army back, every Ordinator and
Buoyant Armiger, and he himself ascended the stairs,
Passing the bloody remains of the best warriors
Of Morrowind
To the tower room of Abernanit.
Like a raven of death on its aerie was Dagoth Thras
Holding bloody shield and bloody blade at the tower room door.
Every thrust of Rangidil's spear was blocked with ease;
Every slash of Rangidil's blade was deflected away;
Every blow of Rangidil's mace was met by the shield;
Every quick arrow shot could find no purchase
For the Monster's greatest power was in his dread blessing
That no weapon from no warrior found in all
Of Morrowind
Could pass the shield of Abernanit.
As hour passed hour, Rangidil came to understand
How his greatest warriors met their end with Dagoth Thras.
For he could exhaust them by blocking their attacks
And then, thus weakened, they were simply cut down.
The villain was patient and skilled with the shield
And Rangidil felt even his own mighty arms growing numb
While Dagoth Thras anticipated and blocked each cut
And Rangidil feared that without the blessing of the Divine Three
Of Morrowind
He'd die in the tower of Abernanit.
But he still poured down blows as he yelled,
"Foe! I am Rangidil, a prince of the True Temple,
And I've fought in many a battle, and many a warrior
Has tried to stop my blade and has failed.
Very few can anticipate which blow I'm planning,
And fewer, knowing that, know how to arrest the design,
Or have the the strength to absord all of my strikes.
There is no greater master of shield blocking in all
Of Morrowind
Than here in the castle Abernanit.
My foe, dark lord Dagoth Thras, before you slay me,
I beg you, tell me how you know how to block."
Wickedly proud, Dagoth Thras heard Rangidil's plea,
And decided that before he gutted the Temple champion,
He would deign to give him some knowledge for the afterlife,
How his instinct and reflexes worked, and as he started
To explain, he realized that he did not how he did it,
And watched, puzzled, as Rangidil delivered what the tales
Of Morrowind
Called "The death blow of Abernanit."
(1) "The Horror" refers to the daedra prince Mehrunes Dagon.
(2) "Fifty winters" suggests that the epic was written fifty years after the
Siege of Abernanit, which took place in 3E 150.
(3) "Thrice-blessed Rangidil" is Rangidil Ketil, born 2E 803, died 3E 195.
He was the commander of the Temple Ordinators, and "thrice-blessed" by being
blessed by the Tribunal of Gods.
(4) "Mother, Lord, and Wizard" refers to the Tribunal of Almalexia, Vivec,
and Sotha Sil.
(5) "Dagoth Thras" was a powerful daedra-worshipper of unknown origin who
declared himself the heir of the Sixth House, though there is little evidence
he descended from the vanished family.
At last! After these many years of searching, I'm sure I've located the
proper caverns. The Crystals are just as the stories describe; "...wrapped in
crystalline embrace, the silver pierced brow of the Traitors shall ward his
sleep." This must be the place! This must be Mordrin Hanin's tomb!
Badama and I have established quarters here. No one shall steal my discovery.
To imagine what treasures are hidden within this stone. Those Guild fools!
Mocking my studies. The Powers I shall unleash upon their miserable skins.
Tomorrow we will summon workers to begin excavation.
The Summoning was successful, although Badama lacks concentration. We nearly
had a Storm Atronach, but her poor skills allowed it to escape. We shall make
do with vermin. To think of the earth we could have riven with the Atronach.
Now we are forced to watch the Scamps scrape the surface with picks and
shovels. Hideous, miserable creatures.
Otherworldly, vermin, bastards! Fodder for my cauldron! Scamps are the most
untrue of servants. I should enlist the efforts of the Giant Rats of the
wilderness and have greater success. Whining, thieving, lazy and
treacherous...Scamps! One attempted to flee, stealing a number of potions in
his flight. I made short work of him. Perhaps the others will think deeply
before following his path. Unfortunately, I was unable to locate one of my
best Potions of Rising Force.
Success! I discovered the traces of worked stone, which when inspected
closely were obviously of Daedric workmanship. After great effort and much
moving of earth and stone, the remaining blockage fell away with a great
splash into a pool of loathsome water. The foul and noisome air which escaped
nearly choked me. The Scamps broke into a great frenzy, trying to hurl
themselves through the opening, shrieking with either terror or joy. The
creatures are clearly insane.
I've been forced to erect a gate at the opening. The Scamps still attempt to
escape into its maw. I've placed Badama as sentry to monitor the worthless
creatures. Perhaps they'll tear her to pieces in her sleep. No, I still
require her talents in the upcoming search.
The baleful effects of this place are telling on me. I've only just managed
to distill some potions to aid us in our endeavor. Soon though, we will enter
the chambers and finally realize a life's ambition. Still, though we find the
tomb, it may be for naught if we cannot locate the "Key Guardian". Sometimes
I hear voices in my dreams calling on Mordins's name. Is it terror or
adulation?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fellowship of the Temple
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_fellowshiptemple
Weight: 3
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
Fellowship of the Temple
by Archcanon Tholer Saryoni
I have been asked to write this guidebook for outsiders who are unfamiliar
with the Tribunal Temple, and interested in joining.
All those who are earnest, and who are willing to submit to the wisdom of
Blessed Almsivi, Triune Grace, the saints, and the priests, are welcome to
the Fellowship of the Tribunal Temple. The Temple is the religion of
Morrowind and Dunmer people, and has been for generation upon generation.
With guidance and counsel of Almalexia, Vivec, and Sotha Sil, the
Anticipations, and all the hosts of saints of ancestors, the Temple guards
and protects the lands and peoples of Morrowind.
Those who follow the Tribunal must have the Personality to lead others and
the Willpower to resist the world's temptations. When violence is needful, we
fight with staves and hammers, armored only in our faith. We study
Restoration and Alchemy to heal the people, and Mysticism to learn more of
the divine. We must also study Conjuration to speak with the spirits of our
ancestors and protect against those who traffic with the Four Corners.
Those interested in joining the Tribunal Temple should speak to priests at
the temples in Ald'ruhn, Balmora, Molag Mar, and Ghostgate, or with priests
at the High Fane in the Temple Compound in Vivec.
Articles of Faith
The Temple believes that Almalexia, Vivec, and Sotha Sil were mortal
guardians of Morrowind who walked the earth, defeated the Dunmer's greatest
enemies, the Nords and the Dwarves, and achieved divine substance through
superhuman discipline and virtue and supernatural wisdom and insight. Like
loving ancestors, they guard and counsel their followers. Like stern parents,
they punish sin and error. Like generous relatives, they share their bounty
among the greatest and least, according to their needs.
Duties of the Faithful
Your fourfold duties are to: Faith, Family, Masters, and all that is good.
Perform holy quests and bring luster to the Temple. Never transgress against
your brothers or sisters, and never dishonor your house or your ancestors.
Serve and protect the poor and weak, and honor your elders and clan.
For those who would be wise, these sacred books will be of interest.
Saryoni's Sermons
Learn from the teachings of Vivec, and from the Archcanon's sermons on the
Seven Graces.
Lives of the Saints
Members of the Temple who wish to be virtuous will model their lives on the
lives of the saints.
The Pilgrim's Path
The path to wisdom and self-knowledge is through pilgrimage. Those who would
rise in the ranks of the faithful may retrace the steps of the Lords and
Saints, and gain blessings and learn virtue by suffering and overcoming
hardships.
The Consolations of Prayer
Learn what bounties and blessing might be gained by prayer at the shrines
found in temples, and in places of pilgrimage, and in the tombs of our
ancestors.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Feyfolken I
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Enchant1
Weight: 4
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Enchant skill 1 point the first time the book is read
Feyfolken
Book One
by Waughin Jarth
The Great Sage was a tall, untidy man, bearded but bald. His library
resembled him: all the books had been moved over the years to the bottom
shelves where they gathered in dusty conglomerations. He used several of the
books in his current lecture, explaining to his students, Taksim and
Vonguldak, how the Mages Guild had first been founded by Vanus Galerion.
They had many questions about Galerion's beginnings in the Psijic Order, and
how the study of magic there differed from the Mages Guild.
"It was, and is, a very structured way of life," explained the Great Sage.
"Quite elitist, actually. That was the aspect of it Galerion most objected
to. He wanted the study of magic to be free. Well, not free exactly, but at
least available to all who could afford it. In doing that, he changed the
course of life in Tamriel."
"He codified the praxes and rituals used by all modern potionmakers,
itemmakers, and spellmakers, didn't he, Great Sage?" asked Vonguldak.
"That was only part of it. Magic as we know it today comes from Vanus
Galerion. He restructured the schools to be understandable by the masses.
He invented the tools of alchemy and enchanting so everyone could concoct
whatever they wanted, whatever their skills and purse would allow them to,
without fears of magical backfire. Well, eventually he created that."
"What do you mean, Great Sage?" asked Taksim.
"The first tools were more automated than the ones we have today. Any layman
could use them without the least understanding of enchantment and alchemy.
On the Isle of Artaeum, the students had to learn the skills laboriously and
over many years, but Galerion decided that was another example of the
Psijics' elitism. The tools he invented were like robotic master enchanters
and alchemists, capable of creating anything the customer required, provided
he could pay."
"So someone could, for example, create a sword that would cleave the world in
twain?" asked Vonguldak.
"I suppose, in theory, but it would probably take all the gold in the world,"
chuckled the Great Sage. "No, I can't say we were ever in very great danger,
but that it isn't to say that there weren't a few unfortunate incidents where
a unschooled yokel invented something beyond his ken. Eventually, of course,
Galerion tore apart his old tools, and created what we use today. It's a
little elitist, requiring that people know what they're doing before they do
it, but remarkably practical."
"What did people invent?" asked Taksim. "Are there any stories?"
"You're trying to distract me so I don't test you," said the Great Sage. "But
I suppose I can tell you one story, just to illustrate a point. This
particular tale takes place in city of Alinor on the west coast of Summurset
Isle, and concerns a scribe named Thaurbad.
This was in the Second Era, not long after Vanus Galerion had first founded
the Mages Guild and chapter houses had sprung up all over Summurset, though
not yet spread to the mainland of Tamriel.
For five years, this scribe, Thaurbad, had conducted all his correspondence
to the outside world by way of his messenger boy, Gorgos. For the first year
of his adoption of the hermit life, his few remaining friends and family --
friends and family of his dead wife, truth be told -- had tried visiting, but
even the most indefatigable kin gives up eventually when given no
encouragement. No one had a good reason to keep in touch with Thaurbad
Hulzik, and in time, very few even tried. His sister-in-law sent him the
occasional letter with news of people he could barely remember, but even that
communication was rare. Most of messages to and from his house dealt with
his business, writing the weekly proclamation from the Temple of Auri-El.
These were bulletins nailed on the temple door, community news, sermons, that
sort of thing.
The first message Gorgos brought him that day was from his healer, reminding
him of his appointment on Turdas. Thaurbad took a while to write his
response, glum and affirmative. He had the Crimson Plague, which he was being
treated for at considerable expense -- you have to remember these were the
days before the School of Restoration had become quite so specialized. It
was a dreadful disease and had taken away his voicebox. That was why he only
communicated by script.
The next message was from Alfiers, the secretary at the church, as curt and
noxious as ever: "THAURBAD, ATTACHED IS SUNDAS'S SERMON, NEXT WEEK'S EVENTS
CALENDAR, AND THE OBITUARIES. TRY TO LIVEN THEM UP A LITTLE. I WASN'T HAPPY
WITH YOUR LAST ATTEMPT."
Thaurbad had taken the job putting together the Bulletin before Alfiers
joined the temple, so his only mental image of her was purely theoretical and
had evolved over time. At first he thought of Alfiers as an ugly fat sloadess
covered with warts; more recently, she had mutated into a rail-thin, spinster
orcess. Of course, it was possible his clairvoyance was accurate and she had
just lost weight.
Whatever Alfiers looked like, her attitude towards Thaurbad was clear,
unwavering disdain. She hated his sense of humor, always found the most minor
of misspellings, and considered his structure and calligraphy the worst kind
of amateur work. Luckily, working for a temple was the next most secure job
to working for the good King of Alinor. It didn't bring in very much money,
but his expenses were minimal. The truth was, he didn't need to do it
anymore. He had quite a fortune stashed away, but he didn't have anything
else to occupy his days. And the truth was further that having little else
to occupy his time and thoughts, the Bulletin was very important to him.
Gorgos, having delivered all the messages, began to clean and as he did so,
he told Thaurbad all the news in town. The boy always did so, and Thaurbad
seldom paid him any attention, but this time he had an interesting report.
The Mages Guild had come to Alinor.
As Thaurbad listened intently, Gorgos told him all about the Guild, the
remarkable Archmagister, and the incredible tools of alchemy and enchanting.
Finally, when the lad had finished, Thaurbad scribbled a quick note and
handed it and a quill to Gorgos. The note read, "Have them enchant this
quill."
"It will be expensive," said Gorgos.
Thaurbad gave Gorgos a sizeable chunk of the thousands of gold pieces he had
saved over the years, and sent him out the door. Now, Thaurbad decided, he
would finally have the ability to impress Alfiers and bring glory to the
Temple of Auri-El.
The way I've heard the story, Gorgos had thought about taking the gold and
leaving Alinor, but he had come to care for poor old Thaurbad. And even
more, he hated Alfiers who he had to see every day to get his messages for
his master. It wasn't perhaps for the best of motivations, but Gorgos
decided to go to the Guild and get the quill enchanted.
The Mages Guild was not then, especially not then, an elitist institution, as
I have said, but when the messenger boy came in and asked to use the
Itemmaker, he was greeted with some suspicion. When he showed the bag of
gold, the attitude melted, and he was ushered in the room.
Now, I haven't seen one of the enchanting tools of old, so you must use your
imagination. There was a large prism for the item to be bound with magicka,
assuredly, and an assortment of soul gems and globes of trapped energies.
Other than that, I cannot be certain how it looked or how it worked. Because
of all the gold he gave to the Guild, Gorgos could infuse the quill with the
highest-price soul available, which was something daedric called Feyfolken.
The initiate at the Guild, being ignorant as most Guildmembers were at that
time, did not know very much about the spirit except that it was filled with
energy. When Gorgos left the room, the quill had been enchanted to its very
limit and then some. It was virtually quivering with power.
Of course, when Thaurbad used it, that's when it became clear how over his
head he was.
And now," said the Great Sage. "It's time for your test."
"But what happened? What were the quill's powers?" cried Taksim.
"You can't stop the tale there!" objected Vonguldak.
"We will continue the tale after your conjuration test, provided you both
perform exceptionally well," said the Great Sage.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Feyfolken II
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Conjuration1
Weight: 4
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Conjuration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Feyfolken, Book Two
by Waughin Jarth
After the test had been given and Vonguldak and Taksim had demonstrated their
knowledge of elementary conjuration, the Great Sage told them that they were
free to enjoy the day. The two lads, who most afternoons fidgeted through
their lessons, refused to leave their seats.
"You told us that after the test, you'd tell us more of your tale about the
scribe and his enchanted quill," said Taksim.
"You've already told us about the scribe, how he lived alone, and his battles
with the Temple secretary over the Bulletin he scripted for posting, and how
he suffered from the Crimson Plague and couldn't speak. When you left off,
his messenger boy had just had his master's quill enchanted with the spirit
of a daedra named Feyfolken," added Vonguldak to add the Great Sage's memory.
"As it happens," said the Great Sage. "I was thinking about a nap. However,
the story does touch on some issues of the natures of spirits and thus is
related to conjuration, so I'll continue.
Thaurbad began using the quill to write the Temple Bulletin, and there was
something about the slightly lopsided, almost three-dimensional quality of
the letters that Thaurbad liked a lot.
Into the night, Thaurbad put together the Temple of Auri-El's Bulletin. For
the moment he washed over the page with the Feyfolken quill, it became a work
of art, an illuminated manuscript crafted of gold, but with good, simple and
strong vernacular. The sermon excerpts read like poetry, despite being based
on the archpriest's workmanlike exhortation of the most banal of the Alessian
doctrines. The obituaries of two of the Temple's chief benefactors were stark
and powerful, pitifully mundane deaths transitioned into world-class
tragedies. Thaurbad worked the magical palette until he nearly fainted from
exhaustion. At six o'clock in the morning, a day before deadline, he handed
the Bulletin to Gorgos for him to carry to Alfiers, the Temple secretary.
As expected, Alfiers never wrote back to compliment him or even comment on
how early he had sent the bulletin. It didn't matter. Thaurbad knew it was
the best Bulletin the Temple had ever posted. At one o'clock on Sundas,
Gorgos brought him many messages.
"The Bulletin today was so beautiful, when I read it in the vestibule, I'm
ashamed to tell you I wept copiously," wrote the archpriest. "I don't think
I've seen anything that captures Auri-El's glory so beautifully before. The
cathedrals of Firsthold pale in comparison. My friend, I prostrate myself
before the greatest artist since Gallael."
The archpriest was, like most men of the cloth, given to hyperbole. Still,
Thaurbad was happy with the compliment. More messages followed. All of the
Temple Elders and thirty-three of the parishioners young and old had all
taken the time to find out who wrote the bulletin and how to get a message to
congratulate him. And there was only one person they could go through for
that information: Alfiers. Imaging the dragon lady besieged by his admirers
filled Thaurbad with positive glee.
He was still in a good mood the next day when he took the ferry to his
appointment with his healer, Telemichiel. The herbalist was new, a pretty
Redguard woman who tried to talk to him, even after he gave her the note
reading "My name is Thaurbad Hulzik and I have an appointment with
Telemichiel for eleven o'clock. Please forgive me for not talking, but I have
no voicebox anymore."
"Has it started raining yet?" she asked cheerfully. "The diviner said it
might."
Thaurbad frowned and shook his head angrily. Why was it that everyone thought
that mute people liked to be talked to? Did soldiers who lost their arms like
to be thrown balls? It was undoubtedly not a purposefully cruel behavior, but
Thaurbad still suspected that some people just liked to prove that they
weren't crippled too.
The examination itself was routine horror. Telemichiel performed the regular
invasive torture, all the while chatting and chatting and chatting.
"You ought to try talking once in a while. That's the only way to see if
you're getting better. If you don't feel comfortable doing it in public, you
could try practicing it by yourself," said Telemichiel, knowing his patient
would ignore his advice. "Try singing in the bath. You'll probably find you
don't sound as bad as you think."
Thaurbad left the examination with the promise of test results in a couple of
weeks. On the ferry ride back home, Thaurbad began thinking of next week's
temple bulletin. What about a double-border around the "Last Sundas's
Offering Plate" announcement? Putting the sermon in two columns instead of
one might have interesting effects. It was almost unbearable to think that he
couldn't get started on it until Alfiers sent him information.
When she did, it was with the note, "LAST BULLETIN A LITTLE BETTER. NEXT
TIME, DON'T USE THE WORD 'FORTUITOUS' IN PLACE OF 'FORTUNATE.' THE WORDS ARE
NOT, IF YOU LOOK THEM UP, SYNONYMOUS."
In response, Thaurbad almost followed Telemichiel's advice by screaming
obscenities at Gorgos. Instead, he drank a bottle of cheap wine, composed and
sent a suitable reply, and fell asleep on the floor.
The next morning, after a long bath, Thaurbad began work on the Bulletin. His
idea for putting a light shading effect on the "Special Announcements"
section had an amazing textural effect. Alfiers always hated the extra
decorations he added to the borders, but using the Feyfolken quill, they
looked strangely powerful and majestic.
Gorgos came to him with a message from Alfiers at that very moment as if in
response to the thought. Thaurbad opened it up. It simply said, "I'M SORRY."
Thaurbad kept working. Alfiers's note he put from his mind, sure that she
would soon follow it up with the complete message "I'M SORRY THAT NO ONE EVER
TAUGHT YOU TO KEEP RIGHT-HAND AND LEFT-HAND MARGINS THE SAME LENGTH" or "I'M
SORRY WE CAN'T GET SOMEONE OTHER THAN A WEIRD, OLD MAN AS SCRIBE OF OUR
BULLETIN." It didn't matter what she was sorry about. The columns from the
sermon notes rose like the massive pillars of roses, crowned with unashamedly
ornate headers. The obituaries and birth announcements were framed together
with a spherical border, as a heartbreaking declaration of the circle of
life. The Bulletin was simultaneously both warm and avant-garde. It was a
masterpiece. When he sent it off to Alfiers late that afternoon, he knew
she'd hate it, and was glad.
Thaurbad was surprised to get a message from the Temple on Loredas. Before he
read the content, he could tell from the style that it wasn't from Alfiers.
The handwriting wasn't Alfiers's usual belligerent slashing style, and it
wasn't all in Alfiers's usual capital letters, which read like a scream from
Oblivion.
"Thaurbad, I thought you should know Alfiers isn't at the Temple anymore. She
quit her position yesterday, very suddenly. My name is Vanderthil, and I was
lucky enough (let me admit it now, I begged pitifully) to be your new Temple
contact. I'm overwhelmed by your genius. I was having a crisis of faith until
I read last week's Bulletin. This week's Bulletin is a miracle. Enough. I
just wanted to say I'm honored to be working with you. -- Vanderthil."
The response on Sundas after the service even astonished Thaurbad. The
archpriest attributed the massive increase in attendance and collection plate
offerings entirely to the Bulletin. Thaurbad's salary was quadrupled. Gorgos
brought over a hundred and twenty messages from his adoring public.
The following week, Thaurbad sat in front of his writing plank, a glass of
fine Torvali mead at his side, staring at the blank scroll. He had no ideas.
The Bulletin, his child, his second-wife, bored him. The third-rate sermons
of the archbishop were absolute anathema, and the deaths and births of the
Temple patrons struck him as entirely pointless. Blah blah, he thought as he
scribbled on the page.
He knew he wrote the letters B-L-A-H B-L-A-H. The words that appeared on the
scroll were, "A necklace of pearl on a white neck."
He scrawled a jagged line across the page. It appeared in through that damned
beautiful Feyfolken quill: "Glory to Auri-El."
Thaurbad slammed the quill and poetry spilled forth in a stream of ink. He
scratched over the page, blotting over everything, and the vanquished words
sprung back up in different form, even more exquisite than before. Every daub
and splatter caused the document to whirl like a kaleidoscope before falling
together in gorgeous asymmetry. There was nothing he could do to ruin the
Bulletin. Feyfolken had taken over. He was a reader, not an author.
Now," asked the Great Sage. "What was Feyfolken from your knowledge of the
School of Conjuration?"
"What happened next?" cried Vonguldak.
"First, tell me what Feyfolken was, and then I'll continue the story."
"You said it was a daedra," said Taksim. "And it seems to have something to
do with artistic expression. Was Feyfolken a servitor of Azura?"
"But the scribe may have been imagining all this," said Vonguldak. "Perhaps
Feyfolken is a servitor of Sheogorath, and he's gone mad. Or the quill's
writing makes everyone who views it, like all the congregation at the Temple
of Auri-El go mad."
"Hermaeus Mora is the daedra of knowledge ... and Hircine is the daedra of
the wild ... and the daedra of revenge is Boethiah," pondered Taksim. And
then he smiled, "Feyfolken is a servitor of Clavicus Vile, isn't it?"
"Very good," said the Great Sage. "How did you know?"
"It's his style," said Taksim. "Assuming that he doesn't want the power of
the quill now that he has it. What happens next?"
"I'll tell you," said the Great Sage, and continued the tale.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Feyfolken III
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Conjuration2
Weight: 4
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Conjuration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Feyfolken, Book 3
by Waughin Jarth
"Thaurbad had at last seen the power of the quill," said the Great Sage,
continuing his tale. "Enchanted with the daedra Feyfolken, servitor of
Clavicus Vile, it had brought him great wealth and fame as the scribe of the
weekly Bulletin of the Temple of Auri-El. But he realized that it was the
artist, and he merely the witness to its magic. He was furious and jealous.
With a cry, he snapped the quill in half.
He turned to finish his glass of mead. When he turned around, the quill was
intact.
He had no other quills but the one he had enchanted, so he dipped his finger
in the inkwell and wrote a note to Gorgos in big sloppy letters. When Gorgos
returned with a new batch of congratulatory messages from the Temple,
praising his latest Bulletin, he handed the note and the quill to the
messenger boy. The note read: "Take the quill back to the Mages Guild and
sell it. Buy me another quill with no enchantments."
Gorgos didn't know what to make of the note, but he did as he was told. He
returned a few hours later.
"They wouldn't give us any gold back for it," said Gorgos. "They said it
wasn't enchanted. I told 'em, I said 'What are you talking about, you
enchanted it right here with that Feyfolken soul gem,' and they said, 'Well,
there ain't a soul in it now. Maybe you did something and it got loose.'"
Gorgos paused to look at his master. Thaurbad couldn't speak, of course, but
he seemed even more than usually speechless.
"Anyway, I threw the quill away and got you this new one, like you said."
Thaurbad studied the new quill. It was white-feathered while his old quill
had been dove gray. It felt good in his hand. He sighed with relief and
waved his messenger lad away. He had a Bulletin to write, and this time,
without any magic except for his own talent.
Within two days time, he was nearly back on schedule. It looked plain but it
was entirely his. Thaurbad felt a strange reassurance when he ran his eyes
over the page and noticed some slight errors. It had been a long time since
the Bulletin contained any errors. In fact, Thaurbad reflected happily, there
were probably other mistakes still in the document that he was not seeing.
He was finishing a final whirl of plain calligraphy on the borders when
Gorgos arrived with some messages from the Temple. He looked through them all
quickly, until one caught his eye. The wax seal on the letter read
"Feyfolken." With complete bafflement, he broke it open.
"I think you should kill yourself," it read in perfectly gorgeous script.
He dropped the letter to the floor, seeing sudden movement on the Bulletin.
Feyfolken script leapt from the letter and coursed over the scroll in a
flood, translating his shabby document into a work of sublime beauty.
Thaurbad no longer cared about the weird croaking quality of his voice. He
screamed for a very long time. And then drank. Heavily.
Gorgos brought Thaurbad a message from Vanderthil, the secretary of the
Temple, early Fredas morning, but it took the scribe until mid-morning to
work up the courage to look at it. "Good Morning, I am just checking in on
the Bulletin. You usually have it in on Turdas night. I'm curious. You
planning something special? -- Vanderthil."
Thaurbad responded, "Vanderthil, I'm sorry. I've been sick. There won't be a
Bulletin this Sunday" and handed the note to Gorgos before retiring to his
bath. When he came back an hour later, Gorgos was just returning from the
Temple, smiling.
"Vanderthil and the archpriest went crazy," he said. "They said it was your
best work ever."
Thaurbad looked at Gorgos, uncomprehending. Then he noticed that the
Bulletin was gone. Shaking, he dipped his finger in the inkwell and scrawled
the words "What did the note I sent with you say?"
"You don't remember?" asked Gorgos, holding back a smile. He knew the master
had been drinking a lot lately. "I don't remember the exact words, but it
was something like, 'Vanderthil, here it is. Sorry it's late. I've been
having severe mental problems lately. - Thaurbad.' Since you said, 'here it
is,' I figured you wanted me to bring the Bulletin along, so I did. And like
I said, they loved it. I bet you get three times as much letters this
Sundas."
Thaurbad nodded his head, smiled, and waved the messenger lad away. Gorgos
returned back to the Temple, while his master turned to his writing plank,
and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment.
He wrote with the quill: "What do you want, Feyfolken?"
The words became: "Goodbye. I hate my life. I have cut my wrists."
Thaurbad tried another tact: "Have I gone insane?"
The words became: "Goodbye. I have poison. I hate my life."
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"I Thaurbad Hulzik cannot live with myself and my ingratitude. That's why
I've put this noose around my neck."
Thaurbad picked up a fresh parchment, dipped his finger in the inkwell, and
proceeded to rewrite the entire Bulletin. While his original draft, before
Feyfolken had altered it, had been simple and flawed, the new copy was a
scrawl. Lower-case I's were undotted, G's looked like Y's, sentences ran into
margins and curled up and all over like serpents. Ink from the first page
leaked onto the second page. When he yanked the pages from the notebook, a
long tear nearly divided the third page in half. Something about the final
result was evocative. Thaurbad at least hoped so. He wrote another note
reading, simply, "Use this Bulletin instead of the piece of shit I sent you."
When Gorgos returned with new messages, Thaurbad handed the envelope to him.
The new letters were all the same, except for one from his healer,
Telemichiel. "Thaurbad, we need you to come in as soon as possible. We've
received the reports from Black Marsh about a strain of the Crimson Plague
that sounds very much like your disease, and we need to re-examine you.
Nothing is definite yet, but we're going to want to see what our options
are."
It took Thaurbad the rest of the day and fifteen drams of the stoutest mead
to recover. The larger part of the next morning was spent recovering from
this means of recovery. He started to write a message to Vanderthil: "What
did you think of the new Bulletin?" with the quill. Feyfolken's improved
version was "I'm going to ignite myself on fire, because I'm a dying no-
talent."
Thaurbad rewrote the note using his finger-and-ink message. When Gorgos
appeared, he handed him the note. There was one message in Vanderthil's
handwriting.
It read, "Thaurbad, not only are you divinely inspired, but you have a great
sense of humor. Imagine us using those scribbles you sent instead of the
real Bulletin. You made the archbishop laugh heartily. I cannot wait to see
what you have next week. Yours fondly, Vanderthil."
The funeral service a week later brought out far more friends and admirers
than Thaurbad Hulzik would've believed possible. The coffin, of course, had
to be closed, but that didn't stop the mourners from filing into lines to
touch its smooth oak surface, imagining it as the flesh of the artist
himself. The archbishop managed to rise to the occasion and deliver a better
than usual eulogy. Thaurbad's old nemesis, the secretary before Vanderthil,
Alfiers came in from Cloudrest, wailing and telling all who would listen that
Thaurbad's suggestions had changed the direction of her life. When she heard
Thaurbad had left her his quill in his final testament, she broke down in
tears. Vanderthil was even more inconsolable, until she found a handsome and
delightfully single young man.
"I can hardly believe he's gone and I never even saw him face-to-face or
spoke to him," she said. "I saw the body, but even if he hadn't been all
burned up, I wouldn't have been able to tell if it was him or not."
"I wish I could tell you there'd been a mistake, but there was plenty of
medical evidence," said Telemichiel. "I supplied some of it myself. He was a
patient of mine, you see."
"Oh," said Vanderthil. "Was he sick or something?"
"He had the Crimson Plague years ago, that's what took away his voice box,
but it appeared to have gone into complete remission. Actually, I had just
sent him a note telling him words to that effect the day before he killed
himself."
"You're that healer?" exclaimed Vanderthil. "Thaurbad's messenger boy Gorgos
told me that he had just picked up that message when I sent mine,
complementing him on the new, primative design for the Bulletin. It was
amazing work. I never would've told him this, but I had begun to suspect he
was stuck in an outmoded style. It turned out he had one last work of genius,
before going out in a blaze of glory. Figuratively. And literally."
Vanderthil showed the healer Thaurbad's last Bulletin, and Telemichiel agreed
that its frantic, nearly illegible style spoke volumes about the power and
majesty of the god Auri-El."
"Now I'm thoroughly confused," said Vonguldak.
"About which part?" asked the Great Sage. "I think the tale is very straight-
forward."
"Feyfolken made all the Bulletins beautiful, except for the last one, the one
Thaubad did for himself," said Taksim thoughtfully. "But why did he misread
the notes from Vanderthil and the healer? Did Feyfolken change those words?"
"Perhaps," smiled the Great Sage.
"Or did Feyfolken changed Thaurbad's perceptions of those words?" asked
Vonguldak. "Did Feyfolken make him mad after all?"
"Very likely," said the Great Sage.
"But that would mean that Feyfolken was a servitor of Sheogorath," said
Vonguldak. "And you said he was a servitor of Clavicus Vile. Which was he,
an agent of mischief or an agent of insanity?"
"The will was surely altered by Feyfolken," said Taksim, "And that's the sort
of thing a servitor of Clavicus Vile would do to perpetuate the curse."
"As an appropriate ending to the tale of the scribe and his cursed quill,"
smiled the Great Sage. "I will let you read into it as you will."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fighters Guild Charter
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_charterFG
Weight: 3
Value: 30
Special Notes: None
Imperial Charter of the Guild of Fighters
I. Purpose
The Guild of Fighters provides employment to free-swords and mercenaries and
contracts to local citizens. Citizens may contract with the Guild for the
removal of creatures and pests, the delivery of goods on dangerous routes,
the collection of beasts for the arenas, and other duties defined by the
Guild Stewards.
II. Authority
The Guild of Fighters was established under the section 4 of the "Guilds
Act," and this charter was first confirmed under the Potentate Versidue-Shaie
in the 321st year of the Second Era.
III. Rules and Procedures
Any member of the Guild of Fighters who strikes or steals from another member
shall be expelled from the Guild. Re-admittance is at the discretion of the
Guild Stewards.
Citizens who contract with the Guild of Fighters and have a dispute may
appeal first to the Guild Steward who accepted the contract and second with
the authorities of each Province.
IV. Membership Requirements
The Guild selects candidates who are strong and healthy. A candidate must
have some proficiency with long blades, axes, blunt weapons, and shields.
Guildsmen must be able to use and maintain heavy armor.
V. Applications for Membership
Candidates must present themselves to the Steward of the Guild Hall for
examination and approval.
ATTACHMENT A: Fighters Guild Chapters in Vvardenfell District, Province of
Morrowind
Chapters are established in Guild-owned, free-standing guildhalls in the
towns of Ald'ruhn and Balmora. The chapter in Sadrith Mora is established in
Wolverine Hall under lease from the Telvanni Council. The chapter in Vivec is
established in the Foreign Quarter under lease from the Tribunal Temple.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Five Songs of King Wulfharth
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_fivesongsofkingwulfharth
Weight: 4
Value: 30
Special Notes: None
The Five Songs of King Wulfharth
Shor's Tongue
The first song of King Wulfharth is ancient, circa 1E500. After the defeat of
the Alessian army at Glenumbria Moors, where King Hoag Merkiller was slain,
Wulfharth of Atmora was elected by the Pact of Chieftains. His thu'um was so
powerful that he could not verbally swear into the office, and scribes were
used to draw up his oaths. Immediately thereafter the scribes wrote down the
first new law of his reign: a fiery reinstatement of the traditional Nordic
pantheon. The Edicts were outlawed, their priests put to the stake, and their
halls set ablaze. The shadow of King Borgas had ended for a span. For his
zealotry, King Wulfharth was called Shor's Tongue, and Ysmir, Dragon of the
North.
Kyne's Son
The second song of King Wulfharth glorifies his deeds in the eyes of the Old
Gods. He fights the eastern Orcs and shouts their chief into Hell. He
rebuilds the 418th step of High Hrothgar, which had been damaged by a dragon.
When he swallowed a thundercloud to keep his army from catching cold, the
Nords called him the Breath of Kyne.
Old Knocker
The third song of King Wulfharth tells of his death. Orkey, an enemy god, had
always tried to ruin the Nords, even in Atmora where he stole their years
away. Seeing the strength of King Wulfharth, Orkey summoned the ghost of
Alduin Time-Eater again. Nearly every Nord was eaten down to six years old.
Boy Wulfharth pleaded to Shor, the dead Chieftain of the Gods, to help his
people. Shor's own ghost then fought the Time-Eater on the spirit plane, as
he did at the beginning of time, and he won, and Orkey's folk, the Orcs, were
ruined. As Boy Wulfharth watched the battle in the sky he learned a new
thu'um, What Happens When You Shake the Dragon Just So. He used this new
magic to change his people back to normal. In his haste to save so many,
though, he shook too many years out on himself. He grew older than the
Greybeards, and died. The flames of his pyre were said to have reached the
hearth of Kyne itself.
The Ash King
The fourth song of King Wulfharth tells of his rebirth. The Dwarves and
Devils of the eastern kingdoms had started to fight again, and the Nords
hoped they might reclaim their ancient holdings there because of it. They
planned an attack, but then gave up, knowing that they had no strong King to
lead them. Then in walked the Devil of Dagoth, who swore he came in peace.
Moreover, he told the Nords a wondrous thing: he knew where the Heart of Shor
was! Long ago the Chief of the Gods had been killed by Elven giants, and they
ripped out Shor's Heart and used it as a standard to strike fear into the
Nords. This worked until Ysgramor Shouted Some Sense and the Nords fought
back again. Knowing that they were going to lose eventually, the Elven giants
hid the Heart of Shor so that the Nords might never have their God back. But
here was the Devil of Dagoth with good news! The Dwarves and Devils of the
eastern kingdom had his Heart, and this was the reason for their recent
unrest. The Nords asked the Devil of Dagoth why he might betray his
countrymer so, and he said that the Devils have betrayed each other since the
beginning of time, and this was so, and so the Nords believed him. The
Tongues sung Shor's ghost into the world again. Shor gathered an army as he
did of old, and then he sucked in the long-strewn ashes of King Wulfharth and
remade him, for he needed a good general. But the Devil of Dagoth petitioned
to be that general, too, and he pointed out his role as the blessed harbinger
of this holy war. So Shor had two generals, the Ash King and the Devil of
Dagoth, and he marched on the eastern kingdoms with all the sons of Skyrim.
Red Mountain
The fifth song of King Wulfharth is sad. The survivors of the disaster came
back under a red sky. That year is called Sun's Death. The Devil of Dagoth
had tricked the Nords, for the Heart of Shor was not in the eastern kingdoms,
and had never been there at all. As soon as Shor's army had got to Red
Mountain, all the Devils and Dwarves fell upon them. Their sorcerers lifted
the mountain and threw it onto Shor, trapping him underneath Red Mountain
until the end of time. They slaughtered the sons of Skyrim, but not before
King Wulfharth killed King Dumalacath the Dwarf-Orc, and doomed his people.
Then Vehk the Devil blasted the Ash King into Hell and it was over. Later,
Kyne lifted the ashes of the ashes of Ysmir into the sky, saving him from
Hell and showing her sons the color of blood when it is brought by betrayal.
And the Nords will never trust another Devil again.
The Secret Song of Wulfharth Ash-King
The Truth at Red Mountain
The Heart of Shor was in Resdayn, as Dagoth-Ur had promised. As Shor's army
approached the westernmost bank of the Inner Sea, they stared across at Red
Mountain, where the Dwemeri armies had gathered. News from the scouts
reported that the Chimeri forces had just left Narsis, and that they were
taking their time joining their cousins against the Nords. Dagoth-Ur said
that the Tribunal had betrayed their King's trust, that they sent Dagoth-Ur
to Lorkhan (for that is what they called Shor in Resdayn) so that the god
might wreak vengeance on the Dwarves for their hubris; that Nerevar's peace
with the Dwemer would be the ruin of the Velothi way. This was the reason for
the slow muster, Dagoth-Ur said.
The Armies Grow
And Lorkhan (for that is what they called Shor in Resdayn) said: "I do not
wreak vengeance on the Dwarves for the reasons that the Tribunal might
believe I do. Nevertheless, it is true that they will die by my hand, and any
whoever should side with them. This Nerevar is the son of Boethiah, one of
the strongest Padomaics. He is a hero to his people despite his Tribunal, and
he shall muster enough that this battle will be harder going still. We will
need more than what we have." And so Dagoth-Ur, who wanted the Dwarves as
dead as the Tribunal did, went to Kogoran and summoned his House chap'thil,
his nix-hounds, his wizards, archers, his stolen men of brass. And the Ash
King, Wulfharth, hoary Ysmir, went and made peace with the Orcs in spite of
his Nordic blood, and they brought many warriors but no wizards at all. Many
Nords could not bring themselves to ally with their traditional enemies, even
in the face of Red Mountain. They were close to desertion. Then Wulfharth
said: "Don't you see where you really are? Don't you know who Shor really is?
Don't you know what this war is?" And they looked from the King to the God to
the Devils and Orcs, and some knew, really knew, and they are the ones that
stayed.
The Doom Drum
Nerevar carried Keening, a dagger made of the sound of the shadow of the
moons. His champions were Dumac Dwarfking, who carried a hammer of divine
mass, and Alandro Sul, who was the immortal son of Azura and wore the Wraith
Mail. They met Lorkhan at the last battle of Red Mountain. Lorkhan had his
Heart again, but he had long been from it, and he needed time. Wulfharth met
Sul but could not strike him, and he fell from grievous wounds, but not
before shouting Sul blind. Dagoth-Ur met Dumac and slew him, but not before
Sunder struck his lord's Heart. Nerevar turned away from Lorkhan and struck
down Dagoth-Ur in rage, but he took a mortal wound from Lorkhan in turn. But
Nerevar feigned the death that was coming early and so struck Lorkhan with
surprise on his side. The Heart had been made solid by Sunder's tuning blow
and Keening could now cut it out. And it was cut out and Lorkhan was defeated
and the whole ordeal was thought over.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
For my Gods and Emperor
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_formygodsandemperor
Weight: 4
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
For My Gods and Emperor
A Handbook for the Imperial Cult
What is the Imperial Cult?
The missionary arm of the great faiths, the Imperial cult brings divine
inspiration and consolation to the Empire's remote provinces. The cults
combine the worship of the Nine Divines, the Aedra Akatosh, Dibella, Arkay,
Zenithar, Mara, Stendarr, Kynareth, and Julianos, and the Talos cult,
veneration of the divine god-hero Tiber Septim, founder and patron of the
Empire. Imperial cult priests provide worship and services for all these gods
at Imperial shrines in settlements throughout Vvardenfell.
What is the Virtuous Life?
Our doctrines are simple. We acknowledge the divinity of the Nine Divines:
Akatosh, Dibella, Arkay, Zenithar, Mara, Stendarr, Kynareth, Julianos, and
Tiber Septim. We preach the Nine Virtues: Humility, Inspiration, Piety, Work,
Compassion, Justice, Ambition, Learning, and Civility. Our Emperor is the
Defender of the Faith, and the Empire is the worldly working of the Divine
Plan. We pledge aid and comfort to all citizens in need, and serve the
Emperor and Empire at his will.
The Imperial cults look to the Nine Divines as models for living a good and
virtuous life. Each of the Nine represents different aspects of life, and how
it should be lived. But the simplest statement of our doctrines is -- help
and protect one another. The stronger one is, the wealthier one is, the more
one bears responsibility for helping and protecting others. One's first duty,
of course, is to one's fellow members of the Imperial Cult. But after that,
one should help and protect any needy persons.
We also say, "do not harm one another." It is forbidden to attack another
person of the Imperial cult, and of course, forbidden to kill another member.
It is forbidden to steal from another member, whether by open theft or by
covert pickpocketing. It is forbidden to trespass upon the private property
of another member. Break any one of these rules, and be expelled from the
cult.
How can I join the Imperial cult?
The Imperial cult accepts all citizens of good character and earnest faith.
We ask only a one-time pledge of 50 drakes to aid us in our good works.
Thereafter, the only cost of membership comes when you use our health,
healing, and blessing shrines -- modest fees which help us spread the
blessings of the Nine to those less fortunate than ourselves.
Those who wish to join the Imperial cult in Vvardenfell will find a warm
welcome from our cult greeters: Ygfa at Fort Pelagiad, Syloria Siruliulus at
Buckmoth Legion Fort, Somutis Vunnis at Moonmoth Legion Fort, Ruccia Conician
in the Grand Council Chambers in Ebonheart, or Lalatia Varian in the Imperial
Chapels at Ebonheart.
What are the requirements for advancement in the Imperial cult?
Seekers who wish to advance in the service of the Nine must dedicate time and
resources to serving the cult, and must strive for personal improvement in
their attributes and skills. Only the most distinguished are worthy of
advancement to the higher ranks in the Imperial cults.
To serve and glorify the Nine Divines, the faithful must cultivate a noble
personality and a strong will. Respect the magical arts, especially the
colleges of Restoration, Mysticism, and Conjuration. Those who swear to avoid
bloodshed, to take the field unarmored to fight only with blunt weapons, are
especially praiseworthy. Knowledge of enchantments and the gift of diplomatic
speech are other qualities we value in our initiates.
Imperial cult services
You can find Imperial cult services in Buckmoth Legion Fort, Moonmoth Legion
Fort, Pelagiad Legion Fort, Gnisis Legion Fort, Wolverine Hall in Sadrith
Mora, Vivec Foreign Quarter, and Imperial chapels in Ebonheart. Seek training
at Wolverine Hall, Buckmoth Fort, Moonmoth Fort, Ebonheart Imperial Chapels,
Governor's Hall in Caldera, and Ald Velothi Outpost.
Many Imperial cult locations have healing altars. You may pray at Imperial
cult healing altars and receive blessings which cure common and blight
diseases, cure poisons, and restore damaged attributes. Non-members pay 25
drakes. Non-members pay 25 drakes. Newer members pay 10 drakes, while higher-
ranking members receive blessings free. Healing altars are found in: Vivec
Foreign Quarter; Wolverine Hall in Sadrith Mora; Buckmoth Legion Fort;
Moonmoth Legion Fort; Pelagiad Legion Fort; Gnisis Legion Fort; and Imperial
Chapels in Ebonheart.
Opportunities for service
Lay healers gather ingredients for health and healing potions, and minister
to the sick and hurt in poor and isolated communities. It is difficult and
sometimes dangerous work, but the spiritual rewards are great. Lay healers
need only the skills of the prudent traveler, being often on the road and in
the wilderness, gathering herbs and potion components. They should avoid
trouble where possible, and so need not be masters of the arts of war. Those
interested should speak to Synnolian Tunifus at the Imperial Chapels in
Ebonheart.
Almoners gather alms from members and friends of the faith. We depend on
donations to fund most of our good works. Almoners who are successful at
bringing in generous donations may rise in the ranks of Imperial Cults
service. Almoners must travel in town and village, and should be skilled in
persuasion and mercantile matters. Also, almoners with personal wealth are in
a position to better serve the cult. Those interested should speak to Iulus
Truptor at the Imperial Chapels in Ebonheart.
A shrine sergeant helps keep order at the shrines, carries messages and
packages, and sometimes escorts priests and lay servants on dangerous
missions. This occasional service is ideal for bold, free-spirited
adventurers. Shrine sergeants are called upon to serve the Nine with weapon,
armor, and spell. New shrine sergeants are given the easiest tasks, but
later, missions may demand higher levels of combat proficiency. Those
interested should speak to Kaye at the Imperial Chapels in Ebonheart.
Oracle's Quests are the most demanding of all Imperial cult missions. Only
members of the higher ranks are invited to assist the Oracle, and the
challenges require the skill and courage found only in heroes of legend.
How do the Imperial cults view the other factions of Vvardenfell?
The Imperial cults have a very close relationship with the Imperial legions,
and a friendly and supportive relationship with the Imperial Guilds --
especially the Fighters and Mages Guilds. We also have a friendly and
supportive relationship with House Hlaalu, which strongly supports the
Emperor and Imperial principles. Though we cannot condone the actions of the
Thieves Guild, we praise their faithful dedication to the Emperor and to
Imperial culture.
The Imperial cults have the greatest respect for the high moral principles of
House Redoran and the Morag Tong, and honors their different but noble
conceptions of Divine Inspiration.
We disapprove of the primitive heathen beliefs of the Ashlanders, and of the
impious and inhumane practices of the Telvanni. The Imperial cult especially
disapproves of the practice of slavery, and looks forward to the day when
slavery is illegal in all Imperial provinces. The Imperial cult also
disapproves of the lawless and greedy Camonna Tong, and their ruthless
exploitation of the poor and weak.
Historically, our relationship with the Tribunal Temple is difficult and
unfriendly. Though the Imperial cults acknowledges the lords and saints of
the Temple pantheon as worthy inspirations, the Temple falsely insists that
theirs is the One True Faith, and that the Imperial cults worship false gods.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fort Pelagiad Prisoner Log
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_fortpelagiadprisonerlog
Weight: 2
Value: 0
Special Notes: None
Prisoners currently held in Pelagiad:
Morbash gro-Shagdub, Orc male, good condition
Held for brawling at the Halfway Inn. Fines to be paid in hard labor for
damages to three chairs, a table, and two windows at the Halfway Inn.
New-Shoes Bragor, Bosmer male, fair condition
Held for theft, attempted robbery, conspiracy, consorting with thieves, and
resisting arrest.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fragment: On Artaeum
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_fragmentonartaeum
Weight: 2
Value: 20
Special Notes: None
On Artaeum
By Taurce il-Anselma
The Isle of Artaeum (ar-TAY-um) is the third largest island in the Summurset
archipelago, located south of the Moridunon village of Potansa and west of
the mainland village of Runcibae. It is best known for being home to the
Psijic Order, perhaps the oldest monastic group in Tamriel.
The earliest written record of Psijics is from the 20th year of the First Era
and tells the tale of the renowned Breton sage and author Voernet, traveling
to the Isle of Artaeum to meet with Iachesis, the Ritemaster of the Psijics.
Even then, the Psijics were the counsellors of kings and proponents of the
"Elder Way," taught to them by the original race that inhabited Tamriel. The
Elder Way is a philosophy of meditation and study said to bind the forces of
nature to the individual will. It differs from magicka in origin, but the
effects are much the same.
That said, it is perhaps more than coincidence that the Isle of Artaeum
literally vanished from the shores of Summurset at the beginning of the
Second Era at about the time of the founding of the Mages Guild in Tamriel.
Various historians and scholars have published theories about this, but
perhaps none but Iachesis and his own could shed light on the matter.
Five hundred years passed and Artaeum returned. The Psijics on the Isle
consisted of persons, mostly Elves, who had disappeared and were presumed
dead in the Second Era. They could not or would not offer any explanation
for Artaeum's whereabouts during that time, or the fate of Iachesis and the
original council of Artaeum.
Currently, the Psijics are led by the Loremaster Celarus, who has presided
over the Council of Artaeum for the last two hundred and fifty years. The
Council's influence in Tamrielan politics is tidal. The kings of Sumurset,
particularly those of Moridunon, have often sought the Psijics' opinion.
Emperor Uriel V was much influenced by the Council in the early, most
glorious parts of his reign, before his disastrous attack on Akavir. It has
even been suggested that the fleet of King Orghum of Pyandonea was destroyed
by a joint effort of Emperor Antiochus and the Psijic Order. The last four
emperors, Uriel VI, Morihatha, Pelagius IV, and Uriel VII, have been
suspicious of the Psijics enough to refuse ambassadors from the Isle of
Artaeum within the Imperial City.
The Isle of Artaeum is difficult to chart geographically. It is said that it
shifts continuously either at random or by decree of the Council. Visitors
to the island are so rare as to be almost unheard of. Anyone desirous of a
meeting with a Psijic may find contacts in Potansa and Runcibae as well as
many of the kingdoms of Summurset.
Were it more accessible, Artaeum would be a favored destination for
travelers. I have been to the Isle once and still dream of its idyllic
orchards and clear pastures, its still and silent lagoons, its misty
woodlands, and the unique Psijic architecture that seems to be as natural as
its surroundings as well as wondrous in its own right. The Ceporah Tower in
particular I would study, for it is a relic from a civilization that predates
the High Elves by several hundred years and is still used in certain rites by
the Psijics. Perhaps one day I might return.
[Note: The author is currently on the Isle of Artaeum by gracious consent of
Master Sargenius of the Council of Artaeum.]
Frontier, Conquest, and Accommodation:
A Social History of Cyrodiil
University of Gwylim Press, 3E 344
Historians often portray the human settlement of Tamriel as a straightforward
process of military expansion of the Nords of Skyrim. In fact, human
settlers occupied nearly every corner of Tamriel before Skyrim was even
founded. These so-called "Nedic peoples" include the proto-Cyrodilians, the
ancestors of the Bretons, the aboriginals of Hammerfell, and perhaps a now-
vanished Human population of Morrowind. Strictly speaking, the Nords are
simply another of these Nedic peoples, the only one that failed to find a
method of peaceful accommodation with the Elves who already occupied Tamriel.
Ysgramor was certainly not the first human settler in Tamriel. In fact, in
"fleeing civil war in Atmora", as the Song of Return states, Ysgramor was
following a long tradition of migration from Atmora; Tamriel had served as a
"safety valve" for Atmora for centuries before Ysgramor's arrival.
Malcontents, dissidents, rebels, landless younger sons, all made the
difficult crossing from Atmora to the "New World" of Tamriel. New
archeological excavations date the earliest human settlements in Hammerfell,
High Rock, and Cyrodiil at ME800-1000, centuries earlier than Ysgramor, even
assuming that the twelve Nord "kings" prior to Harald were actual historical
figures.
The Nedic peoples were a minority in a land of Elves, and had no choice but
to live peacefully with the Elder Race. In High Rock, Hammerfell, Cyrodiil,
and possibly Morrowind, they did just that, and the Nedic peoples flourished
and expanded over the last centuries of the Merethic Era. Only in Skyrim did
this accommodation break down, an event recorded in the Song of Return.
Perhaps, being close to reinforcements from Atmora, the proto-Nords did not
feel it necessary to submit to the authority of the Skyrim Elves. Indeed, the
early Nord chronicles note that under King Harald, the first historical Nord
ruler (1E 113-221), "the Atmoran mercenaries returned to their homeland"
following the consolidation of Skyrim as a centralized kingdom. Whatever the
case, the pattern was set -- in Skyrim, expansion would proceed militarily,
with human settlement following the frontier of conquest, and the line
between Human territory and Elven territory was relatively clear.
But beyond this "zone of conflict", the other Nedic peoples continued to
merge with their Elven neighbors. When the Nord armies of the First Empire
finally entered High Rock and Cyrodiil, they found Bretons and proto-
Cyrodiils already living there among the Elves. Indeed, the Nords found it
difficult to distinguish between Elf and Breton, the two races had already
intermingled to such a degree. The arrival of the Nord armies upset the
balance of power between the Nedic peoples and the Elves. Although the
Nords' expansion into High Rock and Cyrodiil was relatively brief (less than
two centuries), the result was decisive; from then on, power in those regions
shifted from the Elves to the Humans.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Galerion The Mystic
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_galerionthemystic
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
Galerion The Mystic
By Asgrim Kolsgreg
During the early bloody years of the Second Era, Vanus Galerion was born
under the name Trechtus, a serf on the estate of a minor nobleman, Lord
Gyrnasse of Sollicich-on-Ker. Trechtus' father and mother were common
laborers, but his father had secretly, against the law of Lord Gyrnasse,
taught himself and then Trechtus to read. Lord Gyrnasse had been advised that
literate serfs were an abomination of nature and dangerous to themselves and
their lords, and had closed all bookstalls within Sollicich-on-Ker. All
booksellers, poets, and teachers were forbidden, except within Gyrnasse's
keep. Nevertheless, a small scale smuggling operation kept a number of books
and scrolls in circulation right under Gyrnasse's shadow.
When Trechtus was eight, the smugglers were found and imprisoned. Some said
that Trechtus's mother, an ignorant and religious woman fearful of her
husband, was the betrayer of the smugglers, but there were other rumors as
well. The trial of the smugglers was nonexistant, and the punishment swift.
The body of Trechtus' father was kept hanging for weeks during the hottest
summer Sollicich-on-Ker had seen in centuries.
Three months later, Trechtus ran away from Lord Gyrnasse's estate. He made it
as far as Alinor, half-way across Summerset Isle. A band of troubadours found
him nearly dead, curled up in a ditch by the side of the road. They nursed
him to health and employed him as an errand boy in return for food and
shelter. One of the troubadours, a soothsayer named Heliand, began testing
Trechtus' mind and found the boy, though shy, to be preternaturally
intelligent and sophisticated given his circumstances. Heliand recognized in
the boy a commonality, for Heliand had been trained on the Isle of Artaeum as
a mystic.
When the troupe was performing in the village of Potansa on the far eastern
end of Summurset, Heliand took Trechtus, then a boy of eleven, to the Isle of
Artaeum. The Magister of the Isle, Iachesis, recognized potential in Trechtus
and took him on as pupil, giving him the name of Vanus Galarion. Vanus
trained his mind on the Isle of Artaeum, as well as his body.
Thus was the first Archmagister of the Mages Guild trained. From the Psijics
of the Isle of Artaeum, he received his training. From his childhood of want
and injustice, he received his philosophy of sharing knowledge.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Galur Rithari's Papers
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_galur_rithari's_papers
Weight: 2
Value: 0
Special Notes: Part of the Vampire cure quest
Private Papers of Galur Rithari, Buoyant Armiger
[hand-written manuscripts bound as folios; excerpts]
"Outnumbered and isolated, I yielded to my foe. The creature dressed like a
gentleman, and I hoped for honorable treatment. Instead, I found myself a
feast for a blood-drinking monster.
"Shamed by my corruption, and despairing of my own welfare, I passively
acquiesced in my gradual integration into the affairs of Clan Aundae. I made
no human my prey, only beasts, and kept myself apart from the other clankin;
nonetheless, I abandoned hope and lived like a beast.
"Drawn by intimations of my former life, I visited my former post at Bal Ur,
hoping perhaps to atone in some for my crimes by preying upon its monsters,
or perishing under their attacks. It is there that, by chance, I made
petition to the Lord of Troubles, Molag Bal, at an altar deep in the caverns
beneath the pilgrim's shrine. I was surprised, and thrilled, and terrified,
when Molag Bal, or some aspect or agent of that Daedra Lord, offered me a
chance to cure myself of vampirism, in return for a favor. However, with no
hope for my soul or spirit unless I might be cured, I undertook his quest.
[Rithari sought and obtained a cursed soul gem of mysterious nature from a
deep cavern on the northern slopes of Dagoth Ur, delivering it to Molag Bal's
shrine in Bal Ur.]
"I placed the gem within the basin before the altar, and instantly
experienced a blinding of pain and terror that I cannot express in words,
except that it seemed afterward that I had been asleep and dreaming that I
was being sliced by thousands of tiny knives from my bowels inside out. I
awoke before the altar, and gazed in the reflection of my own sword blade at
my own face - no longer a blood-seeking beast of teeth and empty eyes."
I am a councilor of House Hlaalu and chose to write this short guide for
those who seek to understand us or join us. House Hlaalu is the most open and
modern of the Great Houses. We are the only Great House who has embraced the
irresistible tides of Imperial law and custom. And thus we have profited by
the Empire's new policies, rising from obscurity as the Greatest of the
Houses.
In the great wind of progress, tradition cannot stand.
The Redoran may surpass us on the field of battle, but when the dust clears,
they will find themselves indebted to us. The Telvanni may know many arcane
secrets, but they fight among themselves more than against each other, and
they cannot adapt to the ways of the Empire. Ancient and powerful though a
Telvanni wizard may be, no individual can withstand the march of history. The
Indoril are loved by the people for their gifts and donations, but when the
money runs dry, will the people remember? The Dres know how to make money,
but they have not learned how not to make enemies.
Grasp fortune by the forelocks. When you see your chances, seize them.
When you see a chance to turn a profit, take it. But do not follow money
blindly. There is value in reputation, more than many young Hlaalu realize.
This value must be carefully balanced against the more tangible coins in any
deal. Theft and murder are bad for business. You can steal from someone, but
will he trade with you after that? You can't bargain with a dead man.
There are many ways to do business.
In House Hlaalu you must be fast and agile. You must be able to keep up with
business and with the times. You must be able to speak quickly and
convincingly. You must be able to trade with the best of merchants and make a
profit. You must learn to protect your own property by securing it with
hidden chests, locks, and even traps. And when confrontation is unavoidable,
it is best to fight quickly in comfortable, light armors with short blades,
or to fight from a distance with a marksman's weapons.
Then, reader, would you seize this opportunity to join House Hlaalu? Would
you have yourself be counted among the victors in the race for success? Then
submit yourself for examination at the Balmora Council Manor. If you have the
skills, you will be welcome. And if you have the will, you may serve House
Hlaalu, and advance in the ranks, for above all things, House Hlaalu prizes
initiative and ambition.
[This is Guylaine Marilie's outdated but entertainingly written and well-
illustrated reference on late Dwemer architecture. Excerpt is from the
chapter describing the Second Empire style of approaches and defenses, and
mentioning the common formal convention of the "Four Tests". The book also
mentions that the Telvanni have adopted this Four Tests convention as an
aesthetic element in their defenses and approaches to their towers.]
"The Test of Pattern requires the observer to examine and analyze for
patterns before he acts, with the understanding that many patterns are subtle
or hidden.
"The Test of Disorder requires the observer to proceed systematically when no
pattern is perceived. When the observer recognizes that many things must be
done, and in no specific order; the procedure is to perceive and order all
the things to be done, and, upon doing a thing, to recall how and when that
thing has been done. For example, the observer must remember the initial
position of a thing, and also the new position of that thing.
"The Test of Evasion requires the observer to examine the obstacle, and
compare his resources and abilities; if the obstacle is too difficult, seek
for a path around the difficulty.
"The Test of Confrontation requires the observer to examine the obstacle, and
compare his resources and abilities; if the obstacle is too difficult, look
for a path around the difficulty... but if no path around can be found,
confront the obstacle directly."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hallgerd's Tale
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_heavy armor1
Weight: 4
Value: 325
Special Notes: Raises Heavy Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Hallgerd's Tale
by Tavi Dromio
"I think the greatest warrior who ever lived had to be Vilus Nommenus,"
offered Xiomara. "Name one other warrior who conquered more territory."
"Tiber Septim obviously," said Hallgerd.
"He wasn't a warrior, he was an administrator, a politician," said Garaz.
"And besides, acreage conquered can't be final means of determining the best
warrior. How about skill with a blade?"
"There are other weapons than blades," objected Xiomara. "Why not skill with
an axe or a bow? Who was the greatest master of all weaponry?"
"I can't think of one greatest master of all weaponry," said Hallgerd.
"Balaxes of Agia Nero in Black Marsh was the greatest wielder of a lance.
Ernse Llervu of the Ashlands is the greatest master of the club I've ever
seen. The greatest master of the katana is probably an Akaviri warlord we've
never heard of. As far as archery goes --"
"Pelinal Whitestrake supposedly conquered all of Tamriel by himself,"
interrupted Xiomara.
"That was before the First Era," said Garaz. "It's probably mostly myth. But
there are all sorts of great warriors of the modern eras. The Camoran
Usurper? The unknown hero who brought together the Staff of Chaos and
defeated Jagar Tharn?"
"We can't declare an unknown champion as the greatest warrior. What about
Nandor Beraid, the Empress Katariah's champion?" suggested Xiomara. "They
said he could use any weapon ever invented."
"But what happened to him?" smiled Garaz. "He was drowned in the Sea of
Ghosts because he couldn't get his armor off. Call me overly particular, but
I think the greatest warrior in the world should know how to take armor off."
"It's kinda hard to judge ability to wear armor as a skill," said Xiomara.
"Either you have basic functionality in a suit of armor or you don't."
"That's not true," said Hallgerd. "There are masters in that as well, people
who can do things while wearing armor better than we can out of armor. Have
you ever heard of Hlaalu Pasoroth, the King's great grandfather?"
Xiomara and Garaz admitted that they had not.
"This was hundreds and hundreds of years ago, and Pasoroth was the ruler of a
great estate which he had won by right of being the greatest warrior in the
land. It's been said, and truly, that much of the House's current power is
based on Pasoroth's earnings as a warrior. Every week he held games at his
castle, pitting his skill against the champions of the neighboring estates,
and every week, he won something. His great skill wasn't in the use of
weaponry, though he was decent enough with an axe and a long sword, but in
his ability to move quickly and with great agility wearing a full suit of
heavy mail. There were some who said that he moved faster while wearing
armor than he did out of it.
"Some months before this story begins, he had won the daughter of one of his
neighbors, a beautiful creature named Mena who he had made his wife. He
loved her very much, but he was intensely jealous, and with good reason. She
wasn't very pleased with his husbandly skills, and the only reason Mena never
strayed was because Pasoroth kept a close eye on her. She was, to put it
kindly, naturally amorous and resentful of her position as a prize. Wherever
he went, he always brought her with him. At the games, she was placed in a
special box so that he could see her even while he competed.
"But his real competition, though he didn't know it, was from a handsome
young armorer he also had won at one of his competitions. Mena had noticed
him, and the armorer, whose name was Taren, had certainly noticed her."
"This has all the makings of a dirty joke, Hallgerd," said Xiomara, with a
smile.
"I swear that it's entirely true," said Hallgerd. "The problem facing the
lovers was, of course, that they could never be alone. Perhaps because of
this, it became a burning obsession to both of them. Taren decided that the
best time for them to consummate their love was during the games. Mena
feigned illness, so she didn't have to stay in the box, but Pasoroth visited
the sickroom every few minutes between fights, so Taren and Mena could never
get together. The sound of Pasoroth's armor clunking up the stairs to visit
his sick wife gave Taren the idea.
"He crafted his lord a new suit of armor, strong, and bright, and beautifully
decorated. For his purposes, Taren rubbed the leg joints with luca dust so
the more he sweated and the more he moved them, the more they'd stick
together. After a little while, Taren figured, Pasoroth wouldn't be able to
walk very quickly, and wouldn't have enough time in between fights to visit
his wife. But just in case, Taren also added bells to the legs which rung
loudly when they moved, so the couple would be able to hear him coming in
plenty of time.
"When the games commenced the following week, Mena feigned illness again and
Taren presented his lord with the new armor. Pasoroth was delighted with it,
as Taren hoped he would be, and donned it for his first fight. Taren then
stole upstairs to Mena's bedchamber.
"All was silent outside as the two began to make love. Suddenly, Mena
noticed a peculiar expression on Taren's face and before she had a chance to
ask him about it, his head fell off at the neck. Pasoroth was standing
behind him with his axe in hand."
"How did he get upstairs so quickly, with his leg joints gummed up? And
didn't they hear the bells ringing?" asked Garaz.
"Well, you see, when Pasoroth realized he couldn't walk on his legs very
quickly, he walked on his hands."
"I don't believe it," laughed Xiomara.
"What happened next?" asked Garaz. "Did Pasoroth kill Mena also?"
"No one knows exactly what happened next," said Hallgerd. "Pasoroth didn't
return for the next game, nor for the next. Finally, at the fourth game, he
returned to fight, and Mena appeared in the box to watch. She didn't appear
to be sick anymore. In fact, she was smiling and had a light flush to her
face."
"They did it?" cried Xiomara.
"I don't have all the salacious details, except that after the battle, it
took ten squires thirteen hours to get Pasoroth's armor off because of all
the luca dust mixed with sweat."
"I don't understand, you mean, he didn't take his armor off when they -- but
how?"
"Like I said," replied Hallgerd. "This is a story about someone who was more
agile and accomplished in his armor than out of it."
[This book was apparently written in Dwemer and translated to Aldmeris. Only
fragments of the Aldmeris is readable, but it may be enough for a scholar of
Aldmeris to translate fragments of other Dwemer books.]
..guide Altmer-Estrial led with foot-flames for the town-center where lay
dead the quadrangular gardens...
..asked the foundations and chains and vessels their naming places...
..why they did not use solid sound to teach escape from the Earth Bones nor
nourished them with frozen flames...
...the word I shall have once written of, this "art" our lesser cousins
speak of when their admirable ignorance...
..but neither words nor experience cleanses the essence of the strange and
terrible ways of defying our ancestors' transient rules.
[The translation ends with a comment in Dwemer in a different hand, which you
can translate.]
Put down your ardent cutting-globes, Nbthld. Your Aldmeris has the correct
words, but they cannot be properly misinterpreted.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hanin's Wake
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_bartendersguide
Or
bk_bartendersguide_01
Weight: 6
Value: 10
Special Notes: None
..and upon that year of the Reign of Wulfharth and his Son's, the
Magnificence that was Mordrin Hanin ended in this world. Representative of
Ashalmawia, Maelkashishi and Ald Sotha gathered in a great host at the
vastness of Assurnabitashpi. Even Hilbongard and Dorach Gusal were lured from
their Forge, and for a time the Fires of Anudnabia were silent.
And thus on the Ninth Day of Mourning, many slaves and enemies were
sacrificed and the Cup of Passage was mixed according to the direction of
Hanin's Formulae:
2 Parts Blood of Traitors
1 Part Heart of Daedra
1 Part mixed Bittergreen Petals, Void Salts, Green Lichens and Bonemeal
1 Part Moonsugar
5 Parts Flin
Combine Blood, Heart, Moonsugar in Large Ebony Alembic. Heat fire fed by
Bones of Traitors. Condense vapors into a large Ebony flask. For a hot drink,
strain contents through Scamp Skin and mix with Flin in large mug, slowly
stirring with a glass rod. For a chilled drink, mix in flask with pure Skyrim
Ice and shake vigorously. Strain through Winged Twilight membrane and served
in gem encrusted goblet.
The wake was considered a great success as the beverage killed a great many
guests and thus Mordrin Hanin was supplied with companions in the next world.
[This book contains meticulous records of all commerce and transactions via
the Hlaalu Vaults as well as an up to date account of the current inventory.]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Homilies of Blessed Almalexia
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_HomiliesOfBlessedAlmalexia
Weight: 3
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
The Homilies of Blessed Almalexia
Sotha Sil and the Scribs
Young Sotha Sil, while playing in the egg mines, saw a number of scribs in a
deep shaft, and he began to cast stones upon them, snickering as they
skittered and scattered, until one of the scribs, lifting its head up in
agony, cried out to Sotha Sil: "Please, please, have mercy, little boy, for
what is sport to you is suffering and death to us."
And so Sotha Sil discovered that the idle of amusements of one may be the
solemn tortures of another.
Lord Vivec and the Contentious Beasts
A shalk and a kagouti were strutting back and forth in a foyada, casting
aspersions of one another's looks. "You are the ugliest creature alive," the
shalk told the kagouti. "No, YOU are the ugliest creature alive," the kagouti
told the shalk. For each thought himself most handsome, and the other most
ugly.
Then Lord Vivec chanced by, and settled their dispute. "No, you BOTH are the
ugliest creatures alive, and I will not have my pleasant sojourn spoiled by
your unseemly squabbling." So he dealt them both mighty blows, shattering
their skulls, and silencing their argument, and went merrily upon his way.
And thus Lord Vivec proved that ugliness is as much in one's manner as in
one's appearance.
The Boiled Kagouti
It is said that if a kagouti steps into a boiling pool, he will leap out
immediately to avoid harm.
But if the kagouti is standing in a pool, and a wizard slowly raises the
temperature, measure by measure, to boiling, the kagouti will calmly stand in
place until he is boiled.
Thus we see that we must be alert not only to the obvious danger, but also to
the subtle degrees by which change may result in danger.
The Dubious Healer
Once upon a time, a Telvanni issued forth from his tower and proclaimed to
all the world that he was a mighty and learned healer, master of all alchemy
and potions, and able to cure all diseases.
Lord Vivec looked upon this wizard, and listened to his boasting, then asked
him, "How can you pretend to prescribe for others the cure to all diseases,
when you are unable to cure yourself of your own manifest arrogance and
foolishness?"
The Guar and the Mudcrabs
The Guar were so tormented by the other creatures they did not know where to
go. As soon as they saw a single beast approach them, off they dashed in
terror.
One day they saw a pack of Nix-hounds ranging about, and in a desperate panic
all the Guar scuttled off towards the sea, determined to drown themselves
rather than live in such a continual state of fear. But just as they got near
the shoreline, a colony of Mudcrabs, frightened in their turn by the approach
of the Guar, scuttled off, and threw themselves into the water.
'Truly,' said one of the Guar, "things are not so bad as they seem. For there
is always someone worse off than you."
The Wounded Netch
A wounded Netch lay himself down in a quiet corner of its feeding-ground. His
healthy companions came in great numbers to inquire after his health, yet
each one helped himself to a share of the fodder which had been placed there
for his use; so that the poor Netch died, not from his wounds, but from the
greed and carelessness of his erstwhile friends.
And so it is clear that thoughtless companions may bring more harm than help.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Honor Among Thieves
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_honorthieves
Weight: 3
Value: 100
Special Notes: None
Honor Among Thieves
by Arnie the Scrib
Many admirers ask, "Arnie, how can I become a flash and prosperous fellow
like you?"
And I tell them, "You want to join the Guild. Make friends. Be a part of
something."
"But who can join?" they ask.
We're just like any other trade guild. We've got requirements. And if you
want to advance in the ranks, we've got standards.
You want to be fast and agile. You want to move undetected. You want to know
about security -- locks, traps, and how to get around them. You want to
defend yourself. You travel light and fast, and want light arms like daggers
and shortswords. You don't want to get into a slugging match, so you want the
marksman's weapons -- the bow, crossbow, throwing star, and dart. You want
light armor, so you can keep moving, and moving fast.
Why belong? Simple. Everybody needs friends.
The help of friends includes information. Your friends at the Thieves Guild
know where the action is, and where the action is safe, and where it is not.
The help of friends includes a place to rest, and a place to buy supplies and
services -- training and tools. The help of friends includes fixing things
with the guards at a discount rate. That's where the 'honor among thieves'
part comes in. Friends stick together, and help each other.
"But what about the competition?" my admirers ask.
The competition is the Camonna Tong. And you don't want to join them, because
they don't want you. They have this thing about outlanders. They want them
all dead. So, unless your ambition is to be dead, you don't want to join
them.
And the Camonna Tong are bad people. The Camonna Tong don't mind killing
people. Heck, they LIKE killing people. The Thieves Guild, on the other hand,
thinks killing people is bad business. You want to be good people, right? So
join the Thieves Guild, and stay far, far away from the Camonna Tong.
So you want to join. But where do you look?
Being a thief is not like being a fighter. You don't just go to the local
guild Hall. The Thieves Guild doesn't have Guild Halls. But thieves like to
be where their friends are. And where are their friends? At the local
cornerclub or tradehouse. In Vvardenfell, look for friends in Balmora,
Ald'ruhn, Sadrith Mora, and the Foreign Quarter of Vivec.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
How Orsinium Passed to the Orcs
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_heavy armor4
Weight: 2
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Heavy Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
How Orsinium Passed to the Orcs
by Menyna Gsost
The year was 3E 399 and standing on a mountainside overlooking a vast tract
of land between the lands of Menevia and Wayrest was a great and learned
judge, an arbitrator and magistrate, impartial in his submission to the law.
"You have a very strong claim to the land, my lad," said the judge. "I won't
lie to you about that. But your competition has an equal claim. This is
what makes my particular profession difficult at times."
"You would call it my competition?" sneered Lord Bowyn, gesturing to the Orc.
The creature, called Gortwog gro-Nagorm, looked up with baleful eyes.
"He has ample documentation to make a claim on the land," the magistrate
shrugged. "And the particular laws of our land do not discriminate between
particular races. We had a Bosmer regency once, many generations ago."
"But what if a pig or a slaughterfish turned up demanding the property?
Would they have the same legal rights as I?"
"If they had the proper papers, I'm afraid so," smiled the judge. "The law is
very clear that if two claimants with equal titles to the property are set in
deadlock, a duel must be held. Now, the rules are fairly archaic, but I've
had opportunity to look them over, and I think they're still valid. The
Imperial council agrees."
"What must we do?" asked the Orc, his voice low and harsh, unused to the
tongue of the Cyrodiils.
"The first claimant, that's you, Lord Gortwog, may choose the armor and
weapon of the duelists. The second claimant, that's you, Lord Bowyn, may
choose the location. If you would prefer, either or both you may choose a
champion or you may duel yourself."
The Breton and the Orc looked at one another, evaluating. Finally, Gortwog
spoke, "The armor will be Orcish and the weapons will be common steel long
swords. No enchantments. No wizardry allowed."
"The arena will be the central courtyard of my cousin Lord Berylth's palace
in Wayrest," said Bowyn, looking Gortwog in the eye scornfully. "None of your
kind will be allowed in to witness."
So it was agreed. Gortwog declared that he would fight the duel himself, and
Bowyn, who was a fairly young man and in better than average condition, felt
that he could not keep his honor without competing himself as well. Still,
upon arriving at his cousin's palace a week before the duel was scheduled, he
felt the need to practice. A suit of Orcish armor was purchased and for the
first time in his life, Bowyn wore something of tremendous weight and limited
facility.
Bowyn and Berylth sparred in the courtyard. In ten minutes times, Bowyn had
to stop. He was red-faced and out of breath from trying to move in the
armor: to add to his exasperation, he had not scored one blow on his cousin,
and had dozens of feinted strikes scored on him.
"I don't know what to do," said Bowyn over dinner. "Even if I knew someone
who could fight properly in that beastly steel, I couldn't possibly send in a
champion to battle Gortwog."
Berylth commiserated. As the servants cleared the plates, Bowyn stood up in
his seat and pointed at one of them: "You didn't tell me you had an Orc in
your household!"
"Sir?" whined the elderly specimen, turning to Lord Berylth, certain that he
caused offense somehow.
"You mean Old Tunner?" laughed Berylith. "He's been with my house for ages.
Would you like him to give you training on how to move in Orcish armor?"
"Would you like me to?" asked Tunner obsequiously.
Unknown to Berylith but known to him now, his servant had once ridden with
the legendary Cursed Legion of High Rock. He not only knew how to fight in
Orcish armor himself, but he had acted as trainer to other Orcs before
retiring into domestic service. Desperate, Bowyn immediately engaged him as
his full-time trainer.
"Your try too hard, sir," said the Orc on their first day in the arena. "It
is easy to strain yourself in heavy mail. The joints are just so to let you
to bend with only a little effort. If you fight against the joints, you
won't have any strength to fight your foe."
Bowyn tried to follow Tunner's instructions, but he quickly grew frustrated.
And the more frustrated he got, the more intensity he put into his work,
which tired him out even quicker. While he took a break to drink some water,
Berylith spoke to his servant. If they were optimistic about Bowyn's
chances, their faces did not show it.
Tunner trained Bowyn hard the next two days, but her Ladyship Elysora's
birthday followed hard upon them, and Bowyn enjoyed the feast thoroughly. A
liquor of poppies and goose fat, and cock tinsh with buttered hyssop for a
first course; roasted pike, combwort, and balls of rabbit meat for a second;
sliced fox tongues, ballom pudding with oyster gravy, battaglir weed and
beans for the main course; collequiva ice and sugar fritters for dessert. As
Bowyn was settling back afterwards, his eyes weary, he suddenly spied Gortwog
and the judge entering the room.
"What are you doing here?" he cried. "The duel's not for another two days!"
"Lord Gortwog asked that we move it to tonight," said the judge. "You were
training when my emisary arrived two days ago, but his lordship your cousin
spoke for you, agreeing to the change of date."
"But there's no time to assemble my supporters," complained Bowyn. "And I've
just devoured a feast that would kill a lesser man. Cousin, how could you
neglect to tell me?"
"I spoke to Tunner about it," said Berylith, blushing, unused to deception.
"We decided that you would be best served under these conditions."
The battle in the arena was sparsely attended. Saturated with food, Bowyn
found himself unable to move very quickly. To his surprise, the armor
responded to his lethargy, rotating smoothly and elegantly to each stagger.
The more he successfully maneuvered, the more he allowed his mind and not his
body to control his defensive and offensive actions. For the first time in
his life, Bowyn saw what it was to look through the helmet of an Orc.
Of course, he lost, and rather badly if scores had been tabulated. Gortwog
was a master of such battle. But Bowyn fought on for more than three hours
before the judge reluctantly called a winner.
"I will name the land Orsinium after the land of my fathers," said the
victor.
Bowyn's first thought was that if he must lose to an Orc, it was best that
the battle was largely unwatched by his friends and family. As he left the
courtyard to go to the bed he had longed for earlier in the evening, he saw
Gortwog speaking to Tunner. Though he did not understand the language, he
could see that they knew each other. When the Breton was in bed, he had a
servant bring the old Orc to him.
"Tunner," he said kindly. "Speak frankly to me. You wanted Lord Gortwog to
win."
"That is true," said Tunner. "But I did not fail you. You fought better than
you would have fought two days hence, sir. I did not want Orsinium to be won
by its king without a fight."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ice and Chiton
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Light Armor2
Weight: 3
Value: 325
Special Notes: Raises Light Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Ice and Chitin
By Pletius Spatec
The tale dates to the year 855 of the Second Era, after General Talos had
taken the name Tiber Septim and begun his conquest of Tamriel. One of his
commanding officers, Beatia of Ylliolos, had been surprised in an ambush
while returning from a meeting with the Emperor. She and her personal guard
of five soldiers barely escaped, and were separated from their army. They
fled across the desolate, sleet-painted rocky cliffs by foot. The attack had
been so sudden, they had not even the time to don armor or get to their
horses.
"If we can get to the Gorvigh Ridge," hollered Lieutenant Ascutus, gesturing
toward a peak off in the mist, his voice barely discernible over the wind.
"We can meet the legion you stationed in Porhnak."
Beatia looked across the craggy landscape, through the windswept hoary trees,
and shook her head: "Not that way. We'll be struck down before we make it
halfway to the mountain. You can see their horses' breath through the
trees."
She directed her guard toward a ruined old keep on the frozen isthmus of
Nerone, across the bay from Gorvigh Ridge. Jutting out on a promontory of
rock, it was like many other abandoned castles in northern Skyrim, remnants
of Reman Cyrodiil's protective shield against the continent of Akavir. As
they reached their destination and made a fire, they could hear the army of
the warchiefs of Danstrar behind them, making camp on the land southwest,
blocking the only escape but the sea. The soldiers assessed the stock of the
keep while Beatia looked out to the fog-veiled water through the casements of
the ruin.
She threw a stone, watching it skip across the ice trailing puffs of mist
before it disappeared with a splash into a crack in the surface.
"No food or weaponry to be found, commander," Lieutenant Ascutus reported.
"There's a pile of armor in storage, but it's definitely taken on the
elements over the years. I don't know if it's salvageable at all."
"We won't last long here," Beatia replied. "The Nords know that we'll be
vulnerable when night falls, and this old rock won't hold them off. If
there's anything in the keep we can use, find it. We have to make it across
the ice floe to the Ridge."
After a few minutes of searching and matching pieces, the guards presented
two very grimy, scuffed and cracked suits of chitin armor. Even the least
proud of the adventurers and pirates who had looted the castle over the years
had thought the shells of chitin beneath their notice. The soldiers did not
dare to clean them: the dust looked to be the only adhesive holding them
together.
"They won't offer us much protection, just slow us down," grimaced Ascutus.
"If we run across the ice as soon as it gets dark--"
"Anyone who can plan and execute an ambush like the warchiefs of Danstrar
will be expecting that. We need to move quickly, now, before they're any
closer." Beatia drew a map of the bay in the dust, and then a semicircular
path across the water, an arc stretching from the castle to the Gorvigh
Ridge. "The men should go the long way across the bay like so. The ice is
thick there a ways from the shoreline, and there are a lot of rocks for
cover."
"You're not staying behind to hold the castle!"
"Of course not," Beatia shook her head and drew a straight line from the
castle to the closest shore across the Bay. "I'll take one of the chitin
suits, and try to cross the water here. If you don't see or hear me when
you've made it to land, don't wait -- just get to Porhnak."
Lieutenant Ascutus tried to dissuade his commander, but he knew that she was
would never order one of her men to perform the suicidal act of diversion,
that all would die before they reached Gorvigh Ridge if the warlords' army
was not distracted. He could find only one way to honor his duty to protect
his commanding officer. It was not easy convincing Commander Beatia that he
should accompany her, but at last, she relented.
The sun hung low but still cast a diffused glow, illuminating the snow with a
ghostly light, when the five men and one woman slipped through the boulders
beneath the castle to the water's frozen edge. Beatia and Ascutus moved
carefully and precisely, painfully aware of each dull crunch of chitin
against stone. At their commander's signal, the four unarmored men dashed
towards the north across the ice.
When her men had reached the first fragment of cover, a spiral of stone
jutting a few yards from the base of the promontory, Beatia turned to listen
for the sound of the army above. Nothing but silence. They were still
unseen. Ascutus nodded, his eyes through the helm showing no fear. The
commander and her lieutenant stepped onto the ice and began to run.
When Beatia had surveyed the bay from the castle ramparts, the crossing
closest to shore had seemed like a vast, featureless plane of white. Now
that she was down on the ice, it was even more flat and stark: the sheet of
mist rose only up their ankles, but it billowed up at their approach like the
hand of nature itself was pointing out their presence to their enemies. They
were utterly exposed. It came almost as a relief when Beatia heard one of
the warchiefs' scouts whistle a signal to his masters.
They didn't have to turn around to see if the army was coming. The sound of
galloping hoofs and the crash of trees giving way was very clear over the
whistling wind.
Beatia wished she could risk a glance to the north to see if her men were
hidden from view, but she didn't dare. She could hear Ascutus running to her
right, keeping pace, breathing hard. He was used to wearing heavier armor,
but the chitin joints were so brittle and tight from years of disuse, it was
all he could do to bend them.
The rocky shore to the Ridge still looked at eternity away when Beatia felt
and heard the first volley of arrows. Most struck the ice at their feet with
sharp cracking sounds, but a few nearly found home, ricocheting off their
backs. She silently offered a prayer of thanks to whatever anonymous
shellsmith, now long dead, had crafted the armor. They continued to run, as
the first rain of arrows was quickly followed by a second and a third.
"Thank Stendarr," Ascutus gasped. "If there was only leather in the keep,
we'd be pierced through and through. Now if only it weren't... so rigid..."
Beatia felt her own armor joints begin to set, her knees and hips finding
more and more resistance with every step. There could be no denying it: they
were drawing closer toward the shore, but they were running much more slowly.
She heard the first dreadful galloping crunch of the army charging across the
floe toward them. The riders were cautious on the slippery ice, not driving
their horses at full speed, but Beatia knew that they would be upon the two
of them soon.
The old chitin armor could withstand the bite of a few arrows, but not a
lance driven with the force of a galloping horse. The only great unknown was
time.
The thunder of beating hooves was deafening behind them when Ascutus and
Beatia reached the edge of the shore. The giant, jagged stones that strung
around the beach blockaded the approach. Beneath their feet, the ice sighed
and crackled. They could not stand still, run forward, nor run back.
Straining against the tired metal in the armor joints, they took two bounds
forward and flew at the boulders.
The first landing on the ice sounded an explosive crack. When they rose for
the final jump, it was on a wave of water so cold it felt like fire through
the thin armor. Ascutus's right hand found purchase in a deep fissure.
Beatia gripped with both hands, but her boulder was slick with frost. Faces
pressed to the stone, they could not turn to face the army behind them.
But they heard the ice splintering, and the soldiers cry out in terror for
just an instant. Then there was no sound but the whining of the wind and the
purring lap of the water. A moment later, there were footsteps on the cliff
above.
The four guardsmen had crossed the bay. There were two to pull Beatia up
from the face of the boulder, and another two for Ascutus. They strained and
swore at the weight, but finally they had their commander and her lieutenant
safely on the edge of Gorvigh Ridge.
"By Mara, that's heavy for light armor."
"Yes," smiled Beatia wearily, looking back over the empty broken ice floe,
the cracks radiating from the parallel paths she and Ascutus had run. "But
sometimes that's good."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Incident in Necrom
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_illusion3
Weight: 3
Value: 225
Special Notes: Raises Illusion skill 1 point the first time the book is read
Incident in Necrom
by Jonquilla Bothe
"The situation simply is this," said Phlaxith, his face as chiseled and
resolute as any statue. "Everyone knows that the cemetery west of the city is
haunted by some malevolent beings, and has been for many years now. The
people have come to accept it. They bury their dead by daylight, and are
away before Masser and Secunda have risen and the evil comes forth. The only
victims to fall prey to the devils within are the very stupid and the
outsiders."
"It sounds like a natural solution to filtering out the undesirables then,"
laughed Nitrah, a tall, middle-aged woman with cold eyes and thin lips.
"Where is the gold in saving them?"
"From the Temple. They're re-opening a new monastery near the cemetery, and
they need the land cleansed of evil. They're offering a fortune, so I
accepted the assignment with the caveat that I could assemble my own team to
split the reward. That's why I've sought you each out. From what I've
heard, you, Nitrah, are the best bladesman in Morrowind."
Nitrah smiled her unpleasant best.
"And you, Osmic, are a renowned burglar, though never once imprisoned."
The bald-pated young man stammered as if to refute the charges, before
grinning back, "I'll get you in where you need to go. But then it's up to
you to do what you need to do. I'm no combatter."
"Anything Nitrah and I can't handle, I'm sure Massitha will prove her
mettle," Phlaxith said, turning to the fourth member of the party. "She comes
on very good references as a sorceress of great power and skill."
Massitha was the picture of innocence, round-faced and wide-eyed. Nitrah and
Osmic looked at her uncertainly, particularly watching her fearful
expressions as Phlaxith described the nature of the creatures haunting the
cemetery. It was obvious she had never faced any adversary other than man
and mer before. If she survived, they thought to themselves, it would be
very surprising.
As the foursome trudged toward the graveyard at dusk, they took the
opportunity to quiz their new teammate.
"Vampires are filthy creatures," said Nitrah. "Disease-ridden, you know.
They say off to the west, they'll indiscriminately pass on their curse
together with a number of other afflictions. They don't do that here so
much, but still you don't want to leave their wounds untreated. I take it
you know something of the spells of Restoration if one of us gets bit?"
"I know a little, but I'm no Healer," said Massitha meekly.
"More of a Battlemage?" asked Osmic.
"I can do a little damage if I'm really close, but I'm not very good at that
either. I'm more of an illusionist, technically."
Nitrah and Osmic looked at one another with naked concern as they reached the
gates of the graveyard. There were moving shadows, stray specters among the
wrack and ruins, crumbled paths stacked on top of crumbled paths. It wasn't a
maze of a place; it could have been any dilapidated graveyard but even
without looking at the tombstones, it did have one very noticeable feature.
Filling the horizon was the mausoleum of a minor Cyrodilic official from the
2nd Era, slightly exotic but still harmonizing with the Dunmer graves in a
complimentary style called decay.
"It's a surprisingly useful School," whispered Massitha defensively. "You
see, it's all concerned with magicka's ability to alter the perception of
objects without changing their physical compositions. Removing sensual data,
for example, to cast darkness or remove sound or smell from the air. It can
help by--"
A red-haired vampire woman leapt out of the shadows in front of them,
knocking Phlaxith on his back. Nitrah quickly unsheathed her sword, but
Massitha was faster. With a wave of her hand, the creature stopped, frozen,
her jaws scant inches from Phlaxith's throat. Phlaxith pulled out his own
blade and finished her off.
"That's illusion?" asked Osmic.
"Certainly," smiled Massitha. "Nothing changed in the vampire's form, except
its ability to move. Like I said, it's a very useful School."
The four climbed up over the paths to the front gateway to the crypt. Osmic
snapped the lock and disassembled the poison trap. The sorceress cast a wave
of light down the dust-choked corridors, banishing the shadows and drawing
the inhabitants out. Almost immediately they were set on by a pair of
vampires, howling and screaming in a frenzy of bloodlust.
The battle was joined, so no sooner were the first two vampires felled than
their reinforcements attacked. They were mighty warriors of uncanny strength
and endurance, but Massitha's paralysis spell and the weaponry of Phlaxith
and Nitrah clove through their ranks. Even Osmic aided the battle.
"They're crazy," gasped Massitha when the fight finally ended and she could
catch her breath.
"Quarra, the most savage of the vampire bloodlines," said Phlaxith. "We have
to find and exterminate each and every one."
Delving into the crypts, the group hounded out more of the creatures. Though
they varied in appearance, each seemed to rely on their strength and claws
for attacking, and subtlety did not seem to be the style of any. When the
entire mausoleum had been searched and every creature within destroyed, the
four finally made their way to the surface. It was only an hour until
sunrise.
There was no frenzied scream or howl. Nothing rushed forward towards them.
The final attack when it happened was so unlike the others that the questors
were taken utterly by surprise.
The ancient creature waited until the four were almost out of the cemetery,
talking amiably, making plans for spending their share of the reward. He
judged carefully who would be the greatest threat, and then launched himself
at the sorceress. Had Phlaxith not turned his attention back from the gate,
she would have been ripped to shreds before she had a chance to scream.
The vampire knocked Massitha across a stone, its claws raking across her
back, but stopped its assault in order to block a blow from Phlaxith's sword.
It accomplished this maneuver in its own brutal way, by tearing the warrior's
arm from its socket. Osmic and Nitrah set on it, but they found themselves
in a losing battle. Only when Massitha had pulled herself back up from
behind the pile of rocks, weak and bleeding, that the fight turned. She cast
a magickal ball of flame at the creature, which so enraged it that it turned
back to her. Nitrah saw her opening and took it, beheading the vampire with
a stroke of her sword.
"So you do know some spells of destruction, like you said," said Nitrah.
"And a few spells of healing too," she said weakly. "But I can't save
Phlaxith."
The warrior died in the bloodied dust before them. The three were quiet as
they traveled across the dawn-lit countryside back toward Necrom. Massitha
felt the throb of pain on her back intensify as they walked and then a
gradual numbness like ice spread through her body.
"I need to go to a healer and see if I've been diseased," she said as they
reached the city.
"Meet us at the Moth and Fire tomorrow morning," said Nitrah. "We'll go to
the Temple and get our reward and split it there."
Three hours later, Osmic and Nitrah sat in their room at the tavern, happily
counting and recounting the gold marks. Split three ways, it was a very
comfortable sum.
"What if the healers can't do anything for Massitha?" smiled Osmic dreamily.
"Some diseases can be insidious."
"Did you hear something in the hall?" asked Nitrah quickly, but when she
looked, there was no one there. She returned, shutting the door behind her.
"I'm sure Massitha will survive if she went straight to the healer. But we
could leave tonight with the gold."
"Let's have one last drink to our poor sorceress," said Osmic, leading Nitrah
out of the room toward the stairs down.
Nitrah laughed. "Those spells of illusion won't help her track us down, as
useful as she keeps saying they are. Paralysis, light, silence -- not so
good when you don't know where to look."
They closed the door behind them.
"Invisibility is another spell of illusion," said Massitha's disembodied
voice. The gold on the table rose in the air and vanished from sight as she
slipped it into her purse. The door again opened and closed, and all was
silent until Osmic and Nitrah returned a few minutes later.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Invocation of Azura
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_InvocationOfAzura
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
Invocation of Azura
by Sigillah Parate
For three hundred years I have been a priestess of Azura, the Daedric
Princess of Moonshadow, Mother of the Rose, and Queen of the Night Sky.
Every Hogithum, which we celebrate on the 21st of First Seed, we summon her
for guidance, as
well as to offer things of worth and beauty to Her Majesty. She is a cruel
but wise mistress. We do not invoke her on any Hogithum troubled by
thunderstorms, for those nights belong to the Mad One, Sheogorath, even if
they do coincide with the occasion. Azura at such times understands our
caution.
Azura's invocation is a very personal one. I have been priestess to three
other Daedric Princes, but Azura values the quality of her worshippers, and
the truth behind our adoration of her. When I was a Dark Elven maid of
sixteen, I joined my grandmother's coven, worshippers of Molag Bal, the
Schemer Princess. Blackmail, extortion, and bribery are as much the weapons
of the Witches of Molag Bal as is dark magic. The Invocation of Molag Bal is
held on the 20th of Evening Star, except during stormy weather. This
ceremony is seldom missed, but Molag Bal often appears to her cultists in
mortal guise on other dates. When my grandmother died in an attempt to
poison the heir of Firewatch, I re-examined my faith in the cult.
My brother was a warlock of the cult of Boethiah-and from what he told me,
the Dark Warrior was closer to my spirit than the treacherous Molag Bal.
Boethiah is a Warrior Princess who acts more overtly than any other Daedroth.
After years of skulking and scheming, it felt good to perform acts for a
mistress which had direct, immediate consequences. Besides, I liked it that
Boethiah was a Daedra of the Dark Elves. Our cult would summon her on the
day we called the Gauntlet, the 2nd of Sun's Dusk. Bloody competitions would
be held in her honor, and the duels and battles would continue until nine
cultists were killed at the hands of other cultists. Boethiah cared little
for her cultists-she only cared for our blood. I do think I saw her smile
when I accidentally slew my brother in a sparring session. My horror, I
think, greatly pleased her.
I left the cult soon after that. Boethiah was too impersonal for me, too
cold. I wanted a mistress of greater depth. For the next eighteen years of
my life, I worshipped no one. Instead I read and researched. It was in an
old and profane tome that I came upon the name of Nocturnal-Nocturnal the
Night Mistress, Nocturnal the Unfathomable. As the book prescribed, I called
to her on her holy day, the 3rd of Hearth Fire. At last I had found the
personal mistress I had so long desired. I strove to understand her
labyrinthine philosophy, the source of her mysterious pain. Everything about
her was dark and shrouded, even the way she spoke and the acts she required
of me. It took years for me to understand the simple fact that I could never
understand Nocturnal. Her mystery was as essential to her as savagery was to
Boethiah or treachery was to Molag Bal. To understand Nocturnal is to negate
her, to pull back the curtains cloaking her realm of darkness. As much as I
loved her, I recognized the futility of unraveling her enigmas. I turned
instead to her sister, Azura.
Azura is the only Daedra Princess I have ever worshipped who seems to care
about her followers. Molag Bal wanted my mind, Boethiah wanted my arms, and
Nocturnal perhaps my curiosity. Azura wants all of that, and our love above
all. Not our abject slavering, but our honest and genuine caring in all its
forms. It is important to her that our emotions be engaged in her worship.
And our love must also be directed inward. If we love her and hate
ourselves, she feels our pain. I will, for all time, have no other mistress.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Journal of Tarhiel
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_falljournal_unique
Weight: 4
Value: 50
Special Notes: Unique item
I believe I may have found the correct formula for the spell I am developing.
With it, I will be able to travel great distances without the need to pay
others for the service.
If all goes well, I will test out the new spell tomorrow. I believe I have
worked out all of the possible complications. It will allow me to leap great
distances, covering many hundreds of miles. Never before has one been able to
travel in this manner: vaulting from the ground, sailing through the sky, all
without that terrible disorientation of a spell of flying.
The time is almost upon me. My research is finished, and all of my
calculations are checked and rechecked. They laughed at me when I suggested
this. We'll see who laughs after I leap to the top of their towers and scream
out my success.
Observations made on wild kagouti in southeastern Morrowind.
Kagouti do not seem to travel in large packs, as previously believed. Perhaps
they group into larger packs when mating season is imminent.
Females seem to be dominant sex. Males will bring gifts of food in exchange
for mating advantage. Males sometimes attacked.
Loud vocalizations heard exchanged (believed to be from males), especially at
night. Fascinating.
Males do not seem to engage in physical confrontation for reproductive
rights. Some posturing, but no conflict.
All kagouti display increased aggressiveness during mating. Must be careful
not to be seen.
Mating kagouti found to be increasingly territorial.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kagrenac's Journal
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_kagrenac'sjournal_excl
Weight: 2
Value: 400
Special Notes: Part of the alternate path to finishing the main quest
Kagrenac's Journal
[The contents of this handwritten journal are in an unfamiliar script in an
unknown language. There are many complex diagrams heavily annotated with
numbers and strange symbols. The title page, however, is clearly marked in
Aldmeris -- 'Kagrenac's Journals'.]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kagrenac's Planbook
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_kagrenac'splans_excl
Weight: 2
Value: 400
Special Notes: Part of the alternate path to finishing the main quest
Kagrenac's Planbook
[The contents of this handwritten journal are in an unfamiliar script in an
unknown language. There are many complex diagrams heavily annotated with
numbers and strange symbols. The title page, however, is clearly marked in
Ald Aldmeris -- 'Kagrenac's Planbook'.]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Last Scabbard of Akrash
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Armorer2
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Armorer skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Last Scabbard of Akrash
by Tabar Vunqidh
For several warm summer days in the year 3E 407, a young, pretty Dunmer woman
in a veil regularly visited one of the master armorers in the city of Tear.
The locals decided that she was young and pretty by her figure and her poise,
though no one ever saw her face. She and the armorer would retire to the
back of his shop, and he would close down his business and dismiss his
apprentices for a few hours. Then, at mid-afternoon, she would leave, only
to return at precisely the same time the next day. As gossip goes, it was
fairly meager stuff, though what the old man was doing with such a well
dressed and attractively proportioned woman was the source of several crude
jokes. After several weeks, the visits stopped, and life returned to normal
in the slums of Tear.
It was not until a month or two after the visits had stopped, that in one of
the many taverns in the neighborhood, a young local tailor, having imbibed
too much sauce, asked the armorer, "So whatever happened to your lady friend?
You break her heart?"
The armorer, well aware of the rumors, simply replied, "She is a proper young
lady of quality. There was nothing between her and the likes of me."
"What was she doing at your shop every day for?" asked the tavern wench, who
had been dying to get the subject open.
"If you must know," said the armorer. "I was teaching her the craft."
"You're putting us on," laughed the tailor.
"No, the young lady had a particular fascination with my particular kind of
artistry," the armorer said, with a hint of pride before getting lost in the
reverie. "I taught her how to mend swords specifically, from all kinds of
nicks and breaks, hairline fissures, cracked pommels, quillons, and grips.
When she first started, she had no idea how to secure the grips to the tang
of the blade... Well, of course she was green to start off with, why wouldn't
she be? But she weren't afraid to get her hands dirty. I taught her how to
patch the little inlaid silver and gold filigree you find on really fine
blades, and how to polish it all to a mirror sheen so the sword looks like
the gods just pulled it from their celestial anvil."
The tavern wench and the tailor laughed out loud. No matter what he alleged,
the armorer was speaking of the young lady's training as another man speaks
of a long lost love.
More of the locals in the tavern would have listened to the armorer's
pathetic tale, but more important gossip had taken precedence. There was
another murdered slave-trader found in the center of town, gutted from fore
to aft. That made six of them total in barely a fortnight. Some called the
killer "The Liberator," but that sort of anti-slavery zeal was rare among the
common folk. They preferred calling him "The Lopper," as several of the
earlier victims had been completely beheaded. Others had been simply
perforated, sliced, or gutted, but "The Lopper" still kept his original
sobriquet.
While the enthusiastic hooligans made bets about the condition of the next
slave-trader's corpse, several dozen of the surviving members of that trade
were meeting at the manor house of Serjo Dres Minegaur. Minegaur was a minor
houseman of House Dres, but a major member of the slave-trading fraternity.
Perhaps his best years were behind him, but his associates still counted on
him for wisdom.
"We need to take what we know of this Lopper and search accordingly," said
Minegaur, seated in front of his opulent hearth. "We know he has an
unreasonable hatred of slavery and slave-traders. We know he is skilled with
a blade. We know he has the stealth and finesse to execute our most well-
secured brethren in their most secure abodes. It sounds to me to be an
adventurer, an Outlander. Surely no citizen of Morrowind would strike at us
like this."
The slave-traders nodded in agreement. An Outlander seemed most likely for
their troubles. It was always true.
"Were I fifty years younger, I would take down my blade Akrash from the
hearth," Minegaur made an expansive gesture to the shimmering weapon. "And
join you in seeking out this terror. Search him out where adventurers meet -
- taverns and guildhalls. Then show him a little lopping of my own."
The slave-traders laughed politely.
"You wouldn't let us borrow your blade for the execution, I suppose, would
you, Serjo?" asked Soron Jeles, a young toadying slaver enthusiastically.
"It would be an excellent use for Akrash," sighed Minegaur. "But I vowed to
retire her when I retired."
Minegaur called for his daughter Peliah to bring the slavers more flin, but
they waved the girl away. It was to be a night for hunting the Lopper, not
drinking away their troubles. Minegaur heartily approved of their devotion,
particular as expensive as the liquor was getting to be.
When the last of the slavers had left, the old man kissed his daughter on the
head, took one last admiring look at Akrash, and toddled off to his bed. No
sooner had he done so then Peliah had the blade off the mantle, and was
flying with it across the field behind the manor house. She knew Kazagh had
been waiting for her for hours in the stables.
He sprung out at her from the shadows, and wrapping his strong, furry arms
around her, kissed her long and sweet. Holding him as long as she dared to,
she finally broke away and handed him the blade. He tested its edge.
"The finest Khajiiti swordsmith couldn't hone an edge this keen," he said,
looking at his beloved with pride. "And I know I nicked it up good last
night."
"That you did," said Peliah. "You must have cut through an iron cuirass."
"The slavers are taking precautions now," he replied. "What did they say
during their meeting?"
"They think it's an Outlander adventurer," she laughed. "It didn't occur to
any of them that a Khajiiti slave would possess the skill to commit all these
'loppings.'"
"And your father doesn't suspect that it's his dear Akrash that is striking
into the heart of oppression?"
"Why would he, when every day he finds it fresh as the day before? Now I
must go before anyone notices I'm gone. My nurse sometimes comes in to ask
me some detail about the wedding, as if I had any choice in the matter at
all."
"I promise you," said Kazagh very seriously. "You will not be forced into any
marriage to cement your family's slave-dealing dynasty. The last scabbard
Akrash will be sheathed into will be your father's heart. And when you are
an orphan, you can free the slaves, move to a more enlightened province, and
marry who you like."
"I wonder who that will be," Peliah teased, and raced out of the stables.
Just before dawn, Peliah awoke and crept out to the garden, where she found
Akrash hidden in the bittergreen vines. The edge was still relatively keen,
but there were scratches vertically across the blade's surface. Another
beheading, she thought, as she took pumice stone and patiently rubbed out the
marks, finally polishing it with a solution of salt and vinegar. It was up
on the mantle in pristine condition when her father came into the sitting
room for his breakfast.
When the news came that Kemillith Torom, Peliah's husband-to-be, had been
found outside of a canton, his head on a spike some feet away, she did not
have to pretend to grieve. Her father knew she did not want to marry him.
"It is a shame," he said. "The lad was a good slaver. But there are plenty
of other young men who would appreciate an alliance with our family. What
about young Soron Jeles?"
Two days nights later, Soron Jeles was visited by the Lopper. The struggle
did not take long, but Soron had had armed himself with one small defense --
a needle dipped in the ichor of poisonplant, hidden up his sleeve. After the
mortal blow, he collapsed forward and stuck Kazagh in the calf with the pin.
By the time he made it back to the Minegaur manorhouse, he was dying.
Vision blurring, he climbed up to the eaves of the house to Peliah's window
and rapped. Peliah did not answer immediately, as she was in a deep,
wonderful sleep, dreaming about her future with her Khajiiti lover. He
rapped louder, which woke up not only Peliah, but also her father in the next
room.
"Kazagh!" she cried, opening up the window. The next person in the bedroom
was Minegaur himself.
As he saw it, this slave, his property, was about to lop off the head of his
daughter, his property, with his sword, his property. Suddenly, with the
energy of a young man, Minegaur rushed at the dying Khajiit, knocking the
sword out of his hand. Before Peliah could stop him, her father had thrust
the blade into her lover's heart.
The excitement over, the old man dropped the sword and turned to the door to
call the Guard. As an after thought, it occurred to him to make certain that
his daughter hadn't been injured and might require a Healer. Minegaur turned
to her. For a moment, he felt simply disoriented, feeling the force of the
blow, but not the blade itself. Then he saw the blood and then felt the
pain. Before he fully realized that his daughter had stabbed him with
Akrash, he was dead. The blade, at last, found its scabbard.
A week later, after the official investigations, the slave was buried in an
unmarked grave in the manor field, and Serjo Dres Minegaur found his resting
place in a modest corner of the family's opulent mausoleum. A larger crowd
of curious onlookers came to view the funeral of the noble slaver whose
secret life was as the savage Lopper of his competitors. The audience was
respectfully quiet, though there was not a person there not imagining the
final moments of the man's life. Attacking his own daughter in his madness,
luckily defended by the loyal, hapless slave, before turning the blade on
himself.
Among the viewers was an old armorer who saw for one last time the veiled
young lady before she disappeared forever from Tear.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Legions of the Dead
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_legionsofthedead
Weight: 1
Value: 0
Special Notes: None
Legions of the Dead
Undead commonly occur in three basic types: spirit, flesh, and fleshless.
Spirit revenants like the ancestor ghost, wraith, and dwarven ghost, can only
be harmed by weapons that are enchanted or made of refined substances such as
silver. Ancestor ghosts, the most common spirit revenant, are harmless, apart
from the minor curses they lay upon their victims. Wraiths are similar to
ghosts, but they are capable of inflicting wounds to the careless explorer.
Dwarven ghosts are more dangerous still, but they generally appear only in
Dwarven ruins.
Flesh revenants, or 'zombies' as they are often called in the West, are known
as 'bonewalkers' in Morrowind. Magic preserves the bonewalker's fleshy
remains along with the bones and spirit. Bonewalkers are readily identified
by the sharp protuberances of bone and metal employed in the rituals that
bind them to this plane. All bonewalkers are malevolent and dangerous, but
the greater bonewalkers are far worse than the more common 'lesser'
bonewalkers. Thankfully, normal weapons harm bonewalkers.
It is difficult to generalize about fleshless revenants, or skeletons. The
agility and fighting ability of the animated remains may depend on the
abilities of the revenant's former life, and may therefore be weak or strong,
or more or less capable with weapons and shields. Fortunately, enchanted
weapons are not needed to destroy skeletons. An exception is the bonelord, a
peculiar form of revenant that seems to derive its powers more from its
spirit energies than from the substance of its skeletal remains. Bonelords
are very powerful, and very dangerous. Normal weapons do not affect them.
Vampires were believed to be extinct in Morrowind for centuries. Dunmer
culture has a special hatred for vampires, and in earlier times the
Ordinators and Buoyant Armigers hunted them to extinction. In recent years,
however, vampires have either begun to sneak into Morrowind, or long-dormant
ones have been awakened. Vampires vary in their substance and power according
to their age and accumulated lore, but even the weakest vampire is
immeasurably stronger than most other undead. Note: Ash vampires are not
vampires, and are not undead. Ash vampires are extremely dangerous. While
their spirit and substance may indeed be preserved by some magical process,
the holy warriors of the Tribunal Temple report that spell effects known to
affect the undead have no effect on ash vampires.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lives of the Saints
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_LivesOfTheSaints
Weight: 3
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
Lives of the Saints
If you would be wise, model your lives on the lives of the saints.
If you would learn valor, follow St. Nerevar the Captain, patron of Warriors
and Statesmen. Lord Nerevar helped to unite the barbarian Dunmer tribes into
a great nation, culminating in his martyrdom when leading the Dunmer to
victory against the evil Dwemer and the traitorous House Dagoth in the Battle
of Red Mountain.
If you would learn daring, follow Saint Veloth the Pilgrim, Patron of
Outcasts and Spiritual Seekers. Saint Veloth, prophet and mystic, led the
Dunmer out of the decadent home country of the Summerset Isles and into the
promised land of Morrowind. Saint Veloth also taught the difference between
the Good and Bad Daedra, and won the aid of the Good Daedra for his people
while teaching how to carefully negotiate with the Bad Daedra.
If you would learn generosity, follow Saint Rilms the Barefooted, Patron of
Pilgrims and Beggars. Saint Rilms gave away her shoes, then dressed and
appeared as a beggar to better acquaint herself with the poor.
If you would learn self-respect and respect for others, follow Saint Aralor
the Penitent, Patron of Tanners and Miners. This foul criminal repented his
sins and traveled a circuit of the great pilgrimages on his knees.
If you would learn mercy and its fruits, follow Saint Seryn the Merciful,
Patron of Brewers, Bakers, Distillers. This pure virgin of modest aspect
could heal all diseases at the price of taking the disease upon herself.
Tough-minded and fearless, she took on the burdens of others, and bore those
burdens to an honored old age.
If you would learn fierce justice, follow Saint Felms the Bold, Patron of
Butchers and Fishmongers. This brave warlord slew the Nord invaders and drove
them from our lands. He could neither read nor write, receiving inspiration
directly from the lips of Almsivi.
If you would learn pride of race and tribe, follow Saint Roris the Martyr,
Patron of Furnishers and Caravaners. Captured by Argonians just before the
Arnesian War, Roris proudly refused to renounce the Tribunal faith, and
withstood the cruel tortures of Argonian sorcerers. Vengeance and justice for
the martyred Saint Roris was the rallying cry of the Arnesian War.
If you would learn the rule of law and justice, follow Saint Olms the Just,
Patron of Chandlers and Clerks. Founder of the Ordinators, Saint Olms
conceived and articulated the fundamental principles of testing, ordeal, and
repentance.
If you would learn benevolence, follow Saint Delyn the Wise, Patron of
Potters and Glassmakers. Saint Delyn was head of House Indoril, a skilled
lawyer, and author of many learned treatises on Tribunal law and custom.
If you would learn the love of peace, follow Saint Meris the Peacemaker,
Patron of Farmers and Laborers. As a little girl, Saint Meris showed healing
gifts, and trained as a Healer. She ended a long and bloody House War,
intervening on the battlefield in her white robe to heal warriors and
spellcrafters without regard to faction. The troops of all House adopted
white robes as her standard, and refused to shed the blood of their brethren.
If you would learn reverence, follow Saint Llothis the Pious, Patron of
Tailors and Dyers. Contemporary and companion of the Tribunals, and the best-
loved Alma Rula of the Tribunal Temple, he formulated the central rituals and
principles of the New Temple Faith. Saint Llothis is the symbolic mortal
bridge between the gods and the faithful, and the archetypal priest.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lord Jornibret's Last Dance
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_light armor3
Weight: 4
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Light Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Lord Jornibret's Last Dance
(Traditional)
Women's Verse I:
Every winter season,
Except for the reason
Of one war or another
(Really quite a bother),
The Queen of Rimmen and her consort
Request their vassals come and cavort.
On each and every ball,
The first man at the Hall
Is Lord Ogin Jornibret of Gaer,
The Curse of all the Maidens Fair.
Women's Refrain:
Oh, dear ladies, beware.
Dearest, dearest ladies, take care.
Though he's a very handsome man,
If you dare to take his handsome hand,
The nasty little spell will be cast
And your first dance with him will be the last.
Men's Verse I:
At this social event
Everyone who went
Knew the bows and stances
And steps to all the dances.
The Queen of Rimmen and her consort
Would order a trumpet's wild report,
And there could be no indecision
As the revelers took position.
The first dance only ladies, separate
Away from such men as Lord Jornibret.
Men's Refrain:
Oh, dear fellows, explain.
Brothers, can you help make it plain:
The man's been doing this for years,
Leaving maidens fair in tears
Before the final tune's been blast.
And her first dance with him will be the last.
Women's Verse II:
Lord Ogin Jornibret of Gaer
Watched the ladies dance on air
The loveliest in the realm.
A fellow in a ursine-hide helm
Said, "The Queen of Rimmen and her consort
Have put together quite a sport.
Which lady fair do you prefer?"
Lord Jornibret pointed, "Her.
See that bosom bob and weave.
Well-suited for me to love and leave."
Women's Refrain.
Men's Verse II:
The man in the mask of a bear
Had left the Lord of Gaer
Before the ladies' dance was ending.
Then a trumpet sounded, portending
That the Queen of Rimmen and her consort
Called for the men to come to court.
Disdainful, passing over all the rest,
Ogin approached she of bobbing breast.
She was rejected, saved a life of woe,
For a new maiden as fair as snow.
Men's Refrain.
Women's Verse III:
At the first note of the band,
The beauty took Ogin's hand.
She complimented his stately carriage
Dancing to the tune about the marriage
Of the Queen of Rimmen and her consort.
It is very difficult indeed to comport
With grace, neither falling nor flailing,
Wearing ornate hide and leather mailing,
Dancing light as the sweetest of dreams
Without a single squeak of the seams.
Women's Refrain.
Men's Verse III:
The rhythms rose and fell
No one dancing could excel
With masculine grace and syncopation,
Lord Jornibret even drew admiration
From the Queen of Rimmen and her consort.
Like a beauteous vessel pulling into port,
He silently slid, belying the leather's weight.
She whispered girlishly, "The hour is late,
But I've never seen such grace in hide armor."
It 'twas a pity he knew he had to harm her.
Men's Refrain
Women's Verse IV
The tune beat was furious
He began to be curious
Where had the maiden been sequest'ed.
"Before this dance was requested
By the consort and his Queen of Rimmen
I didn't see you dance with the women."
"My dress was torn as I came to the dance,"
She said smiling in a voice deep as a man's,
"My maids worked quickly to repair,
While I wore a suit of hide, a helm of a bear."
Women's Refrain.
-- End
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mages Guild Charter
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_charterMG
Weight: 3
Value: 30
Special Notes: None
Imperial Charter of the Guild of Mages
I. Purpose
The Guild of Mages provides benefits to scholars of magic and established
laws regarding the proper use of magic. The Guild is dedicated to the
collection, preservation, and distribution of magical knowledge with an
emphasis on ensuring that all citizens of Tamriel benefit from this
knowledge.
II. Authority
The Guild of Mages was established on Summerset Isle in the year 230 of the
Second Era by Vanus Galerion and Rilis XII. It was later confirmed by the
"Guilds Act" of Potentate Versidue-Shaie.
III. Rules and Procedures
Crimes against fellow members of the Guild are treated with the harshest
discipline. Whether a member may regain their status in the Guild is
determined by the Arch-Mage.
IV. Membership Requirements
The Guild of Mages only accepts candidates of keen intelligence and dominant
will. Candidates must exhibit mastery in the great schools of magic:
Destruction, Alteration, Illusion, and Mysticism. Candidates must also
display practical knowledge of enchantments and alchemical processes.
V. Applications for Membership
Candidates must present themselves to the Steward of the Guild Hall for
examination and approval.
ATTACHMENT A: Mages Guild Chapters in Vvardenfell District, Province of
Morrowind
Chapters are established in Guild-owned, free-standing guildhalls in the
towns of Ald'ruhn, Balmora, and Caldera. The chapter in Sadrith Mora is
established in Wolverine Hall under lease from the Telvanni Council. The
chapter in Vivec is established in the Foreign Quarter under lease from the
Tribunal Temple.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Master Zoaraym's Tale
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_hand to hand5
Weight: 3
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Hand-to-Hand skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Master Zoaraym's Tale
By Gi'Nanth
The Temple of Two-Moons Dance in Torval has for many hundreds of years been
the finest training ground in all Tamriel for warriors of foot and fist. The
masters teach students of all ages from all parts of the Empire the most
ancient techniques and the most modern variations, and many a former pupil
has graduated to great fame. I myself trained there, and as a young child I
remember asking my first master, Zoaraym, which former student he felt had
best learned the lessons of the Temple.
"I was not a teacher when I met this man, but a student myself," he said,
smiling in reminiscence, his great wrinkled face becoming even more like the
withered fruit of the bathrum tree. "This was long ago, before your parents
were born. For many years I had trained at the Temple, rising to study in
more difficult and demanding classes taught by the wisest and most learned
Masters of the Two-Moons Dance.
"Gi'Nanth, you will come to understand that the tempering of your body must
attend the tempering of your mind, and there is a prescribed order of
training we at the Temple have designed over the years in concordance with
the way of Riddle'Thar. I had reached the highest level, where my power and
skill were such that even by supernatural, magical means, few could ever
could ever best me in weaponless combat.
"There was a servant at the Temple at the time, a Dunmer a few years older
than myself and those in my class. We had never noticed him but in passing
over the years, for he would enter the training chambers quietly, clean for a
few minutes' time, and leave without saying a word. Not that we would have
listened if he spoke, so enraptured were we in our exercises and lessons.
"When our last Master told some of us, myself included, that the time had
come for us to leave the Temple or become teachers, there was a great
festival of celebration. The Mane itself deigned to visit and observe our
ceremony. As we were and are a Temple of philosophy and combat, there were
contests of debate and competitions in the Temple's war arena, not only among
the elite few, but open to all students.
"On the first day of the festival, I was examining the gladiatorial roster to
see who I would fight with first, when I heard a conversation behind me: the
servants speaking to the archpriest of the Temple. It was the first time I
heard the Dunmer's voice, and the first time I heard his name.
"'I understand you wish to rejoin your people's struggle in Morrowind,
Taren,' the archpriest was saying. 'I am sorry to hear it. You have been an
institution here for many, many years, and you will be missed. If there's
anything I can do for you, please name it.'
"'Thank you for your kindness,' the Dunmer replied. 'I do have a request, but
I fear you would be loath to grant it. Ever since I first came to the
Temple, I have been watching the students learn, and practiced myself when my
duties allowed for it. I know I am but a servant here, but I would be
honored if you would allow me to compete in the war arena.'
"I stifled back my gasp at the mer's impertinence, to even suggest that he
would be worthy to fight with those of us who had trained so hard. To my
surprise, the archpriest agreed, adding the name Taren Omathan to the roster
at the beginners' level. I was eager to whisper the news to my fellow elite
students, but my first bout was scheduled to begin in a few minutes' time.
"I fought eighteen competitions in a row, besting all. The crowd gathered in
the arena knew of my prowess, and gave polite, unsurprised applause at the
end of each fight. As much as I focused on my own battles, I could not help
noticing that other competitions were receiving more and more attention in
the arena. The spectators whispered among themselves, and more began
drifting away to see something that was evidently more spectacular and
unusual than my unbroken string of victories.
"One of the most important lessons we teach from the Two-Moons Dance is the
lesson of rejecting one's vanity. I understood then the importance of
achieving a personal synchronicity with one's body and mind, of rebuffing
outside influences of no importance, but I admit I had not accepted the
lesson in my heart. I knew I was good, but my pride was hurt.
"It came down to a contest of champions, and I was one of the two. When I
saw who the other fighter would be, my mood turned from one of wounded
dignity to complete disbelief. My adversary was the servant, Taren.
"It must be a joke, or some final philosophical test, I reasoned. Then I
looked into the crowd, and saw anticipation of a great battle to come in
every eye. We gave one another the sign of respect, I stiffly and he with
great elegance and modesty. The fight began.
"Initially, I sought to end it quickly, still thinking that he was unworthy
to be cleaning the arena, let alone fighting in it. In retrospect, I was
being illogical, as I must have known he had bested as many students as I to
had reach that final level. He offered simple counterblows to my attacks,
and responded in kind. His style was expansive, encompassing sophisticated
arcane foot play one moment and simple jabs and kicks the next. I tried
assailments intended to dazzle, but his face never showed either fear or
contempt of my abilities.
"The fight lasted for a long time. I don't recall when I realized I was
destined to lose, but when it ended, I was not surprised with the outcome.
With a sense of unusual and true modesty, I bowed to him. But I could not
resist asking him as we left the arena to the sound of thunderous applause
how he had so secretly grown to become a Master.
"'I never had a choice to rise in the Temple,' Taren replied. 'Every day, I
cleaned the training chambers of the elite classes and then the beginners'.
So you see, I never had the misfortune to forget those early mistakes,
lessons, and techniques while observing and learning the ways of the
Masters.'
"He left Torval early the next morning to return to his homeland, and I never
saw him again, though I've heard people saw that he's become a priest and a
teacher. I became a teacher as well, for children just beginning their
training in the Two-Moons, as well as the elite. And I make certain to bring
my best pupils to see the how the unlearned fight, so that they might never
forget."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mixed Unit Tactics v1
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_MixedUnitTactics
Weight: 3
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
Mixed Unit Tactics in the Five Years War
Volume One
By Codus Callonus
The Legions could learn from the unconventional tactics used by the Khajiit
in the Five Years War against Valenwood. I was stationed at the Sphinxmoth
Legion Fort on the border near Dune and witnessed many of the northern
skirmishes firsthand.
The war started with the so-called "Slaughter of Torval." The Khajiit claim
that the Bosmer invaded the city without provocation and killed over a
thousand citizens before being driven off by reinforcements from a nearby
jungle tribe. The Bosmer claim that the attack was in retaliation for Khajiti
bandits who were attacking wood caravans headed for Valenwood.
In the spring of 3E 396 the war moved closer to Fort Sphinxmoth. I was posted
on lookout and saw parts of the conflict. I later spoke with both Khajiit and
Bosmer who fought in the battle, and it will serve as an excellent example of
how the Khajiit used a mixture of ground and tree units to win the war.
The Khajiit began the fight in an unusual way by sending tree-cutting teams
of Cathay-raht and the fearsome Senche-raht or "Battlecats" into the
outskirts of Valenwood's forests. When word reached the Bosmer that trees
were being felled (allegedly a crime in the strange Bosmeri religion), a unit
of archers were dispatched from larger conflicts in the south. The Bosmer
were thus goaded into splitting their forces into smaller groups.
The Bosmer archers took up positions in the remaining trees whose branches
were now twenty or more feet apart, allowing some light into the forest
floor. The Bosmer bent the remaining trees with their magics into small
fortifications from which to fire their bows.
When the tree-cutters arrived the next morning, a half dozen Khajiit fell to
the Bosmer arrows in the first volley. After that the Khajiit took large
wooden shields from the backs of the Senche-raht and made a crude shelter.
The Khajiit, even the enormous Senche-raht, were able to hide between this
shelter and one of the larger trees. When it became apparent that the Khajiit
would not leave their shelter, some Bosmer choose to descend and engage the
Khajiit sword-to-claw.
When the Bosmer were nearly upon the shelter, one of the Khajiit began
playing on a native instrument of plucked metal bars. This was a signal of
some kind, and a small group of the man-like Ohmes and Ohmes-raht emerged
from covered holes on the forest floor. Although outnumbered, they were
attacking from behind by surprise and won the ground quickly.
The Bosmer archers in the trees would have still won the battle were they not
having troubles of their own. A group of Dagi and Dagi-raht, two of the less
common forms of Khajiit who live in the trees of the Tenmar forest, jumped
from one tree to another under a magical cover of silence. They took up
positions in the higher branches that could not hold a Bosmer's weight. When
the signal came, they used their claws and either torches or spells of fire
(accounts from the two survivors I spoke with vary on this point) to distract
the archers while the battle on the ground took place. A few of the archers
were able to flee, but most were killed.
Apparently the Dagi and Dagi-raht have more magical ability than is widely
believed if they were able to keep themselves magically silenced for so long.
One of the surviving Bosmer told me that he saw a few ordinary cats among the
Dagi and even claimed that these ordinary cats are known as 'Alfiq' and that
they were the spellcasters, but Bosmer are almost as unreliable as the
Khajiit when it comes to the truth, and I cannot believe that a housecat can
cast spells.
At the end of the day the Khajiit lost perhaps a half-dozen fighters out a
force of no more than four dozen, while the Bosmer lost nearly an entire
company of archers. The survivors were unable to report back before a second
company of archers arrived and this strategy was repeated again, with similar
results. Finally, a much larger force was sent and the Bosmer won that battle
with the help of the native animals of Valenwood. That third skirmish and the
Khajiti response I will discuss in the second volume of this series.
Akavir means "Dragon Land". Tamriel means "Dawn's Beauty." Atmora means
"Elder Wood". Only the Redguards know what Yokuda ever meant.
Akavir is the kingdom of the beasts. No Men or Mer live in Akavir, though Men
once did. These Men, however, were eaten long ago by the vampiric Serpent
Folk of Tsaesci. Had they not been eaten, these Men would have eventually
migrated to Tamriel. The Nords left Atmora for Tamriel. Before them, the
Elves had abandoned Aldmeris for Tamriel. The Redguards destroyed Yokuda so
they could make their journey. All Men and Mer know Tamriel is the nexus of
creation, where the Last War will happen, where the Gods unmade Lorkhan and
left their Adamantine Tower of secrets. Who knows what the Akaviri think of
Tamriel, but ask yourself: why have they tried to invade it three times or
more?
There are four major nations of Akavir: Kamal, Tsaesci, Tang Mo, and Ka Po'
Tun. When they are not busy trying to invade Tamriel, they are fighting with
each other.
Kamal is "Snow Hell". Demons live there, armies of them. Every summer they
thaw out and invade Tang Mo, but the brave monkey-folk always drive them
away. Once Ada'Soom Dir-Kamal, a king among demons, attempted to conquer
Morrowind, but Almalexia and the Underking destroyed him at Red Mountain.
Tsaesci is "Snake Palace", once the strongest power in Akavir (before the
Tiger-Dragon came). The serpent-folk ate all the Men of Akavir a long time
ago, but still kind of look like them. They are tall, beautiful (if
frightening), covered in golden scales, and immortal. They enslave the
goblins of the surrounding isles, who provide labor and fresh blood. The
holdings of Tsaesci are widespread. When natives of Tamriel think of the
Akaviri they think of the Serpent-Folk, because one ruled the Cyrodilic
Empire for four hundred years in the previous era. He was Potentate Versidue-
Shaie, assassinated by the Morag Tong.
Tang Mo is the "Thousand Monkey Isles". There are many breeds of monkey-folk,
and they are all kind, brave, and simple (and many are also very crazy). They
can raise armies when they must, for all of the other Akaviri nations have,
at one time or another, tried to enslave them. They cannot decide who they
hate more, the Snakes or the Demons, but ask one, and he will probably say,
"Snakes". Though once bitter enemies, the monkey-folk are now allies with the
tiger-folk of Ka Po' Tun.
Ka Po' Tun is the "Tiger-Dragon's Empire". The cat-folk here are ruled by the
divine Tosh Raka, the Tiger-Dragon. They are now a very great empire,
stronger than Tsaesci (though not at sea). After the Serpent-Folk ate all the
Men, they tried to eat all the Dragons. They managed to enslave the Red
Dragons, but the black ones had fled to (then) Po Tun. A great war was raged,
which left both the cats and the snakes weak, and the Dragons all dead. Since
that time the cat-folk have tried to become the Dragons. Tosh Raka is the
first to succeed. He is the largest Dragon in the world, orange and black,
and he has very many new ideas.
"First," Tosh Raka says, "is that we kill all the vampire snakes." Then the
Tiger-Dragon Emperor wants to invade Tamriel.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mystery of Talara, Part 1
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Acrobatics5
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Acrobatics skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Mystery of Princess Talara
Part I
By Mera Llykith
The year was 3E 405. The occasion was the millennial celebration of the
founding of the Breton Kingdom of Camlorn. Every grand boulevard and narrow
alley was strung with gold and purple banners, some plain, some marked with
the heraldic symbols of the Royal Family or the various principalities and
dukedoms which were vassals of the King. Musicians played in the plazas
great and small, and on every street corner was a new exotic entertainer:
Redguard snake charmers, Khajiiti acrobats, magicians of genuine power and
those whose flamboyant skill was equally impressive if largely illusion.
The sight that drew most of the male citizens of Camlorn was the March of
Beauty. A thousand comely young women, brightly and provocatively dressed,
danced their way down the long, wide main street of the city, from the Temple
of Sethiete to the Royal Palace. The menfolk jostled one another and craned
their necks, picking their favorites. It was no secret that they were all
prostitutes, and after the March and the Flower Festival that evening, they
would be available for more intimate business.
Gyna attracted much of the attention with her tall, curvaceous figure barely
covered by strips of silk and her curls of flaxen hair specked with flower
petals. In her late twenties, she wasn't the youngest of the prostitutes,
but she was certainly one of the most desirable. It was clear by her
demeanor that she was used to the lascivious glances, though she was far from
jaded at the sight of the city in splendor. Compared to the squalid quarter
of Daggerfall where she made her home, Camlorn at the height of celebration
seemed so unreal. And yet, what was even stranger was how, at the same time,
familiar it all looked, though she had never been there before.
The King's daughter Lady Jyllia rode out of the palace gates, and immediately
cursed her misfortune. She had completely forgotten about the March of
Beauty. The streets were snarled, at a standstill. It would take hours to
wait for the March to pass, and she had promised her old nurse Ramke a visit
in her house south of the city. Jyllia thought for a moment, picturing in
her mind the arrangement of streets in the city, and devised a shortcut to
avoid the main street and the March.
For a few minutes she felt very clever as she wound her way through tight,
curving side streets, but presently she came upon temporary structures, tents
and theaters set up for the celebration, and had to improvise a new path. In
no time at all, she was lost in the city where she had lived all but five
years of her life.
Peering down an alley, she saw the main avenue crowded with the March of
Beauty. Hoping that it was the tale end, and desirous not to be lost again,
Lady Jyllia guided her horse toward the festival. She did not see the snake-
charmer at the mouth of the alley, and when his pet hissed and spread its
hood, her charge reared up in fear.
The women in the parade gasped and surged back at the sight, but Lady Jyllia
quickly calmed her stallion down. She looked abashed at the spectacle she
had caused.
"My apologies, ladies," she said with a mock military salute.
"It's all right, madam," said a blonde in silk. "We'll be out of your way in
a moment."
Jyllia stared as the March passed her. Looking at that whore had been like
looking in a mirror. The same age, and height, and hair, and eyes, and
figure, almost exactly. The woman looked back at her, and it seemed as if
she was thinking the same thing.
And so Gyna was. The old witches who sometimes came in to Daggerfall had
sometimes spoke of doppelgangers, spirits that assumed the guise of their
victims and portended certain death. Yet the experience had not frightened
her: it seemed only one more strangely familiar aspect of the alien city.
Before the March had danced it way into the palace gates, she had all but
forgotten the encounter.
The prostitutes crushed into the courtyard, as the King himself came to the
balcony to greet them. At his side was his chief bodyguard, a battlemage by
the look of him. As for the King himself, he was a handsome man of middle
age, rather unremarkable, but Gyna was awed at the sight of him. A dream,
perhaps. Yes, that was it: she could see him as she had dreamt of him, high
above her as he was now, bending now to kiss her. Not a one of lust as she
had experienced before, but one of small fondness, a dutiful kiss.
"Dear ladies, you have filled the streets of the great capitol of Camlorn
with your beauty," cried the King, forcing a silence on the giggling,
murmuring assembly. He smiled proudly. His eyes met Gyna's and he stopped,
shaken. For an eternity, they stayed locked together before His Highness
recovered and continued his speech.
Afterwards, while the women were all en route back to their tents to change
into their costumes for the evening, one of the older prostitutes approached
Gyna: "Did you see how the King looked at you? If you're smart, you'll be
the new royal mistress before this celebration ends."
"I've seen looks of hunger before, and that wasn't one of them," laughed
Gyna. "I'd wager he thought I was someone else, like that lady who tried to
run us over with her horse. She's probably his kin, and he thought she had
dressed up like a courtesan and joined the March of Beauty. Can you imagine
the scandal?"
When they arrived at the tents, they were greeted by a stocky, well-dressed
young man with a bald pate and a commanding presence of authority. He
introduced himself as Lord Strale, ambassador to the Emperor himself, and
their chief patron. It was Strale who had hired them, on the Emperor's
behalf, as a gift to the King and the kingdom of Camlorn.
"The March of Beauty is but a precursor to the Flower Festival tonight," he
said. Unlike the King, he did not have to yell to be heard. His voice was
loud and precise in its natural modulations. "I expect each of you to perform
well, and justify the significant expense I've suffered bringing you all the
way up here. Now hurry, you must be dressed and in position on Cavilstyr
Rock before the sun goes down."
The ambassador needn't have worried. The women were all professionals,
experts at getting dressed and undressed with none of the time-consuming
measures less promiscuous females required. His manservant Gnorbooth offered
his assistance, but found he had little to do. Their costumes were
simplicity itself: soft, narrow sheets with a hole for their heads. Not even
a belt was required, so the gowns were open at the sides exposing the frame
of their skin.
So it was long before the sun had set that the prostitutes turned dancers
were at Cavilstyr Rock. It was a great, wide promontory facing the sea, and
for the occasion of the Festival of Flowers, a large circle of unlit torches
and covered baskets had been arranged. As early as they were, a crowd of
spectators had already arrived. The women gathered in the center of the
circle and waited until it was time.
Gyna watched the crowd as it grew, and was not surprised when she saw the
lady from the March approaching, hand-in-hand with a very old, very short
white-haired woman. The old woman was distracted, pointing out islands out
at sea. The blonde lady seemed nervous, unsure of what to say. Gyna was
used to dealing with uneasy clients, and spoke first.
"Good to see you again, madam. I am Gyna of Daggerfall."
"I'm glad you bear me no ill will because of the whores, I mean horse," the
lady laughed, somewhat relieved. "I am Lady Jyllia Raze, daughter of the
King."
"I always thought that daughters of kings were called princess," smiled Gyna.
"In Camlorn, only when they are heirs to the throne. I have a younger
brother from my father's new wife whom he favors," Jyllia replied. She felt
her head swim. It was madness, speaking to a common prostitute, talking of
family politics so intimately. "Relative to that subject, I must ask you
something very peculiar. Have you ever heard of the Princess Talara?"
Gyna thought a moment: "The name sounds somewhat familiar. Why would I
have?"
"I don't know. It was a name I just thought you might recognize," sighed
Lady Jyllia. "Have you been to Camlorn before?"
"If I did, it was when I was very young," said Gyna, and suddenly she felt it
was her turn to be trusting. Something about the Lady Jyllia's friendly and
forthcoming manner touched her. "To be honest, I don't remember anything at
all of my childhood before I was nine or ten. Perhaps I was here with my
parents, whoever they were, when I was a little girl. I tell you, I think
perhaps I was. I don't recall ever being here before, but everything I've
seen, the city, you, the King himself, all seem ... like I've been here
before, long ago."
Lady Jyllia gasped and took a step back. She gripped the old woman, who had
been looking out to sea and murmuring, by the hand. The elderly creature
looked to Jyllia, surprised, and then turned to Gyna. Her ancient, half-
blind eyes sparkled with recognition and she made a sound like a grunt of
surprise. Gyna also jumped. If the King had seemed like something out of a
half-forgotten dream, this woman was someone she knew. As clear and yet
indistinct as a guardian spirit.
"I apologize," stammered Lady Jyllia. "This is my childhood nursemaid,
Ramke."
"It's her!" the old woman cried, wild-eyed. She tried to run forward, arms
outstretched, but Jyllia held her back. Gyna felt strangely naked, and
pulled her robe against her body.
"No, you're wrong," Lady Jyllia whispered to Ramke, holding the old woman
tightly. "The Princess Talara is dead, you know that. I shouldn't have
brought you here. I'll take you back home." She turned back to Gyna, her
eyes welling with tears. "The entire royal family of Camlorn was assassinated
over twenty years ago. My father was Duke of Oloine, the King's brother, and
so he inherited the crown. I'm sorry to have bothered you. Goodnight."
Gyna gazed after Lady Jyllia and the old nurse as they disappeared into the
crowd, but she had little time to consider all she had heard. The sun was
setting, and it was time for the Flower Festival. Twelve young men emerged
from the darkness wearing only loincloths and masks, and lit the torches.
The moment the fire blazed, Gyna and all the rest of the dancers rushed to
the baskets, pulling out blossoms and vines by the handful.
At first, the women danced with one another, sprinkling petals to the wind.
The crowd then joined in as the music swelled. It was a mad, beautiful
chaos. Gyna leapt and swooned like a wild forest nymph. Then, without
warning, she felt rough hands grip her from behind and push her.
She was falling before she understood it. The moment the realization hit,
she was closer to the bottom of the hundred foot tall cliff than she was to
the top. She flailed out her arms and grasped at the cliff wall. Her
fingers raked against the stone and her flesh tore, but she found a grip and
held it. For a moment, she stayed there, breathing hard. Then she began to
scream.
The music and the festival were too loud up above: no one could hear her -
she could scarcely hear herself. Below her, the surf crashed. Every bone in
her body would snap if she fell. She closed her eyes, and a vision came. A
man was standing below her, a King of great wisdom, great compassion, looking
up, smiling. A little girl, golden-haired, mischievous, her best friend and
cousin, clung to the rock beside her.
"The secret to falling is making your body go limp. And with luck, you won't
get hurt," the girl said. She nodded, remembering who she was. Eight years
of darkness lifted.
She released her grip and let herself fall like a leaf into the water below.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mystery of Talara, Part 2
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Restoration5
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Restoration skill 1 point the first timwe the book is
read
The Mystery of Princess Talara, Part II
By Mera Llykith
She felt nothing, darkness enveloping her body and mind. Pain surged through
her leg and with that sensation, a great feeling of cold washed over her.
She opened her eyes and saw that she was drowning.
Her left leg would not move at all, but using her right one and her arms, she
pulled herself up toward the moons above. It was long way through the
swirling currents that wrenched back at her. At last she broke the surface
and sucked in the cold night air. She was still close to the rocky shoreline
of the capitol city of the kingdom of Camlorn, but the water had carried her
quite a ways from the point where she fell at Cavilstyr Rock.
Not fell, she thought, correcting herself. She had been pushed.
Further down current, she allowed herself to drift. There the steep cliff
walls sloped lower until they were close to the water's edge. The silhouette
of a large house on the shore loomed ahead, and as she neared it, she could
see smoke rising from the chimney and the flicker of firelight within. The
pain in her leg was great, but greater still was the chill of the water. The
thought of a warm hearth fire was all the motivation she needed to begin
swimming again.
At the shore's edge, she tried to stand but found she couldn't. Her tears
mixed with the sea water as she began to crawl across the sand and rock. The
simple white sheet which had been her costume at the Flower Festival was
tattered and felt like a weight of lead across her back. Beyond the point of
exhaustion, she fell forward and began to sob.
"Please!" she cried. "If you can hear me, please help!"
A moment later, the door to the house opened and a woman stepped out. It was
Ramke, the old lady she had met at the Flower Festival. The one who had
started and cried "It's her!" even before she herself knew who she was. By
contrast, when the old woman came to her, this time there was no glimmer of
recognition in her eyes.
"By Sethiete, are you hurt?" Ramke whispered, and helped her up, acting as
her crutch. "I've seen that gown before. Were you one of the dancers at the
Flower Festival tonight? I was there with Lady Jyllia Raze, the daughter of
the King."
"I know, she introduced us," she groaned. "I called myself Gyna of
Daggerfall?"
"Of course, I knew you looked familiar somehow," the old woman chuckled, and
led her hop by hop across the beach and into the front door. "My memory isn't
as good as it used to be. Lets get you warm and have a look at that leg."
Ramke took Gyna's soaking rags and covered her with a blanket as she sat at
the fire. As the numbness of the chill water began to leave her, it cruelly
abandoned her to the intense agony of her leg. Until then, she had not dared
to look at it. When she did, she felt vomit rise at the sight of the deep
gash, fish-white dead flesh, plump and swollen. Thick arterial blood bubbled
up, splashing on the floor in streams.
"Oh dear," said the old woman, returning to the fire. "That must rather
sting. You're lucky that I still remember a little of the old healing
spells."
Ramke seated herself on the floor and pressed her hands on either side of the
wound. Gyna felt a flare of pain, and then a cool soft pinching and prickle.
When she looked down, Ramke was slowly sliding her wrinkled hands towards one
another. At their approach, the lesion began to mend before her eyes, flesh
binding and bruises fading.
"Sweet Kynareth," Gyna gasped. "You've saved my life."
"Not only that, you won't have an ugly scar on your pretty leg," Ramke
chuckled. "I had to use that spell so many times when Lady Jyllia was little.
You know, I was her nursemaid."
"I know," Gyna smiled. "But that was a long time ago, and you still remember
the spell."
"Oh, when you're learning anything, even the School of Restoration, there's
always a lot of study and mistakes, but once you're as old as I am, there's
no longer any need to remember things. You just know. After all, I've
probably cast it a thousand times before. Little Lady Jyllia and the little
Princess Talara was always getting cut and bruised. Small wonder, the way
they was always climbing all over the palace."
Gyna sighed. "You must have loved Lady Jyllia very much."
"I still do," Ramke beamed. "But now she's all grown and things are
different. You know, I didn't notice it before because you were all wet from
the sea, but you look very much like my lady. Did I mention that before when
we met at the Festival?"
"You did," said Gyna. "Or rather I think you thought I looked like Princess
Talara."
"Oh, it would be so wonderful if you were the Princess returned," the old
woman gasped. "You know, when the former royal family was killed, and
everyone said the Princess was killed though we never found the body, I think
the real victim was Lady Jyllia. Her little heart just broke, and for a
while, it looked like her mind did too."
"What do you mean?" asked Gyna. "What happened?"
"I don't know if I should tell a stranger this, but it's fairly well-known in
Camlorn, and I really feel like I know you," Ramke struggled with her
conscience and then released. "Jyllia saw the assassination, you see. I
found her afterwards, hiding in that terrible blood-stained throne room, and
she was like a little broken doll. She wouldn't speak, she wouldn't eat. I
tried all my healing spells, but it was quite beyond my power. So much more
than a scraped knee. Her father who was then Duke of Oloine sent her to a
sanitarium in the country to get well."
"That poor little girl," cried Gyna.
"It took her years to be herself again," said Ramke, nodding. "And, in truth,
she never really returned altogether. You wonder why her father when he was
made king didn't make her his heir? He thought that she was still not
exactly right, and in a way, as much as I would deny it, he's correct to
think so. She remembered nothing, nothing at all."
"Do you think," Gyna considered her words carefully. "That she would be
better if she knew that her cousin the Princess Talara was alive and well?"
Ramke considered it. "I think so. But maybe not. Sometimes it's best not to
hope."
Gyna stood up, finding her leg to be as strong as it looked to be. Her gown
had dried, and Ramke gave her a cloak, insisting she protect herself against
the cold night air. At the door, Gyna kissed the old woman's cheek and
thanked her. Not only for the healing spell and for the cloak, but for
everything else of kindness she had ever done.
The road close to the house went north and south. To the left was the way
back to Camlorn, where secrets lay to which she alone held the key. To the
south was Daggerfall, her home for more than twenty years. She could return
there, back to her profession on the streets, very easily. For a few
seconds, she considered her options, and then made her choice.
She had not been walking for very long, when a black carriage drawn by three
horses bearing the Imperial Seal, together with eight mounted horses, passed
her. Before it rounded the wooded pass ahead, it stopped suddenly. She
recognized one of the soldiers as Gnorbooth, Lord Strale's manservant. The
door opened and Lord Strale himself, the Emperor's ambassador, the man who
had hired her and all the other women to entertain at court, stepped out.
"You!' he frowned. "You're one of the prostitutes, aren't you? You're the
one who disappeared during the Flower Festival? Gyna, am I right?"
"All that is true," she smiled sourly. "Except my name I've discovered is not
Gyna."
"I don't care what it is," said Lord Strale. "What are you doing on the south
road? I paid for you to stay and make the kingdom merry."
"If I went back to Camlorn, there are a great many who wouldn't be merry at
all."
"Explain yourself," said Lord Strale.
So she did. And he listened.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mystery of Talara, Part 3
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Destruction5
Or
BookSkill_Destruction5_open
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Destruction skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Mystery of Princess Talara, Part III
By Mera Llykith
Gnorbooth was leaving his favorite pub in Camlorn, The Breaking Branch, when
he heard someone calling his name. His was not the sort of a name that could
be mistaken for another. He turned and saw Lord Eryl, the Royal Battlemage
from the palace, emerge from the darkness of the alley.
"Milord," said Gnorbooth with a pleasant smile.
"I'm surprised to see you out this evening, Gnorbooth," grinned Lord Eryl
with a most unpleasant smile. "I have not seen you and your master very much
since the millennial celebration, but I understand you've been very busy.
What I've been wondering is what you've been busy doing."
"Protecting the Imperial interests in Camlorn is busy work, milord. But I
cannot imagine you would be interested in the minutiae of the ambassador's
appointments."
"But I am," said the battlemage. "Especially as the ambassador has begun
acting most mysteriously, most undiplomatically lately. And I understand
that he has taken one of the whores from the Flower Festival into his house.
I believe her name is Gyna?"
Gnorbooth shrugged: "He's in love, I would imagine, milord. It can make men
act very strangely, as I'm sure you've heard before."
"She is a most comely wench," laughed Lord Eryl. "Have you noticed how much
she resembles the late Princess Talara?"
"I have only been in Camlorn for fifteen years, milord. I never saw her late
majesty."
"Now I could understand it if he had taken to writing poetry, but what man in
love spends his days in the kitchens of the palace, talking to old servants?
That hardly sounds like molten passion to me, even based on my limited
experience." Lord Eryl rolled his eyes. "And what is this business he has now
in - oh, what is the name of that village?"
"Umbington?" replied Gnorbooth, and immediately wished he hadn't. Lord Eryl
was too canny an actor to reveal it, but Gnorbooth knew at the pit of his
stomach that the battlemage did not even know Lord Strale had left the
capitol. He had to get away to let the ambassador know, but there was still
a game to be carefully played. "He's not leaving for there until tomorrow. I
believe it's just to put a stamp on some deed that needs the Imperial seal."
"Is that all? How tedious for the poor fellow. I suppose I'll see him when
he returns then," Lord Eryl bowed. "Thank you for being so informative.
Farewell."
The moment the royal battlemage turned the corner, Gnorbooth leapt onto his
horse. He had drunk one or two ales too many, but he knew he must find his
way to Umbington before Lord Eryl's agents did. He galloped east out of the
capitol, hoping there were signs along the road.
Seated in a tavern that smelled of mildew and sour beer, Lord Strale marveled
at how the Emperor's agent Lady Brisienna always found the most public of
places for her most private of conferences. It was harvest time in
Umbington, and all of the field hands were drinking away their meager wages
in the noisiest of fashions. He was dressed appropriately for the venue,
rough trousers and a simple peasant's vest, but he still felt conspicuous.
In comparison to his two female companions, he certainly was. The woman to
his right was used to frequenting the low places of Daggerfall as a common
prostitute. Lady Brisienna to his left was even more clearly in her element.
"By what name would you prefer I call you?" Lady Brisienna asked
solicitously.
"I am used to the name Gyna, though that may have to change," was her reply.
"Of course, it may not. Gyna the Whore may be the name writ on my grave."
"I will see to it that there is no attempt on your life like that the Flower
Festival," Lord Strale frowned. "But without the Emperor's help, I won't be
able to protect you forever. The only permanent solution is to capture those
who would do you harm and then to raise you to your proper station."
"Do you believe my story?" Gyna turned to Lady Brisienna.
"I have been the Emperor's chief agent in High Rock for many years now, and I
have heard few stranger tales. If your friend the ambassador hadn't
investigated and discovered what he has, I would have dismissed you outright
as a madwoman," Brisienna laughed, forcing a smile onto Gyna's face to match.
"But now, yes, I do believe you. Perhaps that makes me the madwoman."
"Will you help us?" asked Lord Strale simply.
"It is a tricky business interfering in the affairs of the provincial
kingdoms," Lady Brisienna looked into the depths of her mug thoughtfully.
"Unless there is a threat to the Empire itself, we find it is best not to
meddle. What we have in your case is a very messy assassination that
happened twenty years ago, and its aftermath. If His Imperial Majesty
involved itself in every bloody hiccup in the succession in each of his
thousand vassal kingdoms, he would never accomplish anything for the greater
good of Tamriel."
"I understand," murmured Gyna. "When I remembered everything, who I was and
what happened to me, I resolved to do nothing about it. In fact, I was
leaving Camlorn and going back home to Daggerfall when I saw Lord Strale
again. He was the one who began this quest to resolve this, not me. And
when he brought me back, I only wanted to see my cousin to tell her who I
was, but he forbade me."
"It would have been too dangerous," growled Strale. "We still don't know yet
the depths of the conspiracy. Perhaps we never will."
"I'm sorry, I always find myself giving long explanations to short questions.
When Lord Strale asked if I would help, I should have begun by saying 'yes,'"
Lady Brisienna laughed at the change in Lord Strale and Gyna's expressions.
"I will help you, of course. But for this to turn out well, you must
accomplish two things to the Emperor's satisfaction. First, you must prove
with absolute certainty who is the power behind this plot you've uncovered.
You must get someone to confess."
"And secondly," said Lord Strale, nodding. "We must prove that this is a
matter worthy of His Imperial Majesty's consideration, and not merely a minor
local concern."
Lord Strale, Lady Brisienna, and the woman who called herself Gyna discussed
how to accomplish their goals for a few hours more. When it was agreed what
had to be done, Lady Brisienna took her leave to find her ally Proseccus.
Strale and Gyna set off to the west, toward Camlorn. It was not long after
beginning their ride through the woods that they heard the sound of galloping
hoof beats far up ahead. Lord Strale unsheathed his sword and signaled for
Gyna to position her horse behind him.
At that moment, they were attacked on all sides. It was an ambush. Eight
men, armed with axes, had been lying in wait.
Lord Strale quickly yanked Gyna from her horse, pulling her behind him. He
made a brief, deft motion with his hands. A ring of flame materialized
around them, and rushed outward, striking their assailants. The men roared
in pain and dropped to their knees. Lord Strale jumped the horse over the
closest one, and galloped at full speed westward.
"I thought you were an ambassador not a mage!" laughed Gyna.
"I still believe there are times for diplomacy," replied Lord Strale.
The horse and rider they had heard before met them on the road. It was
Gnorbooth. "Milord, it's the royal battlemage! He found out you two were in
Umbington!"
"With considerable ease, I might add," Lord Eryl's voice boomed out of the
woods. Gnorbooth, Gyna, and Lord Strale scanned the dark trees, but they
showed nothing. The battlemage's voice seemed to emanate from everywhere and
nowhere.
"I'm sorry, milord," groaned Gnorbooth. "I tried to warn you as soon as I
could."
"In your next life, perhaps you'll remember not to trust your plans to a
drunkard!" laughed Lord Eryl. He had them in his sight, and the spell was
unleashed.
Gnorbooth saw him first, by the light of the ball of fire that leapt from his
fingertips. Later, Lord Eryl was to wonder to himself what the fool had
intended to do. Perhaps he was rushing forward to pull Lord Strale out of
the path. Perhaps he was trying to flee the path of destruction, and had
simply moved left when he should have moved right. Perhaps, as unlikely as
it seemed, he was willing to sacrifice himself to save his master. Whatever
the reason, the result was the same.
He got in the way.
There was an explosion of energy that filled the night, and an echoing boom
that shook birds from the trees for a mile around. On the few square feet
where Gnorbooth and his horse had stood was nothing but black glass. They
had been reduced to less than vapor. Gyna and Lord Strale were thrown back.
Their horse, when it recovered its senses, galloped away as fast as it could.
In the lingering glowing aura of the spell's detonation, Lord Strale looked
straight into the woods and into the wide eyes of the battlemage.
"Damn," said Lord Eryl and began to run. The ambassador jumped to his feet
and pursued.
"That was an expensive use of magicka, even for you," said Lord Strale as he
ran. "Don't you know well enough not to use ranged spells unless you are
certain your target won't be blocked?"
"I never thought - that idiot -" Lord Eryl was struck from behind and knocked
to the wet forest floor before he had a chance to finish his lamentation.
"It doesn't matter what you thought," said Lord Strale calmly, flipping the
battlemage around and pinning his arms to the ground with his knees. "I'm not
a battlemage, but I knew enough not to use my entire reserve on your little
ambush. Perhaps it's a matter of philosophy, as a government agent, I feel
inclined toward conservatism."
"What are you going to do?" whimpered Lord Eryl.
"Gnorbooth was a good man, one of the best, and so I'm going to hurt you
quite a lot," the ambassador made a slight movement and his hands began to
glow brightly. "That's a certainty. How much more I'm going to hurt you
after that depends on what you tell me. I want to hear about the former Duke
of Oloine."
"What do you want to know?" Lord Eryl screamed.
"Let's start with everything," replied Lord Strale with perfect patience.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mystery of Talara, Part 4
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_illusion5
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Illusion skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Mystery of Princess Talara
Part IV
By Mera Llykith
Gyna never saw the Emperor's agent Lady Brisienna again, but she kept her
promise. Proseccus, a nightblade in the service of the Empire, arrived at
Lord Strale's house in disguise. She was an apt pupil, and within days, he
had taught what she needed to know.
"It is a simple charm, not the sort of spell that could turn a raging
daedroth into a love-struck puppy," said Proseccus. "If you do or say
anything that would normally anger or offend your target, the power will
weaken. It will alter temporarily his perception of you, as spells of the
school of illusion do, but his feelings of respect and admiration for you
must be supported by means of a charm of a less magickal nature."
"I understand," smiled Gyna, thanking her tutor for the two spells of
illusion he had taught her. The time had come to use her new-found skill.
The Prostitutes Guildhouse of Camlorn was a great palace in an affluent
northern quarter of the city. Prince Sylon could have found his way there
blindfolded, or blind drunk as he often was. Tonight, however, he was only
lightly inebriated and he resolved to drink no more. Tonight he was in the
mood for pleasure. His kind of pleasure.
"Where is my favorite, Grigia?" he demanded of the Guildmistress upon
entering.
"She is still healing from your appointment with her last week," she smiled
serenely. "Most of the other women are in with clients as well, but I saved a
special treat for you. A new girl. One you will certainly enjoy."
The Prince was guided to a sumptuously decorated suite of velvet and silk.
As he entered, Gyna stepped from behind a screen and cast her spell quickly,
with her mind open to belief as Proseccus had instructed. It was hard to
tell if it worked at first. The Prince looked at her with a cruel smile and
then, like sun breaking through clouds, the cruelty left. She could tell he
was hers. He asked her her name.
"I am between names right now," she teased. "I've never made love to a real
prince before. I've never even been inside a palace. Is yours very ...
big?"
"It's not mine yet," he shrugged. "But someday I'll be king."
"It would be wonderful to live in such a place," Gyna cooed. "A thousand
years of history. Everything must be so old and beautiful. The paintings
and books and statues and tapestries. Does your family hold onto all their
old treasures?"
"Yes, hoarded away with a lot of boring old junk in the archive rooms in the
vaults. Please, may I see you naked now?"
"First a little conversation, though you may feel free to disrobe whenever
you like," said Gyna. "I had heard there was an archive room, but it's quite
hidden away."
"There's a false wall behind the family crypt," said the Prince, gripping her
wrist and pulling her towards him for a kiss. Something in his eyes had
changed.
"Your Highness, you're hurting my arm," Gyna cried.
"Enough talk, you bewitching whore," he snarled. Holding back a sharp jab of
fear, Gyna let her mind cool and perceptions whirl. As his angry mouth
touched her lips, she cast the second spell she had learned her illusionist
mentor.
The Prince felt his flesh turn to stone. He remained frozen, watching Gyna
pull together her clothing and leave the room. The paralysis would only last
for a few more minutes, but it was all the time she needed.
The Guildmistress had already left with all her girls, just as Gyna and Lord
Strale had told her to. They would tell her when it was safe to return. She
had not even accepted any gold for her part in the trap. She said it was
enough that her girls would not be tortured anymore by that most perverse and
cruel Prince.
"What a terrible boy," thought Gyna as she raised the hood on her cloak and
raced through the streets toward Lord Strale's house. "It is good that he
will never be king."
The following morning, the King and Queen of Camlorn held their daily
audience with various nobles and diplomats, a sparse gathering. The throne
room was largely empty. It was a terribly dull way to begin the day. In
between petitions, they yawned regally.
"What has happened to all the interesting people?" the Queen murmured.
"Where's our precious boy?"
"I've heard he was raging through the north quarter in search of some harlot
who robbed him," the King chuckled fondly. "What a fine lad."
"And what of the Royal Battlemage?"
"I've sent him to take care of a delicate matter," the King knit his brow.
"But that was nearly a week ago, and I haven't heard one word from him. It's
somewhat troubling."
"Indeed it is, Lord Eryl should not be gone so long," the Queen frowned.
"What if a rogue sorcerer came and threatened us? Husband, don't laugh at
me, that is why all the royal houses of High Rock keep their mage retainers
close to their side. To protect their court from evil enchantments, like the
one that our poor Emperor suffered so recently."
"At the hand of his own battlemage," chuckled the King
"Lord Eryl would never betray you like that, and you well know it. He has
been in your employ since you were Duke of Oloine. To even make that
comparison between he and Jagar Tharn, really," the Queen waved her hands
dismissively. "It is that sort of lack of trust that is ruining kingdoms all
over Tamriel. Now, Lord Strale tells me -"
"There's another man that's gone missing," mused the King.
"The ambassador?" the Queen shook her head. "No, he's here. He was desirous
to visit the crypts and pay homage to your noble ancestors, so I directed him
there. I can't think what's keeping him so long. He must be more pious than
I thought."
She was surprised to see the King rise up, alarmed. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Before she had a chance to reply, the subject of their conversation was
coming through the open door to the throne room. At on his arm was a
beautiful fair-haired woman in a stately gown of scarlet and gold, worthy of
the highest nobility. The queen followed her startled husband's gaze, and
was likewise amazed.
"I had heard he was taken with one of the harlots from the Flower Festival,
not a lady," she whispered. "Why, she looks remarkably like your daughter,
the Lady Jyllia."
"That she does," the King gasped. "Or her cousin, the Princess Talara."
The nobles in the room also whispered amongst themselves. Though few had
been at court twenty years ago when the Princess had disappeared, presumed
murdered like the rest of the royal family, there were still a few elder
statesmen who remembered. It was not only on throne that the word "Talara"
passed through the air like an enchantment.
"Lord Strale, will you introduce us to your lady?" the Queen asked with a
polite smile.
"In a moment, your highness, but I'm afraid I must first discuss pressing
matters," Lord Strale replied with a bow. "Might I request a private
audience?"
The King looked at the Imperial ambassador, trying to read into the man's
expression. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the assembled and had the
doors shut behind them. No one remained in the audience room but the King,
the Queen, the ambassador, a dozen royal guards, and the mysterious woman.
The ambassador pulled from his pocket a sheaf of old yellowed parchment.
"Your Highness, when you ascended the throne after your brother and his
family were murdered, anything that seemed important, deeds and wills, were
of course kept with the clerks and ministers. His entire incidental,
unimportant personal correspondence was sent to archive which is standard
protocol. This letter was among them."
"What is this all about, sir?" the King boomed. "What does it say?"
"Nothing about you, your majesty. In truth, at the time of your majesty's
ascension, no one reading it could have understood its significance. It was
a letter to the Emperor the late king your brother was penning at the time of
his assassination, concerning a thief who had once been a mage-priest at the
Temple of Sethiete here in Camlorn. His name was Jagar Tharn."
"Jagar Tharn?" the Queen laughed nervously. "Why, we were just talking about
him."
"Tharn had stolen many books of powerful and forgotten spells, and lore about
such artifacts as the Staff of Chaos, where it was hidden and how it could be
used. News travels slowly to westernmost High Rock, and by the time the King
your brother had heard that the Emperor's new battlemage was a man named
Jagar Tharn, many years had passed. The king had been writing a letter to
warn the Emperor of the treachery of his Imperial Battlemage, but it was
never completed." Lord Strale held up the letter. "It is dated on the day of
his assassination in the year 385. Four years before Jagar Tharn betrayed
his master, and began the ten years of tyranny of the Imperial Simulacrum."
"This is all very interesting," the King barked. "But what has it to do with
me?"
"The late King's assassination is now a matter of Imperial concern. And I
have a confession from your Royal Battlemage Lord Eryl."
The King's face lost all color: "You miserable worm, no man may threaten me.
Neither you, nor that whore, nor that letter will ever see the light of day
again. Guards!"
The royal guards unsheathed their blades and pressed forward. As they did
so, there was a sudden shimmering of light and the room was filled with
Imperial nightblades, led by Proseccus. They had been there for hours,
lurking invisibly in the shadows.
"In the name of His Imperial Majesty, Uriel Septim VII, I arrest you," said
Strale.
The doors were opened, and the King and Queen were led out, heads bowed.
Gyna told Proseccus where he would most likely find their son, Prince Sylon.
The courtiers and nobles who had been in the audience chamber stared at the
strange, solemn procession of their King and Queen to their own royal prison.
No one said a word.
When at last a voice was heard, it startled all. The Lady Jyllia had arrived
at court. "What is happening? Who dares to usurp the authority of the King
and Queen?"
Lord Strale turned to Proseccus: "We would speak with the Lady Jyllia alone.
You know what needs to be done."
Proseccus nodded and had the doors to the throne room closed once again. The
courtiers pressed against the wood, straining to hear everything. Though
they could not say it, they wanted an explanation almost as much as her
Ladyship did.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mystery of Talara, Part 5
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_mystery5
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: None
The Mystery of Princess Talara, Part V
The Final Chapter and Solution
By Mera Llykith
"By what right do you arrest my father?" cried the Lady Jyllia. "What has he
done?"
"I arrest the King of Camlorn, the former Duke of Oloine, by my right as an
Imperial Commanding Officer and Ambassador," said Lord Strale. "By the right
of law of the Emperor of Tamriel which supercedes all provincial royal
authority."
Gyna came forward and tried to put her hand on Jyllia's arm, but she was
coldly rebuffed. Quietly, she sat down at the foot of the throne in the now
empty audience chamber.
"This young lady came to me, having completely recovered her memory, but the
story she told was beyond incredible, I simply couldn't believe it," said
Lord Strale. "But she was so convinced of it, I had to investigate. So I
talked to everyone who was here at the palace twenty years ago to see if
there could be any truth to it. Of course, at the time of the King and
Queen's murder, and the Princess's disappearance, there was a full inquiry
made, but I had different questions to ask this time. Questions about the
relationship between the two little cousins, Lady Jyllia Raze and the
Princess."
"I've told everyone over and over again, I don't remember anything at all
about that time in my life," said Jyllia, tears welling up.
"I know you don't. There has never been a question in my mind that you
witnessed a horrible murder, and that your memory lapse and hers," said Lord
Strale, gesturing toward Gyna "Are both very real. The story I heard from the
servants and other people at the palace was that the little girls were
inseparably close. There were no other playmates, and as the Princess's
place was to be close to her parents, so the little Lady Jyllia was always
there as well. When the assassin came to murder the Royal Family, the King
and Queen were in their bedroom, and the girls were playing in the throne
room."
"When my memory came back to me, it was like opening a sealed box," said Gyna
solemnly. "Everything was so clear and detailed, like it all happened
yesterday not twenty years ago. I was on the throne, playing Empress, and
you were hiding behind the dais, pretending you were in a dungeon I had sent
you to. A man I had never seen burst into the room from the Royal
bedchamber, his blade soaked in blood. He came at me, and I ran for my life.
I remember starting to run for the dais, but I saw your face, frozen in fear,
and I didn't want to lead him to you. So I ran for the window.
"We had climbed on the outside of the castle before, just for fun, that was
one of the first memories that came back to me when I was holding onto that
cliff. You and I on the castle wall, and the King calling up to me, telling
me how to get down. But that day, I couldn't hold on, I was trembling so
much. I just fell, and landed in the river.
"I don't know if it was entirely the horror of what I had seen, or that
combined with the impact of the fall and the coldness of the water, but
everything just went blank in my mind. When I finally pulled myself out of
the river, many miles away, I had no idea who I was. And so it stayed," Gyna
smiled. "Until now."
"So you are the Princess Talara?" cried Jyllia.
"Let me explain further before she answers that, because the simple answer
would just confuse you, as it did me," said Lord Strale. "The assassin was
caught before he managed to escape the palace - in truth, he had to know he
was going to be caught. He confessed immediately to the murders of the Royal
Family. The Princess, he said, he had thrown out the window to her death. A
servant down below heard the scream, and saw something fly past his window,
so he knew it to be true.
"It was not for several hours that little Lady Jyllia was found by her
nursemaid Ramke hiding behind the dais, coated with dust, shivering with
fear, and unable to speak at all. Ramke was very protective of you," Strale
said, nodding to Jyllia. "She insisted on putting you to your room right
away, and sent word the Duke of Oloine that the Royal Family was dead, and
that his daughter had witnessed the murders but survived."
"I'm beginning to remember a little of that," said Jyllia, wonderingly. "I
remember lying in bed, with Ramke comforting me. I was so muddled and I
couldn't concentrate. I remember I just wanted it all to be play time still,
I don't know why. And then, I remember being bundled up and taken to that
asylum."
"It'll all come back to you soon," Gyna smiled. "I promise. That's how I
began to remember. I just caught one detail, and the whole flood began."
"That's it," Jyllia began to sob in frustration. "I don't remember anything
else except confusion. No, I also remember Daddy not even looking at me as I
was taken away. And I remember not caring about that, or anything else."
"It was a confusing time for all, so particularly so for little girls.
Especially little girls who went through what you two did," said Lord Strale
sympathetically. "From what I understand, as soon as he received the message
from Ramke, the Duke left his palace at Oloine, gave orders for you to be
sent to a private sanitarium until you'd recovered from your ordeal, and set
to work with his private guard torturing the assassin for information. When
I heard that, that no one but the Duke and his personal guard saw the
assassin after he gave his initial confession, and that no one was present
but the Duke and his guards when the assassin was killed trying to escape, I
thought that very significant.
"I spoke with Lord Eryl, who I knew was one of those present, and I had to
bluff him, pretending I had more evidence than I did. I got the reaction I
was hoping for, though it was a dangerous gambit. At last he confessed to
what I already knew to be true.
"The assassin," Lord Strale paused, and reluctantly met Jyllia's eyes, "Had
been hired by the Duke of Oloine to kill the Royal Family, including the
Princess as heir, so that the crown might be passed to him and to his
children."
Jyllia stared at Lord Strale, aghast. "My father -"
"The assassin had been told that once the Duke had him in custody, he would
be paid and a prison break would be arranged. The thug picked the wrong time
to be greedy and try to get more gold. The Duke decided that it would be
cheaper to silence him, so he murdered him then and there, so the man would
never tell anyone what really happened," Lord Strale shrugged. "No tragic
loss as far as murders go. In a few years' time, you returned from the
sanitarium, a little shaken but back to normal, except for a complete absence
of memory about your childhood. And in that time, the former Duke of Oloine
had taken his brother's place as the King of Camlorn. It was no small
maneuver."
"No," said Jyllia, quietly. "He must have been very busy. He remarried and
had another child. No one ever came to visit me in the sanitarium but
Ramke."
"If he had visited and seen you," said Gyna. "This story might have turned
out very differently."
"What do you mean?" asked Jyllia.
"This is the most amazing part," said Lord Strale. "The question has long
been whether Gyna is the Princess Talara. When her memory returned, and she
told me what she remembered, I put several pieces of evidence together.
Consider these facts.
"The two of you look remarkably alike now after twenty years of living very
different lives, and as little girls and constant playmates, you looked
nearly identical.
"At the time of the assassination, the murderer who had never been there
before, only saw one girl on the throne, who he assumed to be his quarry.
"The woman who found Lady Jyllia was her nursemaid Ramke, a creature of
unstable mind and fanatical devotion to her charge - the type would never
accept the possibility that her beloved little girl had been the one who
disappeared. The nursemaid was the only single person who knew both Princess
Talara and the Lady Jyllia who visited you while you were in the sanitarium.
"Finally," said Lord Strale, "Consider the fact that when you returned to
court from the sanitarium, five years had past, and you had grown from a
child to a young lady. You looked familiar, but not quite the same as your
family remembered you, which is only natural."
"I don't understand," cried the poor girl, her eyes wide, because she did
understand. Here memory was falling together like a terrible flood.
"Let me explain it like this," said her cousin, wrapping her in her arms. "I
know who I am now. My real name is Jyllia Raze. That man who was arrested
was my father, the man who murdered the King - your father. YOU are the
Princess Talara."
Mysticism
The Unfathomable Voyage
by Tetronius Lor
Mysticism is the school of sorcery least understood by the magical community
and the most difficult to explain to novice mages. The spell effects
commonly ascribed to the School of Mysticism are as extravagantly disparate
as Soul Trap, the creation of a cell that would hold a victim's spirit after
death, to Telekinesis, the manipulation of objects at a distance. But these
effects are simply that: effects. The sorcery behind them is veiled in a
mystery that goes back to the oldest civilizations of Tamriel, and perhaps
beyond.
The Psijics of the Isle of Artaeum have a different term for Mysticism: the
Old Way. The phrase becomes bogged in semantic quagmire because the Old Way
also refers to the religion and customs of the Psijics, which may or may not
be part of the magic of Mysticism.
There are few mages who devote their lives to the study of Mysticism. The
other schools are far more predictable and ascertainable. Mysticism seems to
derive power from its conundrums and paradoxes; the act of experimentation,
no matter how objectively implemented, can influence magicka by its very
existence. Therefore the Mystic mage must consign himself to finding
dependable patterns within a roiling imbroglio of energy. In the time it
takes him to devise an enchantment with a consistent trigger and result, his
peers in the other schools may have researched and documented dozens of new
spells and effects. The Mystic mage must thus be a patient and relatively
uncompetitive philosopher.
For centuries, mostly during the Second Era, scholarly journals published
theory after theory about the aspect or aspects of magicka lumped together
under Mysticism. In the Mages Guild's tradition of finding answers to all
things, respected researchers suggested that Mysticism's penultimate energy
source was the Aetherius Itself, or else Daedric Beings of unimaginable power
-- either rationale would explain the seemingly random figurations of
Mysticism. Some even ventured that Mysticism arose from the unused elements
of successfully, or even unsuccessfully, cast spells. Discussion within the
Order of Psijics after Artaeum's reappearance has led some scholars to
postulate that Mysticism is less spiritual in nature as was originally
supposed, and that either the intellect or the emotional state of the
believer is sufficient to influence its energy configuration and flow.
None of these explanations is truly satisfactory taken by itself. For the
beginning student of Mysticism, it is best simply to learn the patterns
distinguishable in the maelstrom of centuries past. The more patterns are
discovered, the clearer the remaining ones become. Until, of course, they
change. For inevitably they have to. And then the journey begins anew.
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Nchunak's Fire and Faith
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_nchunaksfireandfaith
Weight: 4
Value: 60
Special Notes: None
Nchunak's Fire and Faith
[This book is a translated account of Nchunak's travels among the various
colonies of the Dwemer explaining the theories of Kagrenac.]
I made inquiry as to the state of enlightenment among the people he spoke
for. He answered that with respect to the theories of Kagrenac, there was
but one scholar near who could guide the people through the maze that leads
to true misunderstanding.
He informed me, however, that in Kherakah the precepts of Kagrenac were
taught. He said that nothing pleased him more than to see the Dwemer of
Kherakah, the most learned people in the world, studying Kagrenac's words and
giving consideration to their place in the life to come, and where neither
planar division nor the numeration of amnesia nor any other thing of utility
was more valued than the understanding of the self and its relationship to
the Heart.
I was gracious enough to receive this as a high compliment, and, removing my
helm, I thanked him and departed with an infinity of bows.
[This is a selection from a series of monographs by various Imperial scholars
on Ashlander legends.]
In ancient days, the Deep Elves and a great host of outlanders from the West
came to steal the land of the Dunmer. In that time, Nerevar was the great
khan and warleader of the House People, but he honored the Ancient Spirits
and the Tribal law, and became as one of us.
So, when Nerevar pledged upon his great Ring of the Ancestors, One-Clan-
Under-Moon-and-Star, to honor the ways of the Spirits and rights of the Land,
all the Tribes joined the House People to fight a great battle at Red
Mountain.
Though many Dunmer, Tribesman and Houseman, died at Red Mountain, the Dwemer
were defeated and their evil magicks destroyed, and the outlanders driven
from the land. But after this great victory, the power-hungry khans of the
Great Houses slew Nerevar in secret, and, setting themselves up as gods,
neglected Nerevar's promises to the Tribes.
But it is said that Nerevar will come again with his ring, and cast down the
false gods, and by the power of his ring will make good his promises to the
Tribes, to honor the Spirits and drive the outsiders from the land.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_NGastaKvataKvakis_c
Or
bk_NGastaKvataKvakis_o
Weight: 2
Value: 200
Special Notes: None
N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis!
[an obscure text in the language of the Sload, purportedly written by the
Second Era Western necromancer, N'Gasta.]
N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis!
N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis! ahkstas so novajxletero (oix jhemile) so Ranetauw.
Ricevas gxin pagintaj membrauw kaj aliaj individuauw, kiujn iamaniere tusxas
so raneta aktivado. En gxi aperas informauw unuavice pri so lokauw so
cxiumonataj kunvenauw, sed nature ankoix pri aliaj aktuasoj aktivecauw so
societo. Ne malofte enahkstas krome plej diversaspekta materialo eduka oix
distra.
So interreta Kvako (retletera kaj verjheauw) ahkstas unufsonke alternativaj
kanasouw por distribui so enhavon so papera Kva! Kvak!. Sed alifsonke so
enhavauw so diversaj verjheauw antoixvible ne povas kaj ecx ne vus cxiam
ahksti centprocente so sama. En malvaste cirkusonta paperfolio ekzemple ebsos
publikigi ilustrajxauwn, kiuj pro kopirajtaj kiasouw ne ahkstas uzebsoj en so
interreto. Alifsonke so masoltaj kostauw reta distribuo forigas so spacajn
limigauwn kaj permahksas pli ampleksan enhavon, por ne paroli pri gxishora
aktualeco.
Tiuj cirkonstancauw rahkspeguligxos en so aspekto so Kvakoa, kiu ja cetere
servos ankoix kiel gxeneraso retejo so ranetauw.
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Night Falls On Sentinel
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_blunt weapon3
Weight: 4
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Blunt Weapon skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Night Falls On Sentinel
By Boali
No music played in the Nameless Tavern in Sentinel, and indeed there was very
little sound except for discreet, cautious murmurs of conversation, the soft
pad of the barmaid's feet on stone, and the delicate slurping of the regular
patrons, tongues lapping at their flagons, eyes focused on nothing at all.
If anyone were less otherwise occupied, the sight of the young Redguard woman
in a fine black velvet cape might have aroused surprise. Even suspicion. As
it were, the strange figure, out of place in an underground cellar so modest
it had no sign, blended into the shadows.
"Are you Jomic?"
The stout, middle-aged man with a face older than his years looked up and
nodded. He returned to his drink. The young woman took the seat next to
him.
"My name is Haballa," she said and pulled out a small bag of gold, placing it
next to his mug.
"Sure it be," snarled Jomic, and met her eyes again. "Who d'you want dead?"
She did not turn away, but merely asked, "Is it safe to talk here?"
"No one cares about nobody else's problems but their own here. You could
take off your cuirass and dance bare-breasted on the table, and no one'd even
spit," the man smiled. "So who d'you want dead?"
"No one, actually," said Haballa. "The truth is, I only want someone ...
removed, for a while. Not harmed, you understand, and that's why I need a
professional. You come highly recommended."
"Who you been talking to?" asked Jomic dully, returning to his drink.
"A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend."
"One of them friends don't know what he's talking about," grumbled the man.
"I don't do that any more."
Haballa quietly took out another purse of gold and then another, placing them
at the man's elbow. He looked at her for a moment and then poured the gold
out and began counting. As he did, he asked, "Who d'you want removed?"
"Just a moment," smiled Haballa, shaking her head. "Before we talk details, I
want to know that you're a professional, and you won't harm this person very
much. And that you'll be discreet."
"You want discreet?" the man paused in his counting. "Awright, I'll tell you
about an old job of mine. It's been - by Arkay, I can hardly believe it -
more 'n twenty years, and no one but me's alive who had anything to do with
the job. This is back afore the time of the War of Betony, remember that?"
"I was just a baby."
"'Course you was," Jomic smiled. "Everyone knows that King Lhotun had an
older brother Greklith what died, right? And then he's got his older sister
Aubki, what married that King fella in Daggerfall. But the truth's that he
had two elder brothers."
"Really?" Haballa's eyes glistened with interest.
"No lie," he chuckled. "Weedy, feeble fella called Arthago, the King and
Queen's first born. Anyhow, this prince was heir to the throne, which his
parents wasn't too thrilled about, but then the Queen she squeezed out two
more princes who looked a lot more fit. That's when me and my boys got hired
on, to make it look like the first prince got took off by the Underking or
some such story."
"I had no idea!" the young woman whispered.
"Of course you didn't, that's the point," Jomic shook his head. "Discretion,
like you said. We bagged the boy, dropped him off deep in an old ruin, and
that was that. No fuss. Just a couple fellas, a bag, and a club."
"That's what I'm interested in," said Haballa. "Technique. My... friend who
needs to be taken away is weak also, like this Prince. What is the club
for?"
"It's a tool. So many things what was better in the past ain't around no
more, just 'cause people today prefer ease of use to what works right. Let
me explain: there're seventy-one prime pain centers in an average fella's
body. Elves and Khajiiti, being so sensitive and all, got three and four
more respectively. Argonians and Sloads, almost as many at fifty-two and
sixty-seven," Jomic used his short stubby finger to point out each region on
Haballa's body. "Six in your forehead, two in your brow, two on your nose,
seven in your throat, ten in your chest, nine in your abdomen, three on each
arm, twelve in your groin, four in your favored leg, five in the other."
"That's sixty-three," replied Haballa.
"No, it's not," growled Jomic.
"Yes, it is," the young lady cried back, indignant that her mathematical
skills were being question: "Six plus two plus two plus seven plus ten plus
nine plus three for one arm and three for the other plus twelve plus four
plus five. Sixty-three."
"I must've left some out," shrugged Jomic. "The important thing is that to
become skilled with a staff or club, you gotta be a master of these pain
centers. Done right, a light tap could kill, or knock out without so much as
a bruise."
"Fascinating," smiled Haballa. "And no one ever found out?"
"Why would they? The boy's parents, the King and Queen, they're both dead
now. The other children always thought their brother got carried off by the
Underking. That's what everyone thinks. And all my partners are dead."
"Of natural causes?"
"Ain't nothing natural that ever happens in the Bay, you know that. One
fella got sucked up by one of them Selenu. Another died a that same plague
that took the Queen and Prince Greklith. 'Nother fella got hisself beat up
to death by a burglar. You gotta keep low, outta sight, like me, if you
wanna stay alive." Jomic finished counting the coins. "You must want this
fella out of the way bad. Who is it?"
"It's better if I show you," said Haballa, standing up. Without a look back,
she strode out of the Nameless Tavern.
Jomic drained his beer and went out. The night was cool with an unrestrained
wind surging off the water of the Iliac Bay, sending leaves flying like
whirling shards. Haballa stepped out of the alleyway next to the tavern, and
gestured to him. As he approached her, the breeze blew open her cape,
revealing the armor beneath and the crest of the King of Sentinel.
The fat man stepped back to flee, but she was too fast. In a blur, he found
himself in the alley on his back, the woman's knee pressed firmly against his
throat.
"The King has spent years since he took the throne looking for you and your
collaborators, Jomic. His instructions to me what to do when I found you
were not specific, but you've given me an idea."
From her belt, Haballa removed a small sturdy cudgel.
A drunk stumbling out of the bar heard a whimpered moan accompanied by a soft
whisper coming from the darkness of the alley: "Let's keep better count this
time. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven..."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
No-h's Picture Book of Wood
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BriefHistoryofWood
Or
bk_BriefHistoryofWood_01
Weight: 4
Value: 10
Special Notes: None
Wood is pretty
Wood is nice
If one looks good
I'll make it twice!
[Upon reaching the last page of the book, the words 'Boat Ack', are seen
scrawled about the margin in a vandalistic manner.]
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Notes on Racial Phylogeny
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_restoration2
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Restoration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Notes on Racial Phylogeny and Biology, Seventh Edition
by the Council of Healers, Imperial University
After much analysis of living specimens, the Council long ago determined that
all "races" of elves and humans may mate with each other and bear fertile
offspring. Generally the offspring bear the racial traits of the mother,
though some traces of the father's race may also be present. It is less clear
whether the Argonians and Khajiit are interfertile with both humans and
elves. Though there have been many reports throughout the Eras of children
from these unions, as well as stories of unions with daedra, there have been
no well documented offspring. Khajiit differ from humans and elves not only
their skeletal and dermal physiology -- the "fur" that covers their bodies --
but their metabolism and digestion as well. Argonians, like the dreugh,
appear to be a semi-aquatic troglophile form of humans, though it is by no
means clear whether the Argonians should be classified with dreugh, men, mer,
or (in this author's opinion), certain tree-dwelling lizards in Black Marsh.
The reproductive biology of orcs is at present not well understood, and the
same is true of goblins, trolls, harpies, dreugh, tsaesci, imga, various
daedra and many others. Certainly, there have been cases of intercourse
between these "races," generally in the nature of rape or magickal seduction,
but there have been no documented cases of pregnancy. Still the
interfertility of these creatures and the civilized hominids has yet to be
empirically established or refuted, likely due to the deep cultural
differences. Surely any normal Bosmer or Breton impregnated by an orc would
keep that shame to herself, and there's no reason to suppose that an orc
maiden impregnated by a human would not be likewise ostracized by her
society. Regrettably, our oaths as healers keep us from forcing a coupling
to satisfy our scientific knowledge. We do know, however, that the sload of
Thras are hermaphrodites in their youth and later reabsorb their reproductive
organs once they are old enough to move about on land. It can be safely
assumed that they are not interfertile with men or mer.
One might further wonder whether the proper classification of these same
"races," to use the imprecise but useful term, should be made from the
assumption of a common heritage and the differences between them have arisen
from magickal experimentation, the manipulations of the so-called "Earth
Bones," or from gradual changes from one generation to the next.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Odral's History of the Empire 1
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BriefHistoryEmpire1_oh
Weight: 4
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
A Brief History of the Empire
Part One
by Stronach k'Thojj III
Imperial Historian
Before the rule of Tiber Septim, all Tamriel was in chaos. The poet Tracizis
called that period of continuous unrest "days and nights of blood and venom."
The kings were a petty lot of grasping tyrants, who fought Tiber's attempts
to bring order to the land. But they were as disorganized as they were
dissolute, and the strong hand of Septim brought peace forcibly to Tamriel.
The year was 2E 896. The following year, the Emperor declared the beginning
of a new Era-thus began the Third Era, Year Aught.
For thirty-eight years, the Emperor Tiber reigned supreme. It was a lawful,
pious, and glorious age, when justice was known to one and all, from serf to
sovereign. On Tiber's death, it rained for an entire fortnight as if the
land of Tamriel itself was weeping.
The Emperor's grandson, Pelagius, came to the throne. Though his reign was
short, he was as strong and resolute as his father had been, and Tamriel
could have enjoyed a continuation of the Golden Age. Alas, an unknown enemy
of the Septim Family hired that accursed organization of cutthroats, the Dark
Brotherhood, to kill the Emperor Pelagius I as he knelt at prayer at the
Temple of the One in the Imperial City. Pelagius I's reign lasted less than
three years.
Pelagius had no living children, so the Crown Imperial passed to his first
cousin, the daughter of Tiber's brother Agnorith. Kintyra, former Queen of
Silvenar, assumed the throne as Kintyra I. Her reign was blessed with
prosperity and good harvests, and she herself was an avid patroness of art,
music, and dance.
Kintyra's son was crowned after her death, the first Emperor of Tamriel to
use the imperial name Uriel. Uriel I was the great lawmaker of the Septim
Dynasty, and a promoter of independent organizations and guilds. Under his
kind but firm hand, the Fighters Guild and the Mages Guild increased in
prominence throughout Tamriel. His son and successor Uriel II reigned for
eighteen years, from the death of Uriel I in 3E64 to Pelagius II's accession
in 3E82. Tragically, the rule of Uriel II was cursed with blights, plagues,
and insurrections. The tenderness he inherited from his father did not serve
Tamriel well, and little justice was done.
Pelagius II inherited not only the throne from his father, but the debt from
the latter's poor financial and judicial management. Pelagius dismissed all
of the Elder Council, and allowed only those willing to pay great sums to
resume their seats. He encouraged similar acts among his vassals, the kings
of Tamriel, and by the end of his seventeen year reign, Tamriel had returned
to prosperity. His critics, however, have suggested that any advisor
possessed of wisdom but not of gold had been summarily ousted by Pelagius.
This may have led to some of the troubles his son Antiochus faced when he in
turn became Emperor.
Antiochus was certainly one of the more flamboyant members of the usually
austere Septim Family. He had numerous mistresses and nearly as many wives,
and was renowned for the grandeur of his dress and his high good humor.
Unfortunately, his reign was rife with civil war, surpassing even that of his
grandfather Uriel II. The War of the Isle in 3E110, twelve years after
Antiochus assumed the throne, nearly took the province of Summurset Isle away
from Tamriel. The united alliance of the kings of Summurset and Antiochus
only managed to defeat King Orghum of the island-kingdom of Pyandonea due to
a freak storm. Legend credits the Psijic Order of the Isle of Artaeum with
the sorcery behind the tempest.
The story of Kintyra II, heiress to her father Antiochus' throne, is
certainly one of the saddest tales in imperial history. Her first cousin
Uriel, son of Queen Potema of Solitude, accused Kintyra of being a bastard,
alluding to the infamous decadence of the Imperial City during her father's
reign. When this accusation failed to stop her coronation, Uriel bought the
support of several disgruntled kings of High Rock, Skyrim, and Morrowind, and
with Queen Potema's assistance, he coordinated three attacks on the Septim
Empire.
The first attack occurred in the Iliac Bay region, which separates High Rock
and Hammerfell. Kintyra's entourage was massacred and the Empress taken
captive. For two years, Kintyra II languished in an Imperial prison believed
to be somewhere in Glenpoint or Glenmoril before she was slain in her cell
under mysterious circumstances. The second attack was on a series of
Imperial garrisons along the coastal Morrowind islands. The Empress' consort
Kontin Arynx fell defending the forts. The third and final attack was a
siege of the Imperial City itself, occurring after the Elder Council had
split up the army to attack western High Rock and eastern Morrowind. The
weakened government had little defence against Uriel's determined aggression,
and capitulated after only a fortnight of resistance. Uriel took the throne
that same evening and proclaimed himself Uriel III, Emperor of Tamriel. The
year was 3E 121. Thus began the War of the Red Diamond, described in Volume
II of this series.
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Odral's History of the Empire 2
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Object ID: bk_BriefHistoryEmpire2_oh
Weight: 4
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
A Brief History of the Empire
Part Two
by Stronach k'Thojj III
Imperial Historian
Volume I of this series described in brief the lives of the first eight
Emperors of the Septim Dynasty, beginning with the glorious Tiber Septim and
ending with his great, great, great, great, grandniece Kintyra II. Kintyra's
murder in Glenpoint while in captivity is considered by some to be the end of
the pure strain of Septim blood in the imperial family. Certainly it marks
the end of something significant.
Uriel III not only proclaimed himself Emperor of Tamriel, but also Uriel
Septim III, taking the eminent surname as a title. In truth, his surname was
Mantiarco from his father's line. In time, Uriel III was deposed and his
crimes reviled, but the tradition of taking the name Septim as a title for
the Emperor of Tamriel did not die with him.
For six years, the War of the Red Diamond (which takes its name from the
Septim Family's famous badge) tore the Empire apart. The combatants were the
three surviving children of Pelagius II-Potema, Cephorus, and Magnus-and
their various offspring. Potema, of course, supported her son Uriel III, and
had the combined support of all of Skyrim and northern Morrowind. With the
efforts of Cephorus and Magnus, however, the province of High Rock turned
coat. The provinces of Hammerfell, Summurset Isle, Valenwood, Elsweyr, and
Black Marsh were divided in their loyalty, but most kings supported Cephorus
and Magnus.
In 3E127, Uriel III was captured at the Battle of Ichidag in Hammerfell. En
route to his trial in the Imperial City, a mob overtook his prisoner's
carriage and burned him alive within it. His captor and uncle continued on
to the Imperial City, and by common acclaim was proclaimed Cephorus I,
Emperor of Tamriel.
Cephorus' reign was marked by nothing but war. By all accounts, he was a
kind and intelligent man, but what Tamriel needed was a great warrior -- and
he, fortunately, was that. It took an additional ten years of constant
warfare for him to defeat his sister Potema. The so-called Wolf Queen of
Solitude who died in the siege of her city-state in the year 137. Cephorus
survived his sister by only three years. He never had time during the war
years to marry, so it was his brother, the fourth child of Pelagius II, who
assumed the throne.
The Emperor Magnus was already elderly when he took up the imperial diadem,
and the business of punishing the traitorous kings of the War of the Red
Diamond drained much of his remaining strength. Legend accuses Magnus' son
and heir Pelagius III of patricide, but that seems highly unlikely-for no
other reason than that Pelagius was King of Solitude following the death of
Potema, and seldom visited the Imperial City.
Pelagius III, sometimes called Pelagius the Mad, was proclaimed Emperor in
the 145th year of the Third Era. Almost from the start, his eccentricities
of behaviour were noted at court. He embarrassed dignitaries, offended his
vassal kings, and on one occasion marked the end of an imperial grand ball by
attempting to hang himself. His long-suffering wife was finally awarded the
Regency of Tamriel, and Pelagius III was sent to a series of healing
institutions and asylums until his death in 3E153 at the age of thirty-four.
The Empress Regent of Tamriel was proclaimed Empress Katariah I upon the
death of her husband. Some who do not mark the end of the Septim bloodline
with the death of Kintyra II consider the ascendancy of this Dark Elf woman
the true mark of its decline. Her defenders, on the other hand, assert that
though Katariah was not descended from Tiber, the son she had with Pelagius
was, so the imperial chain did continue. Despite racist assertions to the
contrary, Katariah's forty-six-year reign was one of the most celebrated in
Tamriel's history. Uncomfortable in the Imperial City, Katariah travelled
extensively throughout the Empire such as no Emperor ever had since Tiber's
day. She repaired much of the damage that previous emperor's broken
alliances and bungled diplomacy created. The people of Tamriel came to love
their Empress far more than the nobility did. Katariah's death in a minor
skirmish in Black Marsh is a favorite subject of conspiracy minded
historians. The Sage Montalius' discovery, for instance, of a
disenfranchised branch of the Septim Family and their involvement with the
skirmish was a revelation indeed.
When Cassynder assumed the throne upon the death of his mother, he was
already middle-aged. Only half Elven, he aged like a Breton. In fact, he
had left the rule of Wayrest to his half-brother Uriel due to poor health.
Nevertheless, as the only true blood relation of Pelagius and thus Tiber, he
was pressed into accepting the throne. To no one's surprise, the Emperor
Cassynder's reign did not last long. In two years he joined his predecessors
in eternal slumber.
Uriel Lariat, Cassynder's half-brother, and the child of Katariah I and her
Imperial consort Gallivere Lariat (after the death of Pelagius III), left the
kingdom of Wayrest to reign as Uriel IV. Legally, Uriel IV was a Septim:
Cassynder had adopted him into the royal family when he had become King of
Wayrest. Nevertheless, to the Council and the people of Tamriel, he was a
bastard child of Katariah. Uriel did not possess the dynamism of his mother,
and his long forty-three-year reign was a hotbed of sedition.
Uriel IV's story is told in the third volume of this series.
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Odral's History of the Empire 3
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Object ID: bk_BriefHistoryEmpire3_oh
Weight: 4
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
A Brief History of the Empire
Part Three
by Stronach k'Thojj III
Imperial Historian
The first volume of this series told in brief the story of the succession of
the first eight Emperors of the Septim Dynasty, from Tiber I to Kintyra II.
The second volume described the War of the Red Diamond and the six Emperors
that followed its aftermath, from Uriel III to Cassynder I. At the end of
that volume, it was described how the Emperor Cassynder's half-brother Uriel
IV assumed the throne of the Empire of Tamriel.
It will be recalled that Uriel IV was not a Septim by birth. His mother,
though she reigned as Empress for many years, was a Dark Elf married to a
true Septim Emperor, Pelagius III. Uriel's father was actually Katariah I's
consort after Pelagius' death, a Breton nobleman named Gallivere Lariat.
Before taking the throne of Empire, Cassynder I had ruled the kingdom of
Wayrest, but poor health had forced him to retire. Cassynder had no
children, so he legally adopted his half-brother Uriel and abdicated the
kingdom. Seven years later, Cassynder inherited the Empire at the death of
his mother. Three years after that, Uriel once again found himself the
recipient of Cassynder's inheritance.
Uriel IV's reign was a long and difficult one. Despite being a legally
adopted member of the Septim Family, and despite the Lariat Family's high
position -- indeed, they were distant cousins of the Septims -- few of the
Elder Council could be persuaded to accept him fully as a blood descendant of
Tiber. The Council had assumed much responsibility during Katariah I's long
reign and Cassynder I's short one, and a strong-willed "alien" monarch like
Uriel IV found it impossible to command their unswerving fealty. Time and
again the Council and Emperor were at odds, and time and again the Council
won the battles. Since the days of Pelagius II, the Elder Council had
consisted of the wealthiest men and women in the Empire, and the power they
wielded was conclusive.
The Council's last victory over Uriel IV was posthumous. Andorak, Uriel IV's
son, was disinherited by vote of Council, and a cousin more closely related
to the original Septim line was proclaimed Cephorus II in 3E268. For the
first nine years of Cephorus II's reign, those loyal to Andorak battled the
Imperial forces. In an act that the Sage Eraintine called "Tiber Septim's
heart beating no more," the Council granted Andorak the High Rock kingdom of
Shornhelm to end the war, and Andorak's descendants still rule there.
By and large, Cephorus II had foes that demanded more of his attention than
Andorak. "From out of a cimmerian nightmare," in the words of Eraintine, a
man who called himself the Camoran Usurper led an army of Daedra and undead
warriors on a rampage through Valenwood, conquering kingdom after kingdom.
Few could resist his onslaughts, and as month turned to bloody month in the
year 3E249, even fewer tried. Cephorus II sent more and more mercenaries
into Hammerfell to stop the Usurper's northward march, but they were bribed
or slaughtered and raised as undead.
The story of the Camoran Usurper deserves a book of its own. (It is
recommended that the reader find Palaux Illthre's The Fall of the Usurper for
more detail.) In short, however, the destruction of the forces of the
Usurper had little do with the efforts of the Emperor. The result was a
great regional victory and an increase in hostility toward the seemingly
inefficacious Empire.
Uriel V, Cephorus II's son and successor, swivelled opinion back toward the
latent power of the Empire. Turning the attention of Tamriel away from
internal strife, Uriel V embarked on a series of invasions beginning almost
from the moment he took the throne in 3E268. Uriel V conquered Roscrea in
271, Cathnoquey in 276, Yneslea in 279, and Esroniet in 284. In 3E288, he
embarked on his most ambitious enterprise, the invasion of the continent
kingdom of Akavir. This ultimately proved a failure, for two years later
Uriel V was killed in Akavir on the battlefield of Ionith. Nevertheless,
Uriel V holds a reputation second only to Tiber as one of the two great
Warrior Emperors of Tamriel.
The last four Emperors, beginning with Uriel V's infant son, are described in
the fourth and final volume of this series.
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Odral's History of the Empire 4
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Object ID: bk_BriefHistoryEmpire4_oh
Weight: 4
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
A Brief History of the Empire
Part Four
by Stronach k'Thojj III
Imperial Historian
The first book of this series described, in brief, the first eight Emperors
of the Septim Dynasty beginning with Tiber I. The second volume described
the War of the Red Diamond and the six Emperors who followed. The third
volume described the troubles of the next three Emperors-the frustrated Uriel
IV, the ineffectual Cephorus II, and the heroic Uriel V.
On Uriel V's death across the sea in distant, hostile Akavir, Uriel VI was
but five years old. In fact, Uriel VI was born only shortly before his
father left for Akavir. Uriel V's only other progeny, by a morganatic
alliance, were the twins Morihatha and Eloisa, who had been born a month
after Uriel V left. Uriel VI was crowned in the 290th year of the Third Era.
The Imperial Consort Thonica, as the boy's mother, was given a restricted
Regency until Uriel VI reached his majority. The Elder Council retained the
real power, as they had ever since the days of Katariah I.
The Council so enjoyed its unlimited and unrestricted freedom to promulgate
laws (and generate profits) that Uriel VI was not given full license to rule
until 307, when he was already 22 years old. He had been slowly assuming
positions of responsibility for years, but both the Council and his mother,
who enjoyed even her limited Regency, were loath to hand over the reins. By
the time he came to the throne, the mechanisms of government gave him little
power except for that of the imperial veto.
This power, however, he regularly and vigorously exercised. By 313, Uriel VI
could boast with conviction that he truly did rule Tamriel. He utilized
defunct spy networks and guard units to bully and coerce the difficult
members of the Elder Council. His half-sister Morihatha was (not
surprisingly) his staunchest ally, especially after her marriage to Baron
Ulfe Gersen of Winterhold brought her considerable wealth and influence. As
the Sage Ugaridge said, "Uriel V conquered Esroniet, but Uriel VI conquered
the Elder Council."
When Uriel VI fell off a horse and could not be resuscitated by the finest
Imperial healers, his beloved sister Morihatha took up the imperial tiara.
At 25 years of age, she had been described by (admittedly self-serving)
diplomats as the most beautiful creature in all of Tamriel. She was
certainly well-learned, vivacious, athletic, and a well-practised politician.
She brought the Archmagister of Skyrim to the Imperial City and created the
second Imperial Battlemage since the days of Tiber Septim.
Morihatha finished the job her brother had begun, and made the Imperial
Province a true government under the Empress (and later, the Emperor).
Outside the Imperial Province, however, the Empire had been slowly
disintegrating. Open revolutions and civil wars had raged unchallenged since
the days of her grandfather Cephorus II. Carefully coordinating her
counterattacks, Morihatha slowly claimed back her rebellious vassals, always
avoiding overextending herself.
Though Morihatha's military campaigns were remarkably successful, her
deliberate pace often frustrated the Council. One Councilman, an Argonian
who took the Colovian name of Thoricles Romus, furious at her refusal to send
troops to his troubled Black Marsh, is commonly believed to have hired the
assassins who claimed her life in 3E 339. Romus was summarily tried and
executed, though he protested his innocence to the last.
Morihatha had no surviving children, and Eloisa had died of a fever four
years before. Eloisa's 25-year-old son Pelagius was thus crowned Pelagius
IV. Pelagius IV continued his aunt's work, slowly bringing back under his
wing the radical and refractory kingdoms, duchies, and baronies of the
Empire. He exercised Morihatha's poise and circumspect pace in his
endeavours-but alas, he did not attain her success. The kingdoms had been
free of constraint for so long that even a benign Imperial presence was
considered odious. Nevertheless, when Pelagius died after an astonishing
forty-nine-year reign, Tamriel was closer to unity than it had been since the
days of Uriel I.
Our current Emperor, His Awesome and Terrible Majesty, Uriel Septim VII, son
of Pelagius IV, has the diligence of his great-aunt Morihatha, the political
skill of his great-uncle Uriel VI, and the military prowess of his great
grand-uncle Uriel V. For twenty-one years he reigned and brought justice and
order to Tamriel. In the year 3E389, however, his Imperial Battlemage, Jagar
Tharn, betrayed him.
Uriel VII was imprisoned in a dimension of Tharn's creation, and Tharn used
his sorcery of illusion to assume the Emperor's aspect. For the next ten
years, Tharn abused imperial privilege but did not continue Uriel VII's
schedule of reconquest. It is not yet entirely known what Tharn's goals and
personal accomplishments were during the ten years he masqueraded as his
liege lord. In 3E399, an enigmatic Champion defeated the Battlemage in the
dungeons of the Imperial Palace and freed Uriel VII from his other-
dimensional jail.
Since his emancipation, Uriel Septim VII has worked diligently to renew the
battles that would reunite Tamriel. Tharn's interference broke the momentum,
it is true -- but the years since then have proven that there is hope of the
Golden Age of Tiber Septim's rule glorifying Tamriel once again.
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On Morrowind
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Object ID: bk_OnMorrowind
Weight: 3
Value: 40
Special Notes: None
On Morrowind
the Imperial Province
by Erramanwe of Sunhold
After the conquest of Hammerfell, Imperial legions massed along the
northeastern borders of Cyrodiil, and invasion fleets prepared in Skyrim.
Initially, though the Imperial legions and navy were widely considered
undefeatable, House Indoril and the Temple hierarchy proposed to resist to
the death. Redoran and Dres stood by Indoril, with Telvanni remaining
neutral. Hlaalu proposed accommodation.
Contrived border incidents in Black Marsh ended inconclusively, but the
swampy terrain did not favor legion and navy coordination. Against the
legions massed west of Silgrad Tower and Kragenmoor, and the legions west of
Blacklight and Cormaris View, Morrowind had pitifully small militias
stiffened by small companies of Redoran mercenaries and elite units of house
nobles and Temple Ordinators and Armigers. Further complicating matters was
the refusal of Indoril, Dres, Hlaalu, and Telvanni to garrison the western
borders; Indoril and Dres proposed, rather than defend the western border,
instead to withdraw to the interior and fight a guerilla war. With Hlaalu
advocating accommodation, and Telvanni remaining neutral, Redoran therefore
faced the prospect of standing alone against the Empire.
The situation changed radically when Vivec appeared in person in Vivec City
to announce his negotiation of a treaty with Emperor Tiber Septim,
reorganizing Morrowind as a province of the Empire, but guaranteeing "all
rights of faith and self-government." A shocked Temple hierarchy, which
apparently had not been consulted, greeted the announcement with awkward
silence. Indoril swore they would resist to the death, with the loyal support
of Dres, while Redoran, grateful for a graceful excuse to avoid facing the
legions unsupported, joined with Hlaalu in welcoming the agreement. Telvanni,
seeing which way the wind blew, joined with Hlaalu and Redoran in supporting
the treaty.
Nothing is known of the circumstances of the personal meeting between Septim
and Vivec, or where it took place, or the preliminaries which must have
preceded the treaty. The public reason was to protect the identities of the
agents involved. In the West, speculation has centered around the role of
Zurin Arctus in brokering the agreement; in the East, rumors suggest that
Vivec offered Numidium to aid in the conquest of the Altmer and Sumerset Isle
in return for significant concessions to preserve self-rule, house
traditions, and religious practices in Morrowind.
The Lord High Councilor of the Grand Council, an Indoril, refused to accept
the treaty, and refused to step down. He was assassinated, and replaced by a
Hlaalu. House Hlaalu took the opportunity to settle some old scores with
House Indoril, and a number of local councils changed hands in bloody coups.
More blood was shed in these inter-house struggles than against the Imperial
Legions during Morrowind's transition from an independent nation to a
province of the Empire.
The generals of the legions had dreaded an invasion of Morrowind. The Dunmer
were widely regarded as the most dreadful and fanatic foes, further inspired
by their Temple and clan traditions. The generals had not grasped the
political weaknesses of Morrowind, which Emperor Tiber Septim recognized and
exploited. At the same time, given the tragic depopulation and destruction
experienced by the other provinces conquered by Septim, and the swift and
efficient assimilation of Morrowind into the Imperial legal systems and
economy, with relatively small impact on lower or upper classes of
Morrowind's citizens, the Tribunal also deserves some credit for recognizing
the hopelessness of Morrowind's defense, and the chance of gaining important
concessions at the treaty table by being the first to offer peace.
By contrast, many Indoril nobles chose to commit suicide rather than submit
to the Empire, with the result that the House was significantly weakened
during the period of transition, guaranteeing that they would lose much of
their influence and power to House Hlaalu, whose influence and power was
waxing with its enthusiastic accommodation with the Empire. The Temple
hierarchy more skillfully managed their loss of face, remaining aloof from
political struggles, and earning the good will of the people by concentrating
on their economic, educational, and spiritual welfare.
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On Oblivion
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Object ID: bk_onoblivion
Weight: 3
Value: 40
Special Notes: None
On Oblivion
by Morian Zenas
It is improper, however customary, to refer to the denizens of the dimension
of Oblivion as "demons." This practice probably dates to the Alessian
Doctrines of the First Era prophet Marukh -- which, rather amusingly, forbade
"trafficke with daimons" and then neglected to explain what daimons were.
It is most probable that "daimon" is a misspelling or etymological rendition
of "Daedra," the old Elven word for those strange, powerful creatures of
uncertain motivation who hail from the dimension of Oblivion. ("Daedra" is
actually the plural form; the singular is "Daedroth.") In a later tract by
King Hale the Pious of Skyrim, almost a thousand years after the publication
of the original Doctrines, the evil machinations of his political enemies are
compared to "the wickedness of the demons of Oblivion... their depravity
equals that of Sanguine itself, they are cruel as Boethiah, calculating as
Molag Bal, and mad as Sheogorath." Hale the Pious thus long-windedly
introduced four of the Daedra lords to written record.
But the written record is not, after all, the best way to research Oblivion
and the Daedra who inhabit it. Those who "trafficke with daimons" seldom
wish it to be a matter of public account. Nevertheless, scattered throughout
the literature of the First Era are diaries, journals, notices for witch
burnings, and guides for Daedra-slayers. These I have used as my primary
source material. They are at least as trustworthy as the Daedra lords I have
actually summoned and spoken with at length.
Apparently, Oblivion is a place composed of many lands -- thus the many names
for which Oblivion is synonymous: Coldharbour, Quagmire, Moonshadow, etc.
It may be correctly supposed that each land of Oblivion is ruled over by one
prince. The Daedra princes whose names appear over and over in ancient
records (though this is not an infallible test of their authenticity or
explicit existence, to be sure) are the afore-mentioned Sanguine, Boethiah,
Molag Bal, and Sheogorath, and in addition, Azura, Mephala, Clavicus Vile,
Vaernima, Malacath, Hoermius (or Hermaeus or Hormaius or Herma -- there seems
to be no one accepted spelling) Mora, Namira, Jyggalag, Nocturnal, Mehrunes
Dagon, and Peryite.
From my experience, Daedra are a very mixed lot. It is almost impossible to
categorize them as a whole except for their immense power and penchant for
extremism. Be that as it may, I have here attempted to do so in a few cases,
purely for the sake of scholastic expediency.
Mehrunes Dagon, Molag Bal, Peryite, Boethiah, and Vaernima are among the most
consistently "demonic" of the Daedra, in the sense that their spheres seem to
be destructive in nature. The other Daedra can, of course, be equally
dangerous, but seldom purely for the sake of destruction as these five can.
Nor are these previous five identical in their destructiveness. Mehrunes
Dagon seems to prefer natural disasters -- earthquakes and volcanoes -- for
venting his anger. Molag Bal elects the employment of other daedra, and
Boethiah inspires the arms of mortal warriors. Peryite's sphere seems to be
pestilence, and Vaernima's torture.
In preparation for the next instalment in this series, I will be
investigating two matters that have intrigued me since I began my career as a
Daedra researcher. The first is on one particular Daedroth, perhaps yet
another Daedra prince, referred to in multiple articles of incunabula as
Hircine. Hircine has been called "the Huntsman of the Princes" and "the
Father of Man-beasts," but I have yet to find anyone who can summon him. The
other, and perhaps more doubtful, goal I have is to find a practical means
for mortal men to pass through to Oblivion. It has always been my philosophy
that we need only fear that which we do not understand -- and with that
thought in mind, I ever pursue my objective.
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Ordo Legionis
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Object ID: bk_ordolegionis
Weight: 3
Value: 30
Special Notes: None
Ordo Legionis
The most disciplined and effective military force in history, the Imperial
Legions preserve the peace and rule of law in the Empire. At need, the legion
garrisons can be swiftly mobilized to protect against invasions or internal
disorders, but in Vvardenfell District of Morrowind, the local forts help to
insure law and order, providing guards to supplement the local guard units of
the Temple and Great Houses Hlaalu, Redoran, and Telvanni.
There are five legion garrisons in Vvardenfell District. The three town
garrisons -- Moonmoth Legion Fort in Balmora, Buckmoth Legion Fort in
Ald'ruhn, and Fort Pelagiad in Pelagiad -- are at full complement. The
Hawkmoth Legion garrisoned at Castle Ebonheart is an elite honor guard unit,
and also at full complement. The frontier installation, Fort Darius in Gnisis
village, is currently the only under-strength garrison on Vvardenfell.
Qualified citizens seeking enlistment in the Imperial Legion should apply to
the commander of that garrison, General Darius.
The Legion selects candidates on the basis of superior endurance, the
soldierly virtue, and trustworthy personality, the citizen's virtue, for
service in the Legion is the model for the duties of Imperial citizenship.
Troopers are expected to demonstrate mastery of the long blade, the spear,
and blunt weapons. Legion troops train with shield and heavy armor, and so
must be skilled at blocking and moving in heavy armor.
As a trooper or knight, you must master the long blade, spear, and blunt
weapons. You must block whatever blows you can, and take unblocked blows upon
your heavy armor. Recruit must also be proficient at athletics, both to march
long distances with heavy packs, and to advance and maneuver, charge and
retreat on the field of battle.
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Origin of the Mages Guild
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Object ID: bk_OriginOfTheMagesGuild
Weight: 3
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
Origin of the Mages Guild
by The Archmage Salarth
The idea of a collection of Mages, Sorcerers, and assorted Mystics pooling
their resources and talents for the purpose of research and public charity
was a revolutionary concept in the early years of the Second Era. The only
organization then closest in aim and structure to what we know today as the
Mages Guild was the Psijic Order of the Isle of Artaeum. At the time, magic
was something to be learned by individuals, or at most within intimate
covens. Mages were, if not actually hermits, usually quite solitary.
The Psijic Order served the rulers of Summurset Isle as counsellors, and
chose its members through a complex, ritualized method not understood by
outsiders. Its purposes and goals likewise went unpublished, and detractors
attributed the worst evils as the source of the Order's power. Actually, the
religion of the old Order could be described as ancestor worship, an
increasingly unfashionable philosophy in the Second Era.
When Vanus Galerion, a Psijic of Artaeum and student of the famed Iachesis,
began collecting magic-users from around Summurset Isle, he attracted the
animosity of all. He was operating out of the urban center of Firsthold, and
there was a common (and not entirely unfounded) attitude that magical
experiments should be conducted only in unpopulated areas. Even more
shocking, Galerion proposed to make magical items, potions, and even spells
available to any member of the general public who could afford to pay. No
longer was magic to be limited either to the aristocracy or intelligentsia.
Galerion was brought before Iachesis and the King of Firsthold, Rilis XII,
and made to state the intentions of the fraternity he was forming. The fact
that Galerion's speech to Rilis and Iachesis was not recorded for posterity
is doubtless a tragedy, though it does afford opportunity for historians to
amuse one another with speculation about the lies and persuasions Galerion
might have used to found the ubiquitous organization. The charter, at any
rate, was approved.
Almost immediately after the Guild was formed, the question of security had
to be addressed. The Isle of Artaeum did not require force of arms to shield
it from invaders -- when the Psijic Order does not wish someone to land on
the Isle, it and all its inhabitants simply become insubstantial. The new
Mages Guild, by contrast, had to hire guards. Galerion soon discovered what
the Tamrielan nobility has known for thousands of years: Money alone does
not buy loyalty. The knightly Order of the Lamp was formed the following
year.
Like a tree from an acorn, the Mages Guild grew branches all over Summurset
Isle and gradually the mainland of Tamriel. There are numerous records of
superstitious or sensibly fearful rulers forbidding the Guild in their
domains, but their heirs or heirs' heirs eventually recognized the wisdom of
allowing the Guild free rein. The Mages Guild has become a powerful force in
Tamriel, a dangerous foe if a somewhat disinterested ally. There have been
only a few rare incidents of the Mages Guild actually becoming involved in
local political struggles. On these occasions, the Guild's participation has
been the ultimate decider in the conflict.
As begun by Vanus Galerion, the Mages Guild as an institution is presided
over by a supreme council of six Archmagisters. Each Guildhall is run by a
Guildmagister, assisted by a twofold counsel, the Master of Incunabula and
the Master at Arms. The Master of Incunabula presides over an additional
counsel of two mages, the Master of Academia and the Master of the Scrye.
The Master at Arms also has a counsel of two, the Master of Initiates and the
Palatinus, the leader of the local chapter of the Order of the Lamp.
One need not be a member of the Mages Guild to know that this carefully
contrived hierarchy is often nothing more than a chimera. As Vanus Galerion
himself said bitterly, leaving Tamriel to travel to other lands, "The Guild
has become nothing more than an intricate morass of political infighting."
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Overview of Gods and Worship
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Object ID: bk_OverviewOfGodsAndWorship
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
An Overview Of Gods and Worship In Tamriel
By Brother Hetchfeld
Editor's Note:
Brother Hetchfeld is an Associate Scribe at the Imperial University, Office
of Introductory Studies
Gods are commonly judged upon the evidence of their interest in worldly
matters. A central belief in the active participation of Deities in mundane
matters can be challenged by the reference to apparent apathy and
indifference on the part of Gods during times of plague or famine.
From intervention in legendary quests to manifestations in common daily life,
no pattern for the Gods of Tamriel activities is readily perceived. The
concerns of Gods in many ways may seem unrelated or at best unconcerned with
the daily trials of the mortal realm. The exceptions do exist, however.
Many historical records and legends point to the direct intervention of one
or more gods at times of great need. Many heroic tales recount blessings of
the divinity bestowed upon heroic figures who worked or quested for the good
of a Deity or the Deity's temple. Some of the more powerful artifacts in the
known world were originally bestowed upon their owners through such reward.
It has also been reported that priests of high ranking in their temples may
on occasion call upon their Deity for blessings or help in time of need. The
exact nature of such contact and the blessings bestowed is given to much
speculation, as the temples hold such associations secret and holy. This
direct contact gives weight to the belief that the Gods are aware of the
mortal realm. In many circumstances, however, these same Gods will do nothing
in the face of suffering and death, seeming to feel no need to interfere. It
is thus possible to conclude that we, as mortals, may not be capable of
understanding more than a small fraction of the reasoning and logic such
beings use.
One defining characteristic of all Gods and Goddesses is their interest in
worship and deeds. Deeds in the form of holy quests are just one of the many
things that bring the attention of a Deity. Deeds in everyday life, by
conforming to the statutes and obligations of individual temples are commonly
supposed to please a Deity. Performance of ceremony in a temple may also
bring a Deity's attention. Ceremonies vary according to the individual Deity.
The results are not always apparent but sacrifice and offerings are usually
required to have any hope of gaining a Deity's attention.
While direct intervention in daily temple life has been recorded, the exact
nature of the presence of a God in daily mundane life is a subject of
controversy. A traditional saying of the Wood Elves is that "One man's
miracle is another man's accident." While some gods are believed to take an
active part of daily life, others are well known for their lack of interest
in temporal affairs.
It has been theorized that gods do in fact gain strength from such things as
worship through praise, sacrifice and deed. It may even be theorized that the
number of worshippers a given Deity has may reflect on His overall position
among the other Gods. This my own conjecture, garnered from the apparent
ability of the larger temples to attain blessings and assistance from their
God with greater ease than smaller religious institutions.
There are reports of the existence of spirits in our world that have the same
capacity to use the actions and deeds of mortals to strengthen themselves as
do the Gods. The understanding of the exact nature of such creatures would
allow us to understand with more clarity the connection between a Deity and
the Deity's worshipers.
The implication of the existence of such spirits leads to the speculation
that these spirits may even be capable of raising themselves to the level of
a God or Goddess. Motusuo of the Imperial Seminary has suggested that these
spirits may be the remains of Gods and Goddesses who through time lost all or
most of their following, reverting to their earliest most basic form.
Practioners of the Old Ways say that there are no Gods, just greater and
lesser spirits. Perhaps it is possible for all three theories to be true.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Palla, Book I
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_illusion4
Weight: 3
Value: 400
Special Notes: Raises Illusion skill 1 point the first time the book is read
Palla
Book I
by Vojne Mierstyyd
Palla. Pal La. I remember when I first heard that name, not long ago at
all. It was at a Tales and Tallows ball at a very fine estate west of Mir
Corrup, to which I and my fellow Mages Guild initiates had found ourselves
unexpectedly invited. Truth be told, we needn't have been too surprised.
There were very few other noble families in Mir Corrup -- the region had its
halcyon days as a resort for the wealthy far back in the 2nd era -- and on
reflection, it was only appropriate to have sorcerers and wizards present at
a supernatural holiday. Not that we were anything more exotic than students
at a small, nonexclusive charterhouse of the Guild, but like I said, there
was a paucity of other choices available.
For close to a year, the only home I had known was the rather ramshackle if
sprawling grounds of the Mir Corrup Mages Guild. My only companions were my
fellow initiates, most of which only tolerated me, and the masters, whose
bitterness at being at a backwater Guild prompted never-ending abuse.
Immediately the School of Illusion had attracted me. The Magister who taught
us recognized me as an apt pupil who loved not only the spells of the science
but their philosophical underpinnings. There was something about the idea of
warping the imperceptible energies of light, sound, and mind that appealed to
my nature. Not for me the flashy schools of destruction and alteration, the
holy schools of restoration and conjuration, the practical schools of alchemy
and enchantment, or the chaotic school of mysticism. No, I was never so
pleased as to take an ordinary object and by a little magic make it seem
something other than what it was.
It would have taken more imagination than I had to apply that philosophy to
my monotonous life. After the morning's lessons, we were assigned tasks
before our evening classes. Mine had been to clean out the study of a
recently deceased resident of the Guild, and categorize his clutter of
spellbooks, charms, and incunabula.
It was a lonely and tedious appointment. Magister Tendixus was an inveterate
collector of worthless junk, but I was reprimanded any time I threw something
away of the least possible value. Gradually I learned enough to deliver each
of his belongings to the appropriate department: potions of healing to the
Magisters of Restoration, books on physical phenomena to the Magisters of
Alteration, herbs and minerals to the Alchemists, and soulgems and bound
items to the Enchanters. After one delivery to the Enchanters, I was leaving
with my customary lack of appreciation, when Magister Ilther called me back.
"Boy," said the portly old man, handing me back one item. "Destroy this."
It was a small black disc covered with runes with a ring of red-orange gems
like bones circling its periphery.
"I'm sorry, Magister," I stammered. "I thought it was something you'd be
interested in."
"Take it to the great flame and destroy it," he barked, turning his back on
me. "You never brought it here."
My interest was piqued, because I knew the only thing that would make him
react in such a way. Necromancy. I went back to Magister Tendixus's chamber
and poured through his notes, looking for any reference to the disc.
Unfortunately, most of the notes had been written in a strange code that I
was powerless to decipher. I was so fascinated by the mystery that I nearly
arrived late for my evening class in Enchantment, taught by Magister Ilther
himself.
For the next several weeks, I divided my time categorizing the general debris
and making my deliveries, and researching the disc. I came to understand
that my instinct was correct: the disc was a genuine necromantic artifact.
Though I couldn't understand most of the Magister's notes, I determined that
he thought it to be a means of resurrecting a loved one from the grave.
Sadly, the time came when the chamber had been categorized and cleared, and I
was given another assignment, assisting in the stables of the Guild's
menagerie. At least finally I was working with some of my fellow initiates
and had the opportunity of meeting the common folk and nobles who came to the
Guild on various errands. Thus was I employed when we were all invited to
the Tales and Tallows ball.
If the expected glamour of the evening were not enough, our hostess was
reputed to be young, rich, unmarried orphan from Hammerfell. Only a month or
two before had she moved to our desolate, wooded corner of the Imperial
Province to reclaim an old family manorhouse and grounds. The initiates at
the Guild gossiped like old women about the mysterious young lady's past,
what had happened to her parents, why she had left or been driven from her
homeland. Her name was Betaniqi, and that was all we knew.
We wore our robes of initiation with pride as we arrived for the ball. At
the enormous marble foyer, a servant announced each of our names as if we
were royalty, and we strutted into the midst of the revelers with great
puffery. Of course, we were then promptly ignored by one and all. In
essence, we were unimportant figures to lend some thickness to the ball.
Background characters.
The important people pushed through us with perfect politeness. There was
old Lady Schaudirra discussing diplomatic appointments to Balmora with the
Duke of Rimfarlin. An orc warlord entertained a giggling princess with tales
of rape and pillage. Three of the Guild Magisters worried with three
painfully thin noble spinsters about the haunting of Daggerfall. Intrigues
at the Imperial and various royal courts were analyzed, gently mocked,
fretted over, toasted, dismissed, evaluated, mitigated, admonished,
subverted. No one looked our way even when we were right next to them. It
was as if my skill at illusion had somehow rendered us all invisible.
I took my flagon out to the terrace. The moons were doubled, equally
luminous in the sky and in the enormous reflecting pool that stretched out
into the garden. The white marble statuary lining the sides of the pool
caught the fiery glow and seemed to burn like torches in the night. The
sight was so otherworldly that I was mesmerized by it, and the strange
Redguard figures immortalized in stone. Our hostess had made her home there
so recently that some of the sculptures were still wrapped in sheets that
billowed and swayed in the gentle breeze. I don't know how long I stared
before I realized I wasn't alone.
She was so small and so dark, not only in her skin but in her clothing, that
I nearly took her for a shadow. When she turned to me, I saw that she was
very beautiful and young, not more than seventeen.
"Are you our hostess?" I finally asked.
"Yes," she smiled, blushing. "But I'm ashamed to admit that I'm very bad at
it. I should be inside with my new neighbors, but I think we have very
little in common."
"It's been made abundantly clear that they hope I have nothing in common with
them either," I laughed. "When I'm a little higher than an initiate in the
Mages Guild, they might see me as more of an equal."
"I don't understand the concept of equality in Cyrodiil yet," she frowned.
"In my culture, you proved your worth, not just expected it. My parents both
were great warriors, as I hope to be."
Her eyes went out to the lawn, to the statues.
"Do the sculptures represent your parents?"
"That's my father Pariom there," she said gesturing to a life-sized
representation of a massively built man, unashamedly naked, gripping another
warrior by the throat and preparing to decapitate him with an outstretched
blade. It was clearly a realistic depiction. Pariom's face was plain, even
slightly ugly with a low forehead, a mass of tangled hair, stubble on his
cheeks. Even a slight gap in his teeth, which no sculptor would surely have
invented except to do justice to his model's true idiosyncrasies.
"And your mother?" I asked, pointing to a nearby statue of a proud, rather
squat warrior woman in a mantilla and scarf, holding a child.
"Oh no," she laughed. "That was my uncle's old nurse. Mother's statue still
has a sheet over it."
I don't know what prompted me to insist that we unveil the statue that she
pointed to. In all likelihood, it was nothing but fate, and a selfish desire
to continue the conversation. I was afraid that if I did not give her a
project, she would feel the need to return to the party, and I would be alone
again. At first she was reluctant. She had not yet made up her mind whether
the statues would suffer in the wet, sometimes cold Cyrodilic climate.
Perhaps all should be covered, she reasoned. It may be that she was merely
making conversation, and was reluctant as I was to end the stand-off and be
that much closer to having to return to the party.
In a few minutes time, we tore the tarp from the statue of Betaniqi's mother.
That is when my life changed forevermore.
She was an untamed spirit of nature, screaming in a struggle with a misshapen
monstrous figure in black marble. Her gorgeous, long fingers were raking
across the creature's face. The monster's talons gripped her right breast in
a sort of caress that prefaces a mortal wound. Its legs and hers wound
around one another in a battle that was a dance. I felt annihilated. This
lithe but formidable woman was beautiful beyond all superficial standards.
Whoever had sculpted it had somehow captured not only a face and figure of a
goddess, but her power and will. She was both tragic and triumphant. I fell
instantly and fatally in love with her.
I had not even noticed when Gelyn, one of my fellow initiates who was leaving
the party, came up behind us. Apparently I had whispered the word
"magnificent," because I heard Betaniqi reply as if miles away, "Yes, it is
magnificent. That's why I was afraid of exposing it to the elements."
Then I heard, clearly, like a stone breaking water, Gelyn: "Mara preserve me.
That must be Palla."
"Then you heard of my mother?" asked Betaniqi, turning his way.
"I hail from Wayrest, practically on the border to Hammerfell. I don't think
there's anyone who hasn't heard of your mother and her great heroism, ridding
the land of that abominable beast. She died in that struggle, didn't she?"
"Yes," said the girl sadly. "But so too did the creature."
For a moment, we were all silent. I don't remember anything more of that
night. Somehow I knew I was invited to dine the next evening, but my mind
and heart had been entirely and forever more arrested by the statue. I
returned back to the Guild, but my dreams were fevered and brought me no
rest. Everything seemed diffused by white light, except for one beautiful,
fearsome woman. Palla.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Palla, Book II
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_enchant3
Weight: 3
Value: 400
Special Notes: Raises Enchant skill 1 point the first time the book is read
Palla
Book II
by Vojne Mierstyyd
Palla. Pal La. The name burned in my heart. I found myself whispering it
in my studies even when I tried to concentrate on something the Magister was
saying. My lips would silently purse to voice the "Pal," and tongue lightly
flick to form the "La" as if I were kissing her spirit before me. It was
madness in every way except that I knew that it was madness. I knew I was in
love. I knew she was a noble Redguard woman, a fierce warrior more beautiful
than the stars. I knew her young daughter Betaniqi had taken possession of a
manorhouse near the Guild, and that she liked me, perhaps was even
infatuated. I knew Palla had fought a terrible beast and killed it. I knew
Palla was dead.
As I say, I knew it was madness, and by that, I knew I could not be mad. But
I also knew that I must return to Betaniqi's palace to see her statue of my
beloved Palla engaged in that final, horrible, fatal battle with the monster.
Return I did, over and over again. Had Betaniqi been a different sort of
noblewoman, more comfortable with her peers, I would not have had so many
opportunities. In her innocence, unaware of my sick obsession, she welcomed
my company. We would talk for hours, laughing, and every time we would take
a walk to the reflecting pond where I would always stop breathless before the
sculpture of her mother.
"It's a marvelous tradition you have, preserving these figures of your
ancestors at their finest moments," I said, feeling her curious eyes on me.
"And the craftsmanship is without parallel."
"You wouldn't believe me," laughed the girl. "But it was a bit of scandal
when my great grandfather began the custom. We Redguards hold a great
reverence for our families, but we are warriors, not artists. He hired an
traveling artist to create the first statues, and everyone admired them until
it was revealed that the artist was an elf. An Altmer from the Summurset
Isle."
"Scandal!"
"It was, absolutely," Betaniqi nodded seriously. "The idea that a pompous,
wicked elf's hands had formed these figures of noble Redguard warriors was
unthinkable, profane, irreverent, everything bad you can imagine. But my
great grandfather's heart was in the beauty of it, and his philosophy of
using the best to honor the best passed down to us all. I would not have
even considered having a lesser artist create the statues of my parents, even
if it would have been more allegiant to my culture."
"They're all exquisite," I said.
"But you like the one of my mother most of all," she smiled. "I see you look
at it even when you seem to be looking at the others. It's my favorite
also."
"Would you tell me more about her?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light
and conversational.
"Oh, she would have said she was nothing extraordinary, but she was," the
girl said, picking a flower from the garden. "My father died when I was quite
young, and she had so many roles to fill, but she did them all effortlessly.
We have a great many business interests and she was brilliant at managing
everything. Certainly better than I am now. All it took was her smile and
everyone obeyed, and those that didn't paid dearly. She was very witty and
charming, but a formidable force when the need arose for her to fight.
Hundreds of battles, but I can never remember a moment of feeling neglected
or unloved. I literally thought she was too strong for death. Stupid, I
know, but when she went to battle that -- that horrible creature, that freak
from a mad wizard's laboratory, I never even thought she would not return.
She was kind to her friends and ruthless to her enemies. What more can one
say about a woman than that?"
Poor Betaniqi's eyes teared up with remembrance. What sort of villain was I
to goad her so, in order to satisfy my perverted longings? Sheogorath could
never have conflicted a mortal man more than me. I found myself both weeping
and filled with desire. Palla not only looked like a goddess, but from her
daughter's story, she was one.
That night while undressing for bed, I rediscovered the black disc I had
stolen from Magister Tendixus's office weeks before. I had half-forgotten
about its existence, that mysterious necromantic artifact which the mage
believed could resurrect a dead love. Almost by pure instinct, I found
myself placing the disc on my heart and whispering, "Palla."
A momentary chill filled my chamber. My breath hung in the air in a mist
before dissipating. Frightened I dropped the disc. It took a moment before
my reason returned, and with it the inescapable conclusion: the artifact
could fulfill my desire.
Until the early morning hours, I tried to raise my mistress from the chains
of Oblivion, but it was no use. I was no necromancer. I entertained
thoughts of how to ask one of the Magisters to help me, but I remembered how
Magister Ilther had bid me to destroy it. They would expel me from the Guild
if I went to them and destroy the disc themselves. And with it, my only key
to bringing my love to me.
I was in my usual semi-torpid condition the next day in classes. Magister
Ilther himself was lecturing on his specialty, the School of Enchantment. He
was a dull speaker with a monotone voice, but suddenly I felt as if every
shadow had left the room and I was in a palace of light.
"When most persons think of my particular science, they think of the process
of invention. The infusing of charms and spells into objects. The creation
of a magickal blade, perhaps, or a ring. But the skilled enchanter is also a
catalyst. The same mind that can create something new can also provoke
greater power from something old. A ring that can generate warmth for a
novice, on the hand of such a talent can bake a forest black." The fat man
chuckled: "Not that I'm advocating that. Leave that for the School of
Destruction."
That week all the initiates were asked to choose a field of specialization.
All were surprised when I turned my back on my old darling, the School of
Illusion. It seemed ridiculous to me that I had ever entertained an
affection for such superficial charms. All my intellect was now focused on
the School of Enchantment, the means by which I could free the power of the
disc.
For months thereafter, I barely slept. A few hours a week, I'd spend with
Betaniqi and my statue to give myself strength and inspiration. All the rest
of my time was spent with Magister Ilther or his assistants, learning
everything I could about enchantment. They taught me how to taste the
deepest levels of magicka within a stored object.
"A simple spell cast once, no matter how skillfully and no matter how
spectacularly, is ephemeral, of the present, what it is and no more," sighed
Magister Ilther. "But placed in a home, it develops into an almost living
energy, maturing and ripening so only its surface is touched when an
unskilled hand wields it. You must consider yourself a miner, digging deeper
to pull forth the very heart of gold."
Every night when the laboratory closed, I practiced what I had learned. I
could feel my power grow and with it, the power of the disc. Whispering
"Palla," I delved into the artifact, feeling every slight nick that marked
the runes and every facet of the gemstones. At times I was so close to her,
I felt hands touching mine. But something dark and bestial, the reality of
death I suppose, would always break across the dawning of my dream. With it
came an overwhelming rotting odor, which the initiates in the chambers next
to mine began to complain about.
"Something must have crawled into the floorboards and died," I offered
lamely.
Magister Ilther praised my scholarship, and allowed me the use of his
laboratory after hours to further my studies. Yet no matter what I learned,
Palla seemed scarcely closer. One night, it all ended. I was swaying in a
deep ecstasy, moaning her name, the disc bruising my chest, when a sudden
lightning flash through the window broke my concentration. A tempest of
furious rain roared over Mir Corrup. I went to close the shutters, and when
I returned to my table, I found that the disc had shattered.
I broke into hysterical sobs and then laughter. It was too much for my
fragile mind to bear such a loss after so much time and study. The next day
and the day after, I spent in my bed, burning with a fever. Had I not been a
Mages Guild with so many healers, I likely would have died. As it was, I
provided an excellent study for the budding young scholars.
When at last I was well enough to walk, I went to visit Betaniqi. She was
charming as always, never once commenting on my appearance, which must have
been ghastly. Finally I gave her reason to worry when I politely but firmly
declined to walk with her along the reflecting pool.
"But you love looking at the statuary," she exclaimed.
I felt that I owed her the truth and much more. "Dear lady, I love more than
the statuary. I love your mother. She is all I've been able to think about
for months now, ever since you and I first removed the tarp from that blessed
sculpture. I don't know what you think of me now, but I have been obsessed
with learning how to bring her back from the dead."
Betaniqi stared at me, eyes wide. Finally she spoke: "I think you need to
leave now. I don't know if this is a terrible jest --"
"Believe me, I wish it were. You see, I failed. I don't know why. It could
not have been that my love wasn't strong enough, because no man had a
stronger love. Perhaps my skills as an enchanter are not masterful, but it
wasn't from lack of study!" I could feel my voice rise and knew I was
beginning to rant, but I could not hold back. "Perhaps the fault lay in that
your mother never met me, but I think that only the caster's love is taken
into account in the necromantic spell. I don't know what it was! Maybe that
horrible creature, the monster that killed her, cast some sort of curse on
her with its dying breath! I failed! And I don't know why!"
With a surprising burst of speed and strength for so small a lady, Betaniqi
shoved herself against me. She screamed, "Get out!" and I fled out the door.
Before she slammed the door shut, I offered my pathetic apologies: "I'm so
sorry, Betaniqi, but consider that I wanted to bring your mother back to you.
It's madness, I know, but there is only one thing that's certain in my life
and that's that I love Palla."
The door was nearly shut, but the girl opened it crack to ask tremulously:
"You love whom?"
"Palla!" I cried to the Gods.
"My mother," she whispered angrily. "Was named Xarlys. Palla was the
monster."
I stared at the closed door for Mara knows how much time, and then began the
long walk back to the Mages Guild. My memory searched through the minutiae
to the Tales and Tallows night so long ago when I first beheld the statue,
and first heard the name of my love. That Breton initiate, Gelyn had spoken.
He was behind me. Was he recognizing the beast and not the lady?
I turned the lonely bend that intersected with the outskirts of Mir Corrup,
and a large shadow rose from the ground where it had been sitting, waiting
for me.
"Palla," I groaned. "Pal La."
"Kiss me," it howled.
And that brings my story up to the present moment. Love is red, like blood.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Poison Song I
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_poisonsong1
Weight: 4
Value: 30
Special Notes: None
The Poison Song
Book I
By Bristin Xel
It was beginning again. Even though everything seemed serene (the last
embers crackling in the hearth; young servant girl and her child slumbering
in a chair by the door; a tapestry half-finished against the wall, waiting to
be completed tomorrow; one of the moons visible through a milky cloud outside
the window; a lone bird, out of sight in the rafters, cooing placidly), Tay
heard the first chords of the Song strike dissonantly somewhere far away.
The bird in the rafters croaked and took flight through the window. The baby
in the girl's arms woke and began to scream. The Song swelled in intensity,
yet still remained subtle and stately in tempo. The movement of everything
seemed to take on the rhythm of the music as if strange choreography had been
staged: the girl rising to the window, the clouds reflecting back red from
the inferno below, her scream, all muted, consumed by the Song. Everything
that came thereafter Tay had seen so many times, it had almost ceased to be a
nightmare.
He did not remember anything of his life before coming to the island of
Gorne, but he understood that there was something different in his past that
set him apart from his cousins. It wasn't simply that his parents were dead.
His cousin Baynarah's parents had also died in the War. Nor were the other
Housemen on Gorne or nearby Mournhold unusually cruel to him. They treated
him with the same polite indifference that any Indoril has for every other
eight-year-old boy that got underfoot.
But somehow, with absolutely certainty, Tay knew he was alone. Different.
Because of a Song he always heard, and his nightmares.
"You're certainly imaginative," his aunt Ulliah would smile patiently, before
waving him away so she could return to her scriptures and chores.
"Different? Everyone in the world thinks they're 'different,' that's what
makes it such a common sentiment," said his older cousin Kalkorith who was
studying to be Temple priest and had a firm grasp on paradoxes.
"If you tell anyone else that you keep hearing music where there's no music
to be heard, they'll call you mad and bury you in the Shrine of Sheogorath,"
his uncle Triffith would snarl, before striding away to attend his business.
Only his nursemaid Edebah would listen to him seriously, and just nod with a
faint look of pride. But she would never say another word.
His cousin and chief playmate Baynarah was by far the least interested in the
stories of his Song and his dreams.
"How tiresome you are with all this, Tay," said Baynarah, after luncheon the
summer of his eighth year. He, she, and a younger cousin Vaster walked into a
clearing in the midst of flowering trees. The grass was very low, barely up
to their ankles, and there were big black piles of leaves from the previous
autumn. "Now, shall we get back to it? What shall we play?"
Tay thought for a moment. "We could play the Siege of Orsinium."
"What's that?" asked Vaster, their constant companion, three years their
junior.
"Orsinium was the home of the orcs, off in the Wrothgarian Mountains. For
hundreds of years, it kept growing bigger and bigger and bigger. The orcs
would come down out of the mountains and rape and pillage all over High Rock.
And then, King Joile of Daggerfall and Gaiden Shinji of the Order of Diagna
and someone else, I forget, from Sentinel all joined together against
Orsinium. For thirty years they fought and fought. Orsinium had walls made
out of iron and, try as they might, they couldn't break through."
"So what happened?" asked Baynarah.
"You're so good at making up things that never happened, why don't you make
it up?"
So they did. Tay was the King of the Orcs, perched up in a tree they called
Orsinium. Baynarah and Vaster played King Joile and Gaiden Shinji and they
threw pebbles and sticks up at Tay while he taunted them in his most guttural
voice. The three decided that the Goddess Kynareth (played by Baynarah in
dual role) answered the prayers of Gaiden Shinji and drenched Orsinium in a
torrent of rain. The walls rusted and dissolved. On cue, Tay obligingly fell
from the tree and let King Joile and Gaiden Shinji mangle him with their
enchanted blades.
For the most of that summer, the year 675 of the First Era, Tay was nearly
insensible by the power of the sun. There were no clouds, but it rained most
every night, so the vegetation on the island of Gorne was bewildering lush.
The stones themselves seemed to glow with sunlight, and the ditches burned
with white meadowsweet and parsleydown; all around him were soft smells of
flower and tree untroubled by wind; the foliage was purple green, blue green,
ash green, white green. The wide cupolas, twisting cobbled streets, and
thatched roofs of the little village of Gorne, and massive bleached rock of
Sandil House all were magical to him.
Yet the dreams haunted his nights and the Song continued whether he was awake
or not.
Against Aunt Ulliah's admonishments, Tay, Baynarah, and Vaster had breakfast
outdoors every morning with the servants. Ulliah would hold an interior
breakfast for herself and any visiting dignitaries: guests were rare, so she
often ate alone. At first the servants would dine in silence, attempting
gentility, but they broke down and would regale the children with gossip,
reports, stories, and rumors.
"Poor Arnyle is laid up with a fever again."
"I'm telling you, they're cursed. The whole lot of 'em. Piss on the faerie
and they piss right back on you."
"Doesn't Little Miss Starsia look, oh, just a wee bit tight around the belly
region late-ly?"
"She's not!"
The only servant who didn't speak at all was Tay's nursemaid Edebah. She
wasn't pretty like the other maids, but the scars on her face did not deform
her. Her poorly set broken nose and her short hair gave her a certain alien
mystique. She would merely quietly smile at the gossip, and look at Tay with
almost frightening love and devotion.
One day, after breakfast, Baynarah whispered to Tay and Vaster, "We have to
go to the hills on the other side of the island."
She had used such imperatives before and always had something wonderful to
show: a waterfall, tucked away behind ferns and tall rocks; a sunny grove of
figs; a discreet still some peasants had set up; a sickly oak, twisted into a
kneeling human figure; a collapsed stone wall that they imagined was
thousands of years old, the last refuge of a doomed princess they named
Merella.
The three walked across through the forest until they came to a clearing. A
few hundred feet beyond, the meadow sank to a dry creek bed, filled with
small, smooth stones. They followed that into the dark woods where trees
canopied high over their heads. Sporadic red and yellow blossoms burst along
the moist underbrush, but they became rarer and rarer as the children marched
on under the umbrageous oaks and elms. The air crackled with birds ticking a
staccato choral piece, a minor chord of the Song.
"Where are we going?" asked Tay.
"It's not where we're going, it's what we're going to see," replied Baynarah.
The forest surrounded the three children completely, bathed them in its
tenebrous hues, and breathed on them with wet chirrups and sighs. It was easy
for them to imagine that they were within a monster, walking along its
twisted spine of stones.
Baynarah scrambled up the steep hill and peered through the thick mass of
shrub and tree. Tay lifted Vaster out of the creek bed and climbed out,
gripping soft grass for support. There was no path through the forest here.
Brambles and low hanging branches struck at them like the claws of chained
beasts. The cries of the birds became ever more stentorious, as if angered at
the invasion. One limb drew blood on Vaster's cheek, but he didn't cry out.
Even Baynarah, who could pass like an ethereal creature through impenetrable
forests, had a braid catch on a bramble, ruining the intricate pattern a
servant had woven hours before. She paused to pull out the other braid, so
her bright unruly tresses fell freely behind her. Now she was something wild,
a nymph guiding the other two through her woodland domain. The Song began to
beat like a wild pulse.
They were on a shelf of stone below a cliff overlooking a tremendous gorge,
staring over an expanse of cinder. It looked like the scene of a tremendous
battle, a holocaust of fire. Charred boxes, weaponry, animal bones, and
detritus too annihilated to be identifiable littered the ground. Speechless,
Tay and Vaster stepped into the black field. Baynarah smiled, proud that she
had finally found something of true wonder and mystery.
"What is this place?" asked Vaster at last.
"I don't know," Baynarah shrugged. "I thought at first that it was some kind
of ruin, but now I think it's a junk pile, just not like any junk pile I've
ever seen. Just look at this stuff."
The three began an unorganized survey of the dusty mounds of refuse.
Baynarah found a twisted sword only lightly blackened by flame and began
polishing it to read the inscriptions on the blade. Vaster amused himself by
breaking brittle boxes with his hands and feet, imagining himself a giant of
unbelievable strength. A battered shield attracted Tay: there was something
about it that reverberated with the sound of the Song. He pulled it out, and
wiped its surface clean.
"I've never seen that crest before," said Baynarah, looking over Tay's
shoulder.
"I think I have, but I don't remember," Tay whispered, trying to conjure the
memory from his dreams. He was sure he had seen it there.
"Look at this!" Vaster cried, interrupting Tay's thoughts. The boy was
holding up a crystal orb. As his hand moved over the surface, brushing away
grit and dust, a key in the Song rose which sent a shiver through Tay's
entire body. Baynarah ran over to look at Vaster's treasure, but Tay felt
paralyzed.
"Where did you find that?" she gasped, gazing into the swirl beneath the
crystal surface.
"Over in that wagon," Vaster gestured toward a heap of blackened wood, barely
discernible from the other piles but for its cart spokes. Baynarah began
digging into the half-collapsed structure, so only her feet could be seen.
The Song built in potency, sweeping over Tay. He began walking toward Vaster
slowly.
"Give me that," he whispered in a voice he could barely recognize as his own.
"No," Vaster whispered back, his eyes locked on the colors reflected in the
heart of the globe. "It's mine."
Baynarah dug through the remains of the wagon for several more minutes, but
she could find no treasures like Vaster's. Most everything within was
destroyed, and what remained was common-place by any standards: broken
arrows, armor shards, guar bones. Frustrated, she pulled herself out into
the sunlight.
Tay was alone, at the edge of the great gorge.
"Where's Vaster?"
Tay blinked and then turned back to his cousin with a shrug and a grin: "He
went back to show everyone his new plunder. Did you find anything
interesting?"
"Not really," said Baynarah. "We probably ought to get back home before
Vaster tells them anything that'll get us in trouble."
Tay and Baynarah started the walk back at a quick pace. Tay knew that Vaster
would not be there when they got back. He would never be returning home
again. The crystal globe rested snugly in Tay's satchel, hidden under a pile
of junk he had picked up. With all his heart, he prayed for the Song to
return and drown out the memory of the gorge and the long, silent fall down.
The boy had been so surprised, he hadn't even time to scream.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Poison Song II
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_poisonsong2
Weight: 4
Value: 30
Special Notes: None
The Poison Song
Book II
By Bristin Xel
Tay felt no guilt, which frightened him. All through the long, fast walk
away from the gorge, through the woods, across the dry creek bed, he chatted
merrily with Baynarah, fully aware that he had just committed murder.
Whenever his mind strayed from the conversation, and he thought back on the
last moments of Vaster's short life, the Song would soar. He could not think
of the boy's death, but Tay knew he was responsible.
"You're a mess!" cried Aunt Ulliah the moment she saw the two children
emerging from the woods onto the grounds of Sandil House. "Where have you
been?"
"Didn't Vaster already tell you?" asked Tay.
The scene played itself out as Tay knew it would, every dancer in the Song
performing their steps as choreographed. Aunt Ulliah saying that she had not
seen Vaster. Baynarah, not yet frightened, making up an innocent lie about
the threesome not having strayed far, saying he must have gotten lost. A
slow but steady rhythm of panic intensifying as night began to fall, and
Vaster had not yet returned. Baynarah and Tay tearfully (he was surprised
how easy it was for him to cry without feeling) admitting where they had
been, and leading Uncle Triffith and a crowd of servants to the junk pile and
gorge. The tireless search through the woods as night turned to dawn. The
weeping. The light punishment, merely cries of anger, that Baynarah and Tay
suffered for losing their young cousin.
It was thought, from their stricken expressions, that the children felt
guilty enough. They were sent to bed at dawn while the hunt through the
woods continued.
Tay was drifting to sleep when his nursemaid Edebah came into his room. The
look of unwavering love and devotion had not left her eyes, and he sank
gratefully into his dreams and nightmares with her holding his hand. The
Song wafted almost imperceptibly through his consciousness as he again had
the vision of the room in the castle. The girl and her baby. The bird in
the rafters. The dying fire. The sudden explosion of violence. Breathless,
Tay opened his eyes.
Edebah was stealing out the door, softly humming the Song to herself. In her
hand was the crystal globe from his satchel. For a moment, he hesitated,
about to cry out. How did she know the Song? Was she aware that he had
murdered another boy to get the globe?
Somehow he knew that she was helping him, that she knew all and loved him and
sought only to protect him.
The next day, and the next week, and the next month were all the same. No
one spoke very much, and when they did it was to suggest new places to look
for the missing boy. Everywhere had been searched thoroughly. Tay was
curious why they never looked in the gorge, but he understood how
inaccessible it was.
A side-effect of Vaster's absence was that the tutorial sessions with Kena
Gafrisi took on a more serious, even academic quality. The younger boy's
high spirits and meager attentiveness had always cut the lessons short, but
sensible Baynarah and quiet Tay were ideal pupils. He was particularly
impressed by how focused they became during a rather dry history lecture
about the heraldic symbols of Houses of Morrowind.
"The crest of the Hlaalu features a scale," he sniffed disdainfully. "They
see themselves as the great compromisers, as if that were something
honorable. Many hundreds of years ago, they were the tribesmen following
Resdayn who chose--"
"Pardon me, Kena," asked Baynarah. "But what is the crest with the insect on
it?"
"You don't know House Redoran?" asked the tutor, lifting up one of the
shields. "I know you have a sheltered life on Gorne, but you're surely old
enough to recognize--"
"Not that one, Kena," replied Tay. "I think she means the other crest with an
insect."
"I see," nodded Kena Gafrisi, brow furrowed. "Yes, you would be too young to
have ever seen the crest of the Sixth House, the House of Dagoth. Our
enemies together with the accursed heretical Dwemer in the War of the Red
Mountain, now totally destroyed, thanks be to Lord, Mother, and Wizard. That
House was a curse on our land for millennia, and when at last their
pestilence was snuffed out, the very earth itself breathed a cloud of fire
and ash in relief, bringing night to day for over a year's time."
Baynarah and Tay knew they could not speak, but they exchanged knowing
glances at one another as the tutor enlarged on the theme of the great
wickedness of the Dwemer and the House Dagoth. As soon as the lesson ended,
they walked silently out of Sandil House until they were far from all ears
and eyes.
The afternoon sun stretched out the shadows of the spear-like trees
surrounding the meadow. Off in the distance, they could hear the sounds of
the workers beginning their preparations for the autumntide harvest, yelling
to one another unintelligibly in coarse and familiar accents.
"That was definitely the symbol on that shield you found at the garbage
heap," Baynarah said at last. "Everything there must be a remnant of the
House Dagoth."
Tay nodded. His mind was on the strange crystal globe. He felt a light
vibration of soundless music touch his body, and knew he was discovering a
new cadence of the Song.
"Why would our people have burned and discarded all that?" he asked
thoughtfully. "Do you think the House Dagoth was so evil that everything
associated with them could have been cursed?"
Baynarah laughed. At the height of day, all talk of curses and the evil
Sixth House were pure supposition: something to add romance to one's life,
but nothing to worry about. The two children walked back to the castle for
yet another in a series of cold, quiet dinners. As the night fell, Baynarah
looked through the treasures she had picked up in the junk heap. By the
light of the moons, the small jars, the torc with orange gemstones, the bits
of tarnished silver and gold of no obvious purpose, all took on a sinister
aspect.
Revulsion overtook her feeling of admiration instantly. There was a strange
energy to them, a tincture of death and corruption that was undeniable.
Baynarah ran to the window and vomited.
Looking out to the dark open lawn below, she saw a figure below lighting an
arrangement of candles in the shape of a large insect, the symbol of the
House Dagoth. When it looked in her direction, she pulled back, but she saw
the face illuminated by the tallows. It was Edebah, Tay's nursemaid.
The next morning, Baynarah left the castle grounds early, bearing a large
sack filled with her treasures. She carried them to the dumping ground and
left them there. Then she returned, and told her Uncle Triffith what she had
seen the night before, leaving out only what had made her sick in the first
place.
Edebah was banished from the isle of Gorne without discussion. She wept,
begging to be allowed to say goodbye to Tay, but all believed that would be
too dangerous. When Tay asked what had become of her, he was told she had to
return to her family on the mainland. He had grown too old for a nursemaid.
Baynarah never told him what she knew. For she was afraid.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Poison Song III
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_poisonsong3
Weight: 4
Value: 30
Special Notes: None
The Poison Song
Book III
By Bristin Xel
Tay was eighteen in the year 685 of the First Era when he first saw
Mournhold, the city of spires, home of the goddess. His cousin Kalkorith,
already a senior initiate in the Temple, gave him a couple rooms on the
ground floor of the house he had purchased. They were small and unfurnished,
but bittergreen grew outside the windows, and when the wind blew, they filled
his bedroom with a lovely spicy air.
The chords of the Song did not trouble him anymore. Sometimes he was even
unconscious to it, so low and melodic it had become. Occasionally when he
was passing through the streets on the way to the Temple for his instruction,
someone would pass him and the Song would rise in intensity before falling
away again. Whatever was different about those people, Tay never tried to
ascertain. He remembered the last time he had let the Song lead him, and
called for him to murder his young cousin Vaster. The memory did not trouble
him unduly, but he did not want to hurt anyone again unless he had to.
House couriers regularly brought Tay letters from Baynarah, still back in
Sandil House on the island of Gorne. She might have gone to study at the
Temple, she was certainly intelligent enough, but she chose not to. In a
year or two at most, she would have to leave and assume her place in House
Indoril, but she was not in a hurry. Tay welcomed the trivial gossipy news
the letters brought, and responded back with news of his own studies and
romances.
In his third month in Mournhold, he had already met a girl. She was also a
student at the Temple, and her name was Acra. Tay wrote enthusiastically
about her to Baynarah, describing her as having the mind of Sotha Sil, the
wit of Vivec, and the beauty of Almalexia. Baynarah replied back merrily
that if she had known how blasphemous students of the Temple were allowed to
be, she might have become an initiate herself.
"You are very devoted to your cousin," Acra laughed when Tay showed her the
letter. "Am I looking at the last remains of a thwarted romance?"
"She's lovely, but I never thought of her that way," Tay scoffed. "Incest
never particularly interested me."
"Is she a very close cousin then?"
Tay thought for a moment: "I don't know. Truthfully, no one spoke much of
either her parents or mine, so I really don't know how we were connected.
They were casualties of the War of the Red Mountain, that I know, and it
seemed to cast rather a pall on the adults' humor whenever we asked about her
parents or mine. After a while, we stopped asking. But you're an Indoril
too. Perhaps you're a closer cousin to me than Baynarah."
"Perhaps so," Acra smiled, rising from her chair. She uncoiled her hair,
which had been pulled up in the formal arrangement reserved for well-born
priestesses. As Tay watched transfigured, she removed the small brooch that
fastened her robe to her shoulder cape. The soft silken fabric slipped down
slowly, exposing her dark, slender body to him for the first time. "If we
are, does incest particularly interest you now?"
As they made love, the Song began a slow, rhythmic ascension in Tay's head.
The vision of Acra before him darkened and was replaced by images from his
nightmares before returning again. When finally he collapsed, spent, the
room seemed filled with the fiery red clouds of his dream, and the scream of
the woman and her child facing death echoed in his head. He opened his eyes,
and there was Acra, smiling at him. Tay kissed her, grateful to have her in
his arms.
For the next two weeks, Tay and Acra were never far apart. Even when they
were at study in opposite wings of the Temple, Tay thought of her, and
somehow knew she was thinking of him. They would rush to be together
afterwards, ravishing one another in his rooms every night, and in a private
corner of the Temple garden every day.
It was while Tay was rushing to see his beloved one afternoon that the Song
rose up in powerful strident tones at the approach of an old, ragged woman.
He closed his eyes and tried to quiet it, but when he looked again at her
purchasing corkbulb papyrus from a street vendor, he knew who she was. His
old nursemaid from Gorne, Edebah. She who had abandoned him without even a
farewell to join her family on the mainland.
She didn't see him, and as she passed down the street, Tay turned and began
to follow. They walked through shadowy passageways into the very poorest
part of the city, a quarter which was as alien to him as the wildest
principality of Akavir. She unlocked a small wooden door on a street without
a name, and he finally called out her name. She didn't turn, but when he
followed, he found that the door had been left ajar.
The chamber was murky and damp like a cave. She stood facing him, her face
even more wrinkled than he had remembered it, etched with lines of sorrow.
He closed the door behind him, and she took his hand and kissed it.
"You are so tall and strong," Edebah said, beginning to weep. "I should have
killed myself before I let them take me away from you."
"How is your family?" Tay asked coldly.
"You are my only family," she whispered. "The Indoril pigs forced me to
leave, thrusting their blades in my face, when they discovered that I serve
you and your family, not them. That bitch girl Baynarah saw me at a prayer
of mourning."
"You're speaking like a madwoman," Tay sneered. "How could you love me and my
family, but hate the House Indoril? I am of the House Indoril."
"You are old enough to know the truth," Edebah said fiercely. Tay had
bitterly joked about her madness, but he saw something close to it burning in
her ancient eyes. "You were not born of House Indoril; they brought you into
their house after the War, like they and the other Houses brought in all the
orphans. It was the only way they saw to erase history and remove all traces
of their enemies, by raising their enemies as one of them."
Tay turned toward the door: "I can see why you were taken away from Gorne,
old woman. You are delusional."
"Wait!" Edebah cried, rushing to a musty cabinet. She retrieved from it a
glass globe that shimmered with a spectrum of color even in the chamber's
gloom. "Do you remember this? You slew that little boy Vaster because he
possessed it, and I took it from your room because you were not ready to face
the facts of your inheritance and responsibility then. Did you not wonder
why this bauble drew you so?"
Tay gasped, and though he did not want to, he said, "I hear a Song
sometimes."
"That is the Song of your ancestors, of your true family," she said, nodding.
"You must not fight it, for it is a song of destiny. It will lead you to do
what must be done."
"Shut up!" Tay howled, "Everything you say is a lie! You're insane!"
Edebah threw the globe to the ground with all her might, shattering it with a
deafening retort. The shards melted into the air. All that was left was a
small silver ring, simply wrought with a flat crown. The old woman quietly
picked it up and handed it to him, while he stood with his back against the
door, trembling.
"This is your inheritance, as the bearer of the Sixth House."
The ring's crown was meant for stamping and sealing official House
proclamations. Tay had seen his uncle Triffith's similar ring, crested with
the wing which was the seal of House Indoril. This ring was different, with
an insect design which he remembered from the day when Kena Gafrisi had
taught the House heraldry to Baynarah and him.
It was the symbol of the accursed House Dagoth.
The Song took over all of Tay's senses. He heard its music, smelled its
horror, tasted its sadness, felt its power, and the only thing he could see
before him was the flames of its destruction. When he took the ring and
placed it on his finger, his mind was not aware of what he was doing. Nor
was Tay aware of anything but the Song when he removed his dagger from its
sheath and thrust it into his old nursemaid's heart.
Tay did not even hear her final words, when Edebah fell bleeding to the
ground, and groaned with a blood-streaked smile, "Thank you."
When the veil of the Song lifted, Tay did not realize at first he was no
longer dreaming. Before him had been flames, the very ones that destroyed
the home of his birth, and flames were before him again. But they were
flames from a fire he had struck outside the crumbling tenement that were
already bursting through walls, consuming the body of his old nursemaid.
Tay fled through the streets as people began to call for the guards.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Poison Song IV
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_poisonsong4
Weight: 4
Value: 30
Special Notes: None
The Poison Song
Book IV
By Bristin Xel
Acra sat by the hearth in Tay's room, reading her book by the fire. It
concerned some minutiae of theosophy that she did not believe in, but
nevertheless found morbidly compelling. When the door opened and she heard
Tay enter, she finished the paragraph she was reading before looking up.
"I've been here for hours, darling. If I knew you were going to be so late,
I would have brought more books," she giggled. When she saw Tay's face and
the state of his clothing, her manner lost all frivolity. "What happened to
you? Are you all right?"
"I've been to see my old childhood nursemaid, Edebah," he said in a strange
voice. "It was a sudden change of plans. I hadn't realized she was in
Mournhold."
"I wish I had known where you were going," she said, rising slowly from her
chair. "I would have loved to have met her."
"Well, it's too late now. I've killed her."
Acra inhaled deeply, studying Tay's frozen face. She took his hand. "Perhaps
you ought to tell me everything."
Tay let his beloved lead him to the hearth, where he sat blinking at the
fire. He looked down at the silver ring on his finger. "Before I killed her,
she gave me this. It's the sealing ring of the House Dagoth. She told me I
was the bearer of the inheritance, and the Song I hear all the time in my
head, the one that called me to kill another boy when I was young, and then
Edebah herself, is the Song of my ancestors."
Tay fell silent. Acra knelt by his side, stroking his ringed hand. "Tell me
more."
"My tutor Kena Gafrisi taught us that the House Dagoth was a curse on
Morrowind. He said that when they were all destroyed at the end of the War,
the very earth itself breathed in relief," Tay closed his eyes. "I can see
the obliteration. I can even hear it in the Song. Edebah told me that the
five Houses adopted the orphan children of Dagoth, raising them in their own
traditions. I thought she was mad or a liar, but the real lie was all those
years I thought my family was House Indoril."
"What are you going to do?" Acra whispered.
"Well, Edebah told me to follow the Song to my destiny," Tay laughed
bitterly. "But the Song led me to kill her, so I don't know if she'd still
give me that recommendation now. I know that I need to leave Mournhold.
Before I knew what I was doing, I set a fire in her tenement. The guards
were called. I just don't know where I'd go."
"You have many friends to shield you if you prove yourself to be the new
leader of the return of the Sixth House," Acra kissed the ring. "I will help
you find them."
Tay stared at her. "Why would you help me?"
"When you thought I was your cousin of the House Indoril, you did not mind
having me though it might well have been incestuous," Acra replied, meeting
his eyes. "I have heard the Song too. It is not as strong with me as it was
with you, but I never chose to ignore it. It taught me more than the
ridiculous Temple priests and priestesses ever could. I knew that my true
name was Dagoth-Acra, and I knew that I had a brother."
"No," Tay said through gritted teeth. "You're lying."
"You are Dagoth-Tython."
Tay shoved Acra hard against the wall and ran from the room. As he fled
through the hall, he heard the sound of Kalkorith's footfall on the stairs
behind him, a percussive instrument in the Song that was rising in his heart
and head
"Cousin," the senior initiate was saying. "Have you heard about the fire--"
Tay unsheathed his dagger and turned, burying it to the hilt in Kalkorith's
throat. "Cousin," he hissed. "I am not your cousin."
The streets of Mournhold were lit by the red glow of the tenement fire,
spreading through the tight alleyways by a steady and intense gust of wind.
It was as if Dagoth-Ur himself was looming over the city, fanning the flames
his heir had struck. A House guard, running toward the blaze, stopped at the
sight of Tay, standing uncertainly, swaying, before the front door of
Kalkorith's house, a bloodied blade in his hand.
"What you done, serjo?"
Tay ran for the forest, his cape whipping behind him by the force of the
howling wind. The guard clambered after him, sword drawn. He had no need to
investigate the house to see the murder. He knew.
For hours, Tay raced through the wilderness, the Song pushing him onward.
The sound of his pursuer faded away. At last, the trees thinned, and he saw
nothing before him but air and water. A cliff, a hundred foot long plunge
into the Inner Sea.
The Song told him no. It pulled him north, sweetly promising a place to rest
among friends. More than friends -- people who would worship him as the heir
of Dagoth. As he slowly walked toward the edge of the cliff, the Song became
more threatening, warning him not to seek to avoid his fate. There was no
escape in death.
Tay spat a curse upon his House and threw himself head first over the cliff.
It was another glorious day on the island of Gorne, the first one in weeks
that Baynarah could truly enjoy. Uncle Triffith had important company,
Housemen from far away, and she had been required to attend every dinner,
every meeting, every ceremony. As a child, she remembered, she had hoped for
some attention. Now nothing was more blissful than time away from her
duties.
There was only one thing she wanted to do that she had to do indoors, and
that was writing a letter to her cousin. But that could wait until the
evening, she told herself. After all, he had not written her in many days.
It was the influence of that girl, Acra. Not that she seemed disagreeable,
but Baynarah knew how one's first love can be all-consuming. At least, she
had read about it.
As she walked idly through the wildflower meadow, Baynarah was so distracted
with her thoughts that she did not hear her maid Hillima calling. She was
quite startled when she turned to see the young servant running up.
"Serjo," she said, breathlessly. "Please come! Someone has washed up on the
shore! It's your cousin, Serjo Indoril-Tay!"
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Poison Song V
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_poisonsong5
Weight: 4
Value: 30
Special Notes: None
The Poison Song
Book V
By Bristin Xel
For two days, the House healers attended Tay in his bed, and Baynarah sat by
his side, holding his hand. He was feverish, neither asleep nor awake,
screaming at invisible phantoms. The healers complimented the young man's
fortitude. Bodies had washed ashore on the island of Gorne several times,
many during the War, but never once had they seen one that lived afterwards.
Aunt Ulliah came in several times to bring Baynarah food: "You must be
careful, dear, or when he's all well, he'll have to attend you on your
sickbed."
Tay's fever broke, and at last he was able to open his eyes and see the young
woman with whom he had spent seventeen years, all but the first year of his
life. She smiled at him, and called for food. In silence, she helped him
eat.
"I knew you wouldn't die, cousin," she whispered fondly.
"I hoped to, but somehow I knew I wouldn't either," he groaned. "Baynarah, do
you remember all those nightmares I told you about? They're all true."
"We can talk about it when you've rested some more."
"No," he croaked. "I must tell you everything now, so you'll know what kind
of a monster you call your dear cousin Tay. If there was some way you could
have known before, you might not have been so eager to see me well again."
A tear rolled Baynarah's cheek. She had grown into a beauty, even in the few
months he had been away in Mournhold. "How can you think I would stop loving
you, no matter what you've done?"
"I saw my old nursemaid Edebah, and spoke to her."
"Oh," Baynarah had feared this moment. "Tay, I don't know what she told you,
but it was all my fault. You remember when Kena Grafisi taught us about the
House Dagoth, and its corruption. That night, I saw your nursemaid making
some kind of altar out on the north lawn, using the symbol of the Sixth
House. She must have been doing it for years, but I never knew what it
meant. I told Uncle Triffith, and he sent her away. I've wanted to tell you
so many times now, but I was afraid to. She was so devoted to you."
Tay smiled. "And didn't it frighten you even more to wonder if there was any
connection between her devotion to me, and her devotion to the accursed
House? I know you, Baynarah. You're not one of those women who doesn't
choose to use her mind."
"Tay, I don't know what she told you, but I think she was very troubled, and
whatever she thought about you and the Sixth House was wrong. You have to
remember that. The ramblings of one madwoman are proof of nothing."
"There's more," Tay sighed, and held up his hand. For a moment he blinked,
and then turned to Baynarah angrily. "What happened to my ring? If you saw
it, you must have known already that everything I'm saying to you is true."
"I threw the filthy thing away," Baynarah stood up. "Tay, I'm going to let
you rest now."
"I am the heir of House Dagoth," Tay was wild-eyed, almost screaming. "Raised
after the War as House Indoril, but driven by the Song of my ancestors. When
we were young, I killed Vaster because the Song told me he had stolen my
inheritance. When Edebah told me who I was and gave me this ring, I killed
her and burned her house to the ground, because the Song told me she had
served her purpose. When I returned to Kalkorith's house, my love was there,
telling me that she was of the House Dagoth too, and my sister. I fled, and
when Kalkorith tried to stop me, I slew him, because the Song told me he was
an enemy."
"Tay, stop," Baynarah sobbed. "I don't believe a word of it. You've been
feverish..."
"Not Tay," he shook his head, breathing heavily. "The name my parents gave me
was Dagoth-Tython."
"You can't have killed Edebah, you loved her. And Vaster and Kalkorith?
They were our cousins!"
"They were not my true cousins," Tay said coldly. "The Song told me they were
my foes. Just as it's telling me now that you're my foe, but I won't listen.
And I'll keep from listening... as long as I can."
Baynarah fled from the room, slamming the door behind her. She took a key
from the her startled maid Hillima, and secured the lock.
"Serjo Indoril-Baynarah," Hillima whispered, with great sympathy. "Is all
well with your cousin, Serjo Indoril-Tay?"
"He'll be perfectly fine once he rests," Baynarah recovered her dignity,
wiping the tears from her face. "No one is to disturb him under any
circumstances. I'll take the key with me. Now I have much work to do. I
don't suppose anyone's spoken to the fishermen about restocking Sandil
House's supplies?"
"I don't know, serjo," said the maid. "I don't think so."
Baynarah marched down to the docks, and relieved her troubled heart the only
way she knew how, by concentrating on small things. Tay's words never left
her, but she found temporary comfort talking to the fishermen about their
haul, helping determine how much should be smoked, how much should be sent to
the village, how much should be delivered fresh to the House larder.
Her aunt Ulliah joined the discussion, oblivious to Baynarah's well-disguised
agony. Together, they discussed how many provisions Uncle Triffith and his
commanders had devoured during their weeks on the island, when they would be
expected to return, and how best to prepare. One of the fishermen on the
docks called out, interrupting.
"A boat is coming!"
Ulliah and Baynarah greeted the visitor as she arrived. It was a young woman
dressed in the robes of a Temple priestess. As she docked her small boat,
Baynarah marveled at how beautiful she was, and strangely familiar.
"Welcome to Gorne," said Baynarah. "I am Indoril-Baynarah and this is my aunt
Indoril-Ulliah. Have we met before?"
"I don't believe so, serjo," the woman bowed. "I was sent by the Temple to
inquire whether word had come from your cousin, Indoril-Tay. He has been
missing from his classes for some days now, and the priests have become
concerned."
"Oh, we should have sent word," Ulliah fretted. "He came here a few days ago,
half-drowned. He's better now. Let us escort you up to the house."
"Tay's resting now, and I asked that he not be disturbed," Baynarah
stammered. "Actually, I know it's dreadful manners, but I need to talk to my
aunt for a moment. Would it be too terrible if I asked you to wait for us at
the house? You have only to follow the path up the hill and across the
lawn."
The priestess bowed again humbly, and began the walk. Ulliah was
scandalized.
"You know better than to treat a representative of the Temple that way," she
snapped. "You can't be so exhausted from tending your cousin to have lost all
sense of civility."
"Aunt Ulliah," Baynarah whispered, drawing the woman away from the ears of
the fishermen. "Is Tay truly my cousin? He believes himself to be ... of the
House Dagoth."
Ulliah took a moment to respond. "It's true. You were just a baby yourself
during the War, so you couldn't know what it was like. There was not a part
of Morrowind that wasn't ravaged. There was even a battle here on the
island. Do you remember that burned pile of wreckage you and Tay and poor
little Vaster discovered so many years ago? That was the remains. And after
the War, when that accursed House was finally defeated, we saw the little
innocents, the orphans whose only crime had been born to wicked parents. I
admit there were some in our armies, the combined forces of the Houses, who
would have had them all slaughtered to annihilate the legacy of Dagoth. In
the end, compassion prevailed, and the children of the Sixth House were
adopted into the other five. And so we thought that we had won the war and
the peace."
"By the Mother, Lord, and Wizard, if all that Tay believes is true, then
there is no peace," Baynarah trembled. "He claims that the Song of his
ancestors called to him, and forced him to slay three people, two of them our
Housemen. Cousin Kalkorith and ... when he was a little boy ... Vaster."
Ulliah held her hands over her tearful face and could not speak.
"And it is only beginning," said Baynara. "The Song still calls to him. He
said there were others who knew, who would help him raise up the Sixth House.
His sister..."
"It must be an evil fantasy," Ulliah murmured. She noticed that Baynarah's
gaze was now upon the path leading from the docks towards the house. "Niece,
what are you thinking?"
"Did that priestess give us her name?"
The two women ran up the path, calling for guards. The fishermen, who had
never seen the mistresses of the house so undone, looked briefly at one
another and then followed quickly behind, pulling out their hooks and blades.
The front gate to Sandil House stood wide open, the first of the corpses
lying close within. It was now an abattoir, painted fresh with blood. There
was Aner, uncle Triffith's valet, gutted but still seated at the foyer table
where he had been enjoying his afternoon glass of flin. Leryne, one of the
chambermaids, had been decapitated while carrying some once-clean linens up
the stairs. The bodies of guards and servants sprawled about the hall like
blown leaves. At the top of the stairs, Baynarah had to hold back a sob when
she saw Hillima. She lay like a broken doll, slain as she tried to pull
herself out onto the narrow window ledge.
No one spoke, not Baynarah, nor Aunt Ulliah, nor the fishermen, as they
walked slowly through the blood-drenched house. They passed Tay's sick-room,
its door broken open, and no one within. When they heard the sound of
footsteps in Baynarah's room down the hall, they approached slowly,
cautiously, with great dread.
The priestess from the docks was standing by the bed. In her hand was the
silver ring Baynarah had taken from Tay's finger. In her other hand was a
long, curved blade, splashed like her once pristine gown, with gore. She
smiled prettily and bowed when she saw she was no longer alone.
"Acra, I should have recognized you by Tay's description in his letters,"
Baynarah said in her steadiest voice. "Where is my cousin?"
"I prefer to call myself Dagoth-Acra," she replied. "Your false cousin, my
true brother, has already gone to fulfill his destiny. I'm sorry you were
not here so he could give you a more permanent farewell."
Baynarah's face twisted in fury. She motioned for the fishermen, who
advanced with their weaponry. "Tear her apart."
"The Sixth House will rise again, and Dagoth-Tython will lead us!" Acra
laughed. Her words were still echoing as she gave the sign of Recall and
vanished like a ghost.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Poison Song VI
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_poisonsong6
Weight: 4
Value: 30
Special Notes: None
The Poison Song
Book VI
By Bristin Xel
The magnificent sprawl of the stronghold of Indoranyon was aglow in the light
of the setting sun. Commander Jasrat watched it slowly disappear into the
horizon as he led the caravan southwestward. It was a strange practice for
him to lead a night operation, but scarcely more bizarre than anything else
he was facing. He was only seventy years of age, far from old for a Bosmer,
and yet he felt like he belonged to another era.
He had known the land of east Vvardenfell his entire life. Every forest,
every garden, every small village between Red Mountain and the Sea of Ghosts
had been home to him. But now it was all different, twisted into a world he
did not recognize since the eruption and the year of Sun's Death. It made
night travel all the more treacherous, but it was a risk he was ordered to
take.
The ashmire appeared quite suddenly. If a sharp-sighted scout hadn't seen it
and given the signal, the entire caravan might have been swallowed whole.
Jasrat cursed. It had not been on the map, but that was hardly surprising.
It was a huge unnamed scathe stretching as far as anyone could see. The
commander considered his options. He might lead his party to the southeast
toward Tel Aruhn and then try an approach due west. As he consulted his map,
he noticed a glimmer of a campfire in the distance. Accompanied by his
lieutenants, Jasrat drove his guar forward to investigate what appeared to be
an Ashlander man and woman.
"This is no longer your realm," he bellowed. "Don't you know it's been ruled
by the Temple that these are House lands now?"
The couple shuffled to their feet, and began quietly walking away, toward a
narrow ridge between hill and ashmire. Jasrat called them back.
"Do you know a way around the scathe?" he asked. They nodded, their eyes
still to the ground. Jasrat signaled to his caravan. "You will lead us
then."
It was a treacherous winding crossing, almost too tight for the guars. The
wagons themselves scraped as the drivers pulled to avoid the ashmire. The
Ashlander man and woman whispered to one another as they led the caravan.
"What are you mumbling about, n'wah?" Jasrat hollered.
The man did not turn around. "My sister and I were talking about the Dagoth
rebellion, and she was guessing that you were bringing arms to the stronghold
at Falensarano, which is why you chose to cross the ashmire rather than
taking a road."
"I might have known," Jasrat laughed. "You Ashlanders are so hopeful whenever
you see signs of trouble in the Houses and the Temple. I hate to dampen your
spirits, but what you're speaking of is hardly a rebellion. Merely a few
isolated incidents of... unpleasantness. Tell your sister that."
As they plodded onward, the narrow ridge began to taper even more. The
Ashlanders found a low jagged crevasse in the hills, a crack from a lava flow
even predating Sun's Death. The caravan scored the rock walls at it moved
through. Commander Jasrat, after twenty years of uncertainty in a land he
did not understand, felt a twinge of his old instinct. This, he thought to
himself, would be a fine place for an ambush.
"Ashlander, how close are we?" he shouted.
"We've arrived," Dagoth-Tython replied, and gave the signal.
The assault was over in mere minutes, as it had been calculated from the
start. When the last body of the House guard had sunk beneath the ashmire,
only then was the inventory of the caravan revealed. It was better than they
had hoped, virtually everything the rebellion needed. Daedric swords, dozens
of suits of armor, quivers of fine ebony bolts, and rations enough to last
for weeks.
"Go on ahead to the camp," Tython smiled at his sister. "I'll lead the
caravan. We should be there within a few hours' time."
Acra kissed him passionately, and gave the sign of Recall. In an instant,
she was back in her tent, exactly as she had left it. Humming the Song, she
removed the Ashlander rags and chose an appropriately diaphanous gown from
her trunks. Precisely the sort of dress Tython would love seeing her in when
he returned.
"Muorasa!" she called to her servant. "Summon the troops together! Tython
and the others will be here very soon with all the weapons and rations we
need!"
"Muorasa can't hear you now," said a voice Acra hadn't heard in weeks. She
turned, expertly removed every trace of surprise from her face. It was
indeed Indoril-Baynarah, but not the quivering creature she had left behind
at the massacre at Sandil House. This woman was an armored warrior, who
spoke with mocking confidence. "She wouldn't be able to summon the troops if
she could. You may have weapons and rations, Acra, but there's no one left
to arm or feed."
Dagoth-Acra made the sign of Recall, but nothing happened.
"The moment we heard you banging around in the tent, my battlemages cast a
diffusion of all magicka," Baynara smiled, opening the tent further to invite
a dozen House soldiers in. "You won't be leaving."
"If you think that my brother will walk into your trap, you underestimate his
allegiance to the Song," Acra sneered. "It tells him everything he needs to
know. I have convinced him to no longer fight it, and let it lead him and us
to our ultimate victory."
"I've known him longer and better than you ever did," said Baynarah coldly.
"Now, I want to hear what the Song is saying to you. I want to know where I
can find Tay."
"Tython, my lady," Acra corrected her. "He is no longer a slave to your House
and the Temple's lies. You can torture me all you wish, but I swear to you
the next time you see him, it will be because he wishes it, not you. And
that will be your very last moment alive."
"Don't you worry, serjo," Baynarah's nightblade winked at her. "Everyone says
they won't break under torture, but everyone always does."
Baynarah left the tent. It was all a part of warfare, she understood that,
but there would be little relish in witnessing it. She could not even watch
as the House soldiers disposed of the rebel corpses. She had hoped she would
grow numb to the bloodshed after weeks of following Tython and Acra, massacre
after massacre. It didn't matter to her that now the bodies were of her
enemies. Death was still death.
She had only been in her tent for a few minutes when her nightblade appeared.
"Not so tough as she appeared, that one," he grinned. "In point of fact, all
I had to do is ask her nice and point my dagger at her belly, and she was
blubbering everything. Not too surprising really. It's always the ones that
talk big that crumble fast. I remember way back a couple years ago, before
you was even born -"
"Garuan, what did she say?" Baynarah asked.
"The Song, whatever that is, told her brother that she got herself caught,
and not to return to camp," the nightblade replied, only a trifle annoyed at
having his fascinating story cut short. "He's got a half dozen mer with him,
and they're going to try to assassinate the fella that led the Indoril army
in the War. General Indoril-Triffith."
"Uncle Triffith," Baynarah gasped. "Where is he stationed now?"
"I'm not sure myself, serjo. Do you want me to ask if she knows?"
"I'll come with you," said Baynarah. As they walked towards Acra's tent,
cries of alarm sounded. The situation became abundantly clear even before
they reached the site. Three guards were dead, and the prisoner had escaped.
"Interesting woman," said Garuan. "Weak heart, but a strong arm. Should we
send word of warning to General Indoril-Triffith?"
"If we can find where he is in time," said Baynarah
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Poison Song VII
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_poisonsong7
Weight: 4
Value: 30
Special Notes: None
The Poison Song
Book VII
By Bristin Xel
Triffith stood on the parapets of Barysimayn and considered the volcano.
Metaphors the poets used fell rather flat in his view. A festering wound it
could be called with its blood-like lava. The King of Ash, too, could be
applied, when one looked at its perpetual crown of smoke. And yet, none of
that would do, for nothing in his experience could convey the sheer magnitude
of the mountain. Red Mountain was many miles away from the fortress, and yet
it filled the horizon utterly.
Before he could feel too small, however, he heard his name being called
within. It was some consolation that though he was insignificant compared to
the mountain, he was still in possession of certain power and influence.
"General Indoril-Triffith," said Commander Rael. "There's trouble at the east
gate."
The trouble was scarcely more than a skirmish. An Ashlander, drunk perhaps
on shein, had begun a fight with the House guards at the back gate. As they
tried to drive him away, his cousins joined him, and soon there were six
Ashlanders altogether brawling with a dozen of Triffith's guards. If the
n'wahs had not been well-armed, the fight could have been finished almost
before it began. As it was, by the time the General arrived with more of his
guards, two of the Ashlanders were dead and the others had taken flight.
"It's the smoke in their brains," Rael shrugged. "Makes them mad."
Triffith climbed back up the stairs and returned to his chamber to dress for
dinner. General Redoran-Vorilk and Counselor Hlaalu-Nothoc would be arriving
very shortly to discuss the Temple's plans for reorganizing the House lands
of Morrowind. Mournhold was to be renamed Almalexia. A great new city in
honor of Vivec was to be built, but with whose gold? It made his head hurt.
There were so many details, a long night of argument, threats, and
compromises were ahead.
The General's mind was so occupied that he nearly put his House robes on
backwards. He also did not notice the shadowy figure steal out from behind
the tapestry and close the door to the bedchamber. It was not until Triffith
heard the sound of the latch-bolt fall that he turned around.
"Slipped in when I was distracted by the fracas at the back gate. Very
clever, Tay," he said simply. "Or do you call yourself Dagoth-Tython these
days?"
"You should know all my names," the young man snarled, unsheathing his sword.
"I was Tython before you butchered my family and sought to dispel my tribe.
I was Tay when you brought me into your House to poison me against my own
people. Now you may call me Vengeance."
There was a knock on the door. Tython and Triffith did not move their eyes
from one another. The knocking became a loud pounding. "General Indoril-
Triffith, are you well? Is there something wrong?"
"If you're going to kill me, boy, you'd best do it quickly," Triffith
growled. "My men will have that door down in two minutes."
"You don't tell me what to do, 'Uncle,'" Tython shook his head. "I have the
Song of my ancestors to instruct me. It tells me you made my father beg for
his life before you killed him, and I want to see you do the same."
"If your ancestors are all-knowing," Triffith smiled. "Why are they all
dead?"
Tython made an inhuman noise in the back of his throat and advanced. The
door began to buckle at the pounding, but it was sturdy and secure. The
general's estimate of its life expectancy at two minutes seemed clearly
erroneous.
The pounding suddenly stopped. A familiar voice replaced the sound.
"Tay," called Baynarah. "Listen to me."
Tython smirked, "You're just in time to hear your uncle beg for his miserable
life, 'cousin.' I was afraid you'd be too late. The next sound you'll hear
will be the death rattle of the man who slaved my House."
"The Song is what's enslaved you, not Uncle Triffith. You can't trust it.
It's poisoning you. It let you be manipulated first by that mad old woman,
and now by that evil witch Acra who calls herself your sister."
Tython pressed the tip of his sword so it touched the general's throat. The
older man stepped backwards and Tython advanced. His eyes followed the
length of his arm to the grip of the blade. The silver ring of Dagoth caught
the red light of the volcano from the battlements outside the window.
"Tay, please don't hurt anyone anymore. Please. If you just listen to me,
and not the Song just a moment, you'll know what's right. I love you."
Baynarah stifled her sobs to keep her voice clear and calm. There was a
noise on the stairwell behind her. The general's guard had finally arrived
with the battering ram.
The door splintered and burst open in two strikes. General Indoril-Triffith
was holding his throat, staring out the window.
"Uncle! Are you all right?" Baynara ran to him. He nodded his head slowly,
and removed his hand. There was only the barest of scratches on his neck.
"Where's Tay?"
"He jumped out the window," said Triffith, pointing out into the distance
where a figure was riding a guar toward the volcano. "I thought he was going
to kill himself, but he had an escape figured out."
"We'll get him, serjo general," said Commander Rael, calling to the guards to
get their mounts. Baynarah watched them go, and then kissed her uncle
quickly and ran out to her own guar in the courtyard.
Sweat drenched Tay's body as he rode closer and closer toward the summit of
Red Mountain. The guar was breathing hard, trudging along even more slowly,
letting out little grunts of complaint about the heat. Finally, he abandoned
his steed and began to climb the near vertical surface. Ash blew down the
face of the volcano into his eyes. Near-blind, it was almost impossible to
ignore the persistent, clamorous notes of the Song.
A silken stream of crimson lava studded with crystalline formations surged a
few feet away, close enough that Tay could feel his flesh begin to burn and
blister. He turned from it, and saw a figure emerge through the smoke.
Baynarah.
"What are you doing, Tay?" she cried over the howl of the volcano. "Didn't I
tell you not to listen to the Song?"
"For the first time, the Song and I both want the same thing!" he yelled
back. "I can't ask you to forgive me, but please try to forget!"
He pulled himself higher, out of Baynarah's sight. She screamed his name,
scaling the rocks until she found she was close to the open crater. Waves of
boiling gas washed over her, and she dropped to her knees, gasping. Through
the rippling miasma, she saw Tay standing at the mouth of the volcano.
Flames erupted from his clothes and hair. He turned to her just for a moment
and smiled.
Then he leapt.
Baynarah was in a daze as she began the long, treacherous climb down the
volcano. She began to think of the projects ahead. Were there enough
provisions in storage at her house in Gorne for the meeting of the Houses?
The councilors were bound to stay there for weeks, maybe months. There was
much work to be done. Slowly, as she descended, she began to forget. It
would not last, but it would be a start.
Dagoth-Acra stood as near to the mouth of the volcano as she could stand,
blinking her eyes at the ash, soaked by the heat. She watched all, and
smiled. On the ground was the silver ring with the seal of the House Dagoth.
Tython had been sweating so much, it had slipped off. She picked it up and
put it on her own finger. Touching her belly, she heard a new refrain of the
Poison Song of Morrowind begin.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Progress of Truth
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_progressoftruth
Weight: 4
Value: 150
Special Notes: None
PROGRESS OF TRUTH
Compiled by the Dissident Priests
EXCERPT: concerning the points of Temple doctrine challenged by the Dissident
priests:
1. the divinity of the Tribunal
Temple doctrine claims their apotheosis was miraculously achieved through
questing, virtue, knowledge, testing, and battling with Evil; Temple doctrine
claims their divine powers and immortality are ultimately conferred as a
communal judgement by the Dunmer ancestors [including, among others, the Good
Daedra, the prophet Veloth, and Saint Nerevar]. Dissident Priests ask whether
Dagoth Ur's powers and the Tribunal powers might ultimately derive from the
same source -- Red Mountain. Sources in the Apographa suggest that the
Tribunal relied on profanely enchanted tools to achieve godhead, and that
those unholy devices were the ones originally created by the ungodly Dwemer
sorceror Kagrenac to create the False Construct Numidium.
2. the purity of the Tribunal
The Dissident Priests say that the Temple has always maintained a public face
[represented by the Heirographa -- the "priestly writings"] and a hidden face
[represented by the Apographa -- the "hidden writings"]. The public account
portrays the actions of the Tribunal in a heroic light, while the hidden
writings reveal secrets, untruths, inconsistencies, conflicting accounts and
varying interpretations which hint at darker and less heroic motives and
actions of the Tribunes. In particular, conflicting accounts of the battle at
Red Mountain raise questions about the Tribunal's conduct, and about the
source of their subsequent apotheosis. Also, there is good evidence that the
Tribunal have been concealing the true nature of the threat posed by Dagoth
Ur at Red Mountain, misleading the people about the Tribunal's ability to
protect Morrowind from Dagoth Ur, and concealing a recent dramatic
diminishing of the Tribunal's magical powers.
3. Temple accounts of the Battle of Red Mountain
Ashlander tradition does not place the Tribunal at Red Mountain, and holds
that the Dwemer destroyed themselves, rather than that Nerevar destroyed
them. Ashlander tradition further holds that Nerevar left Dagoth Ur guarding
the profane secrets of Red Mountain while Nerevar went to confer with the
Grand Council [i.e., the Tribunal], that Nerevar died at the conference [not
of his wounds, according to the Ashlanders, but from treachery], and that
subsequently the Tribunal confronted a defiant Dagoth Ur within Red Mountain,
then drove Dagoth Ur beneath Red Mountain when he would not yield to their
will.
4. veneration of the Daedra, Saints, and Ancestors
While challenging the divinity of the Tribunal, the Dissidents do not
challenge the sainthood or heroism of the Tribunal. In fact, the Dissident
Priests advocate restoring many of the elements of Fundamentalist Ancestor
Worship as practiced by the Ashlanders and by Saint Veloth. Exactly how this
would work is debated inconclusively within the Dissident Priests.
5. denial of the prophecies of the Incarnate, and persecution of the
Nerevarines
Though no consensus exists among the Dissidents about whether the Nerevarine
prophecies are genuine, all agree that the persecution of the Nerevarines is
unjust and politically motivated. The Dissident Priests do not reject
mysticism, revelation, or prophecy as part of the religious experience. The
Dissidents have not resolved the issue of true or false insights. They have
studied the mysticism of the Ashlander Ancestor Cults, in particular the
rites of the Ashlander seers and wise women, and the prophecies of the
Incarnate. Many among the Dissident Priests have come to believe that the
Nerevarine prophecies are genuine, and have made a systematic study of
prophecies recorded in Temple archives.
6. Authority of the Archcanon and the Ordinators
The Dissident Priests reject the authority of the Archcanon and the
Ordinators. The temple hierarchy has been corrupted by self-interest and
politics, and no longer acts in the best interests of the Temple or its
worshippers. The Dissident Priests believe the Archcanon and Ordinators speak
for themselves, not for the Tribunal.
7. the Inquisition and the use of terror and torture by the Ordinators
Within the Temple hierarchy it is an open secret that the Ordinators rely on
abduction, terror, torture, and secret imprisonment to discourage heresy and
dissent. The Dissident Priests feel the Ordinators are either out of control,
or tools used to maintain a corrupt priesthood in power.
8. fundamentals of Temple doctrine - Charity for the Poor, Education for the
Ignorant, Protection for the Weak
Though the Dissident Priests acknowledge that most rank-and-file priests
honor the best traditions of the Temple, they believe that many priests in
higher ranks are interested more in love of authority and luxury than in the
welfare of the poor, weak, and ignorant.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Realizations of Acrobacy
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_acrobatics1
Weight: 4
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Acrobatics skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Realizations of Acrobacy
by Master Rhunen Zebavi
Master Gothren agreed to see the acrobats because he needed entertaining. For
months now, he had been struggling with his fellow Telvanni Councilor, Master
Neloth. Recently he always found himself on the defensive. It was intolerable
- Master Gothren losing a battle with the contemptible Neloth. Inspired by
their master's weapon, Mehrunes' Razor, Neloth's normally cowardly troops had
been nigh invincible. Gothren's own troops had no hope, except to pray that
Mehrunes Dagon would reclaim his artifact. Considering how much havoc it was
causing, it seemed likely that the daedra prince would allow Master Neloth
its use for some time to come.
An acrobatic distraction would be a welcome relief.
"What tricks can your troupe perform?" asked the wizard to the lead acrobat,
Rhunen.
"Mighty Gothren, alas, we know no tricks. All the realizations of acrobacy we
perform are real with no illusions. We wish we knew tricks, for it's far too
time-consuming to have to master actual feats."
"Very well, what realizations of acrobacy can you perform?" asked Gothren
with what almost looked like a smile.
"Master Jereth will dazzle you as he juggles fifteen flaming globes while
hopping across broken glass. Master Tulkiande will astound you as she
supports her body with one finger while rotating hoops in ornate patterns
with her legs. Master Mearvis will take a simple ebony blade --"
"And the outlander female?" asked the Ashkhan with some disapprobation and a
dismissive gesture toward the Redguard woman in the troupe.
"Master Senyndie? Ah, Mighty Gothren, she hails from the Alik'r Desert of
Hammerfell where she won renown for her skill at climbing sheer surfaces. You
must see her at work to believe it. She moves vertically like you and I move
horizontally."
"That is all very well, but I do not like outlanders in my court," said the
Ashkhan. "Many are spies."
"Oh, well, Master Neloth felt similiarly that --"
"Neloth?!" roared Gothren. "You entertained that whoreson?!"
"Two days ago, yes. I remember that he said there have been strained
relations between you two. He also had some concerns about the outlanders in
our troupe, though it was our Khajiit tumbler Master S'Rabba who he was
particularly suspicious of. In fact, the irony is that he thought S'Rabba was
a spy for you. Well, you know Khajiit. Actually, maybe you don't."
"They are a slave race who hold little interest to me," growled Gothren.
"You're like Master Neloth then," said Rhunen quickly, fully aware of
Gothren's growing rage, which that particular comment had only enflamed. "He
wasn't used to Khajiit either. Or their dark sense of humor. He took some
sarcastic comments from Master S'Rabba literally, and we all ended up being
tortured for information about you and your troops. You probably haven't had
the experience of being tortured for information you don't have, have you? I
wouldn't recommend it. Eventually, we were let go on the understanding that
we would never set foot in Sadrith Mora again. Actually, not all of us were
let go. Master S'Rabba had apparently died under torture. You have probably
had experience torturing the slave races and know how easily they break."
"No, I haven't," replied Master Gothren. The fury was dead.
"We should have probably left then, but we decided that he still owed us for
the entertainment we provided under torture. We weren't sure how to collect,
but he mentioned during the course of his ravings that he had a very valuable
bauble. A razor of some kind."
"Mehrunes' Razor," he gasped. "What -- what did you do?"
"Masters Harakostil and Thelegorm compressed themselves low enough to squirm
under the gates so they could lower the bridge into the main courtyard of the
stronghold. Masters Tulkiande, Mearvis, Jereth, and I formed a pyramid to
give Master Senyndie a boost up to the tower of Tel Naga. She scaled it to
the top --"
"She scaled it?" asked Gothren, who was familiar with the tower.
"It was high, but the surface of these Telvanni mushrooms is practically a
ladder to someone of Master Senyndie's skills. In a few minutes' time, she
was in the room with the razor in hand. In a few more minutes, she was back
down the tower and we were running for the Gateway Inn. Now, with all
humility, I would say that no one is faster on their feet than our troupe,
but Master Neloth's guards were surprisingly quick. I sent the troupe through
the gate to the docks while I distracted the guards."
"I confess, I never associated brave actions with traveling acrobats," said
Gothren.
"It wasn't bravery, it was economics," smiled Rhunen. "I considered the
amount of gold and time it takes to train a good troupe, and it seemed
smarter to try to save everyone. In any case, I lured the guards around to
the back of the Gateway Inn, far from the others, and when I was sure they
were safe, I jumped off the wall and into the water."
"You jumped off the wall?"
"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I did. It's pretty tall. It was a simple
matter, especially since I could land in the water. Still, it's only a matter
of rolling and twisting the body like so. I'll demonstrate it if you want."
"Later, if you please," said the Ashkhan. "What happened then?"
"We arrived here at court," said Rhunen simply.
"And when did Master Neloth get Mehrunes' Razor back from you?"
"Mighty Gothren, that part of the story hasn't happened yet," said Rhunen.
"Are you ready for us to perform for you now? I hadn't told you yet about our
latest realization of acrobacy when Master Mearvis takes a simple ebony blade
and juggles it in one hand and a handful of marshmerrow reeds in the other. I
don't want to give the whole effect away, but at the end of the act, you have
some very fine sheets of papyrus."
"It sounds delightful, Master Rhunen," said Gothren. "I look forward to
seeing it in a few days time, but I must leave now to meet Master Neloth on
the field. I will soon return for a victory celebration, and I want to see
all your realizations of acrobacy. In the meantime, you will be honored
guests with every luxury the Archmagister of House Telvanni can afford."
"So the room and board will be almost as nice as a third rate show in Rihad,"
said Senyndie as they took their rooms a few hours later. "Why do we bother
with these backwoods performances?"
"There are already so many jugglers in Rihad," said Rhunen with a shrug.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Red Book of 3E 426
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_redbook426
Weight: 3
Value: 60
Special Notes: Adds Redoran Councilor conversation topic
Red Book of Great House Redoran
[The Red Book is a yearbook of the affairs of the Redoran Council of
Vvardenfell District for 3E 426. It lists the current members of the council
and their residences. It also chronicles significant events and council
actions for the year.]
Councilors of House Redoran
Vardenfell District
Imperial Era 426
Archmaster Lord Bolvyn Venim, by Grace of Almsivi, Chief Councilor of Redoran
Council, Vvardenfell District, Lord Ald'ruhn of Bolvyn Manor, Manor District,
Ald'ruhn, District of Vvardenfell, Province of Morrowind
Master Lord Miner Arobar, by Grace of Almsivi, Honored Councilor of Redoran
Council, Vvardenfell District, Lord of North Gash, of Arobar Manor, Manor
District, Ald'ruhn, District of Vvardenfell, Province of Morrowind
Master Lord Hlaren Ramoran, by Grace of Almsivi, Honored Councilor of Redoran
Council, Vvardenfell District, Lord of West Gash, of Ramoran Manor, Manor
District, Ald'ruhn, District of Vvardenfell, Province of Morrowind
Mistress Lady Brara Morvayn, by Grace of Almsivi, Honored Councilor of
Redoran Council, Vvardenfell District, Lady of Maar Gan, of Morvayn Manor,
East Ald'ruhn, District of Vvardenfell, Province of Morrowind
Master Lord Athyn Sarethi, by Grace of Almsivi, Honored Councilor of Redoran
Council, Vvardenfell District, Lord of South Gash, of Sarethi Manor, Manor
District, Ald'ruhn, District of Vvardenfell, Province of Morrowind
Master Lord Garisa Llethri, by Grace of Almsivi, Honored Councilor of Redoran
Council, Vvardenfell District, Lord of The northern Ashlands, of Llethri
Manor, Manor District, Ald'ruhn, District of Vvardenfell, Province of
Morrowind
Council Affairs of Note
King Hlaalu Athyn Llethan, High Councilor and Lord of Morrowind, imposes
favorable tariffs on flin [an imported fortified Imperial alcoholic
beverage]. The council protests the continuing burdensome tariffs on the
native beverages sujamma, greef, and shein.
Smuggling and organized crime have become increasingly aggressive and violent
in the Redoran House Districts. The councilors blame local corruption,
weakened enforcement, and aggressive competition between the Thieves Guild
and the Camonna Tong.
An unfortunate tax revolt in Balmora was put down after significant property
damage and loss of life. The council warned that such disturbances might
spread to Ald'ruhn if the heavy burden of Imperial taxes were not alleviated.
2 handfuls of scuttle
4 pinches of wickwheat
1 large kwama egg
the meat of one mudcrab (two portions)
1 handful of chopped bittergreen
Beat eggs, wickwheat, and scuttle in a large bowl. Slowly stir in crabmeat
and bittergreen. Bake covered in a hot over for one half hour to one hour
(when a knife comes out clean).
The Hound and Rat
1 pie crust
1 pound of ground meat (mixed rat and hound)
a hand and a half of cooked saltrice
1 handful of scuttle
1 small kwama egg
a pinch of ash salts
Cook the mixed meat in a pan over an open flame. When the meat begins to
brown, add the saltrice. Stir for a few moments and add the scuttle and kwama
egg. When the kwama egg is fully cooked and the scuttle has melted, pour from
the pan into the pie crust. Sprinkle with ash salts and cover the pie crust.
Bake for one quarter hour in a hot oven.
[This book contains meticulous records of all commerce and transactions of
the Redoran Vaults as well as an up-to-date account of the current reserves.]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reflections on Cult Worship
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_reflectionsoncultworship...
Weight: 3
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
Reflections on Cult Worship in the Empire
[from the correspondence of Cuseius Plecia, Imperial trader, writing from the
Vos Tradehouse in Vvardenfell District, Province of Morrowind]
"...I have noted that Heartlanders like myself, and assimilated Imperial
Citizens of other races, tend to impersonal and formal relationships with
their gods and spirits. For us, cults are first and foremost social and
economic organizations. We typically think of the Eight Divines in the most
abstract terms -- as powerful but indifferent spirits to be propitiated, and
do not think of their relationships as personal. Notable exceptions include
minor charismatic sub-cults of Akatosh and Dibella. The Imperial Cult of
Tiber Septim also has a significant charismatic sub-cult.
With the exception of the Alessian Order, which Heartlanders regard as a dark
age, religious cults have played only minor parts in Heartlander and Imperial
history. The Septim emperors have made it a policy to limit the influence of
cult authorities in aristocratic, military, and bureaucratic affairs. Cult
worship is regarded as a private and practical matter, and public
pronouncements by religious figures are not welcomed.
Nordic hero-cults provide a strong counter-current to the dominant secularism
of the Empire. The Imperial cult of Tiber Septim is just such a hero-cult,
and among the military, provincial colonists, and recently assimilated
foreigners, the cult is particularly strong and personal.
The Tribunal Temple in Morrowind, and its predecessor, house ancestor cults,
are, by contrast with Imperial cults, extremely intimate and personal. In
ancestor cults, the worshipper has a direct relationship with a blood family
ancestor spirit, and the Temple cultist's relationship with the Tribunal is a
relationship with a living, breathing god who walks the earth, speaks in
person with priests and cultists, and whose daily actions are prescribed
models for the daily actions of their followers.
The differences in religious temperament between Heartlanders and Morrowind
Dunmer accounts in large part for consistent political and social
misunderstanding between the two cultures. Heartlanders do not consider cult
affairs as serious matters, where the Dunmer consider cult affairs, and in
particular, ancestral spirit veneration, to be very serious matters indeed.
Heartlanders are casual and tolerant in religious matters; Dunmer are
passionate and extremely intolerant. Heartlanders do not speak with their
gods, and do not think of their actions as under constant review and
judgement by their gods; the Dunmer feel that all they think and do is under
the ever-watchful eye of the Tribunal and family ancestor spirits...."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Response to Bero's Speech
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_destruction2
Weight: 4
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Destruction skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Response to Bero's Speech
by Malviser, Battlemage
On the 14th of Last Seed, an illusionist by the name of Berevar Bero gave a
very ignorant speech at the Chantry of Julianos in the Imperial City. As
ignorant speeches are hardly uncommon, there was no reason to respond to it.
Unfortunately, he has since had the speech privately printed as "Bero's
Speech to the Battlemages," and it's received some small, undeserved
attention in academic circles. Let us put his misconceptions to rest.
Bero began his lecture with an occasionally factual account of famous
Battlemages from Zurin Arctus, Tiber Septim's Imperial Battlemage, to Jagar
Tharn, Uriel Septim VII's Imperial Battlemage. His intent was to show that
where it matters, the Battlemage relies on other Schools of Magicka, not the
School of Destruction which is supposedly a Battlemage's particular forte.
Allow me first to dispute these so-called historical facts.
Zurin Arctus did not create the golem Numidium by spells of Mysticism and
Conjuration as Bero alleges. The truth is that we don't know how Numidium
was created or if it was a golem or atronach in any traditional sense of
those words. Uriel V's Battlemage Hethoth was not an Imperial Battlemage --
he was simply a sorcerer in the employ of the Empire, thus which spells he
cast in the various battles on Akavir are irrelevant, not to mention heresay.
Bero calls Empress Morihatha's Battlemage Welloc "an accomplished diplomat"
but not "a powerful student of the School of Destruction." I congratulate
Bero on correctly identifying an Imperial Battlemage, but there are many
written examples of Welloc's skill in the School of Destruction. The sage
Celarus, for example, wrote extensively about Welloc casting the Vampiric
Cloud on the rebellious army of Blackrose, causing their strength and skill
to pass on to their opponents. What is this, but an impressive example of
the School of Destruction?
Bero rather pathetically includes Jagar Tharn in his list of underachieving
Battlemages. To use an insane traitor as example of rational behavior is an
untenable position. What would Bero prefer? That Tharn used the School of
Destruction to destroy Tamriel by a more traditional means?
Bero uses his misrepresentation of history as the basis for his argument.
Even if he had found four excellent examples from history of Battlemages
casting spells outside their School -- and he didn't -- he would only have
anecdotal evidence, which isn't enough to support an argument. I could
easily find four examples of illusionists casting healing spells, or
nightblades teleporting. There is a time and a place for everything.
Bero's argument, built on this shaky ground, is that the School of
Destruction is not a true school. He calls it "narrow and shallow" as an
avenue of study, and its students impatient, with megalomaniac tendencies.
How can one respond to this? Someone who knows nothing about casting a spell
of Destruction criticizing the School for being too simple? Summarizing the
School of Destruction as learning how to do the "maximum amount of damage in
the minimum amount of time" is clearly absurd, and he expounds on his
ignorance by listing all the complicated factors studied in his own School of
Illusion.
Allow me in response to list the factors studied in the School of
Destruction. The means of delivering the spell matters more in the School of
Destruction than any other school, whether it is cast at a touch, at a range,
in concentric circles, or cast once to be triggered later. What forces must
be reigned in to cast the spell: fire, lightning, or frost? And what are the
advantages and dangers of each? What are the responses from different
targets from the assault of different spells of destruction? What are the
possible defenses and how may they be assailed? What environmental factors
must be taken into consideration? What are the advantages of a spell of
delayed damage? Bero suggests that the School of Destruction cannot be
subtle, yet he forgets about all the Curses that fall under the mantle of the
school, sometimes affecting generation after generation in subtle yet sublime
ways.
The School of Alteration is a distinct and separate entity from the School of
Destruction, and Bero's argument that they should be merged into one is
patently ludicrous. He insists -- again, a man who knows nothing about the
Schools of Alteration and Destruction, is the one insisting this -- that
"damage" is part of the changing of reality dealt with by the spells of
Alteration. The implication is that Levitation, to list a spell of
Alteration, is a close cousin of Shock Bolt, a spell of Destruction. It
would make as much sense to say that the School of Alteration, being all
about the actuality of change, should absorb the School of Illusion, being
all about the appearance of change.
It certainly isn't a coincidence that a master of the School of Illusion cast
this attack on the School of Destruction. Illusion is, after all, all about
masking the truth.
[This volume of the Hierographa (i.e., 'priestly writings') was written and
collected with commentary by Archcanon Tholer Saryoni. It is the best selling
of the Temple annotated texts, and therefore inexpensive and commonly found
in most Dunmer households. Saryoni collects Vivec's most famous sermons and
the popular explanations of his Gospels. This text exists in many editions.
More elaborate editions are handsomely illuminated with Vivec's quotations
from the Gospels for days, seasons, and festivals.]
Listen, faithful, to Vivec's words, for he says five times and five ways --
Forge a keen Faith in the crucible of suffering.
Engrave upon thy eye the image of injustice.
Death does not diminish; the ghost gilds with glory.
Faith conquers all. Let us yield to Faith.
Better to suffer a wrong than to do one.
Hear the words of Lord Vivec, and heed his sermons on the Seven Graces, for
he names them seven times and seven ways --
VALOR
DARING
JUSTICE
COURTESY
PRIDE
GENEROSITY
HUMILITY
The Grace of Valor
Thank you for your valor, Lord Vivec. I shall not quail, nor turn away, but
face my enemies and my fear.
The Grace of Daring
Thank you for your daring, Lord Vivec. I shall not shun risk, nor hide behind
the mask of cautious counsel, for fortune favors the bold.
The Grace of Justice
Thank you for your justice, Lord Vivec. I shall be neither cruel nor
arbitrary, for fair dealing earns the love, trust, and respect of our people.
The Grace of Courtesy
Thank you for your courtesy, Lord Vivec. I shall speak neither hurtful nor
harsh word, but shall speak respectfully, even of my enemies, for temperate
words may turn aside anger.
The Grace of Pride
Thank you for your pride, Lord Vivec. I shall not doubt myself, or my people,
or my gods, and shall insist upon them, and my ancient rights.
The Grace of Generosity
Thank you for your generosity, Lord Vivec. I shall neither hoard nor steal,
nor encumber myself with profitless treasures, but shall share freely among
house and hearth.
The Grace of Humilty
Thank you for your humility, Lord Vivec. I shall neither strut nor preen in
vanity, but shall know and give thanks for my place in the greater world.
[This is the original book that Archcanon Tholer Saryoni used to write his
sermons.]
Listen, faithful, to Vivec's words, for he says five times and five ways --
Forge a keen Faith in the crucible of suffering.
Engrave upon thy eye the image of injustice.
Death does not diminish; the ghost gilds with glory.
Faith conquers all. Let us yield to Faith.
Better to suffer a wrong than to do one.
Hear the words of Lord Vivec, and heed his sermons on the Seven Graces, for
he names them seven times and seven ways --
VALOR
DARING
JUSTICE
COURTESY
PRIDE
GENEROSITY
HUMILITY
The Grace of Valor
Thank you for your valor, Lord Vivec. I shall not quail, nor turn away, but
face my enemies and my fear.
The Grace of Daring
Thank you for your daring, Lord Vivec. I shall not shun risk, nor hide behind
the mask of cautious counsel, for fortune favors the bold.
The Grace of Justice
Thank you for your justice, Lord Vivec. I shall be neither cruel nor
arbitrary, for fair dealing earns the love, trust, and respect of our people.
The Grace of Courtesy
Thank you for your courtesy, Lord Vivec. I shall speak neither hurtful nor
harsh word, but shall speak respectfully, even of my enemies, for temperate
words may turn aside anger.
The Grace of Pride
Thank you for your pride, Lord Vivec. I shall not doubt myself, or my people,
or my gods, and shall insist upon them, and my ancient rights.
The Grace of Generosity
Thank you for your generosity, Lord Vivec. I shall neither hoard nor steal,
nor encumber myself with profitless treasures, but shall share freely among
house and hearth.
The Grace of Humilty
Thank you for your humility, Lord Vivec. I shall neither strut nor preen in
vanity, but shall know and give thanks for my place in the greater world.
[This book shows the ebony mined in and shipped from Caldera. It shows a
steady flow of ebony from the mines to something called the "Ashlands
Management Fund." Apparently someone in Caldera is using the mines to fund a
personal project.]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Secrets of Dwemer Animunculi
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_SecretsDwemerAnimunculi
Weight: 4
Value: 450
Special Notes: Adds Summon Centurion spell to players spell list
[Undecipherable runes]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sharn's Legions of the Dead
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_sharnslegionsofthedead
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
Legions of the Dead
[Sharn gra-Muzgob's personal copy.]
Undead commonly occur in three basic types: spirit, flesh, and fleshless.
Spirit revenants like the ancestor ghost, wraith, and dwarven ghost, can only
be harmed by weapons that are enchanted or made of refined substances such as
silver. Ancestor ghosts, the most common spirit revenant, are harmless, apart
from the minor curses they lay upon their victims. Wraiths are similar to
ghosts, but they are capable of inflicting wounds to the careless explorer.
Dwarven ghosts are more dangerous still, but they generally appear only in
Dwarven ruins.
Flesh revenants, or 'zombies' as they are often called in the West, are known
as 'bonewalkers' in Morrowind. Magic preserves the bonewalker's fleshy
remains along with the bones and spirit. Bonewalkers are readily identified
by the sharp protuberances of bone and metal employed in the rituals that
bind them to this plane. All bonewalkers are malevolent and dangerous, but
the greater bonewalkers are far worse than the more common 'lesser'
bonewalkers. Thankfully, normal weapons harm bonewalkers.
It is difficult to generalize about fleshless revenants, or skeletons. The
agility and fighting ability of the animated remains may depend on the
abilities of the revenant's former life, and may therefore be weak or strong,
or more or less capable with weapons and shields. Fortunately, enchanted
weapons are not needed to destroy skeletons. An exception is the bonelord, a
peculiar form of revenant that seems to derive its powers more from its
spirit energies than from the substance of its skeletal remains. Bonelords
are very powerful, and very dangerous. Normal weapons do not affect them.
Vampires were believed to be extinct in Morrowind for centuries. Dunmer
culture has a special hatred for vampires, and in earlier times the
Ordinators and Buoyant Armigers hunted them to extinction. In recent years,
however, vampires have either begun to sneak into Morrowind, or long-dormant
ones have been awakened. Vampires vary in their substance and power according
to their age and accumulated lore, but even the weakest vampire is
immeasurably stronger than most other undead. Note: Ash vampires are not
vampires, and are not undead. Ash vampires are extremely dangerous. While
their spirit and substance may indeed be preserved by some magical process,
the holy warriors of the Tribunal Temple report that spell effects known to
affect the undead have no effect on ash vampires.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Silence
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_illusion2
Weight: 4
Value: 230
Special Notes: Raises Illusion skill 1 point the first time the book is read
Silence
by Ganpheril Kimeth
"I've heard of you," said the old vagabond, very impressed. "Aren't you the
adventurer who slew all those ash vampires in Ghostgate a couple of months
back?"
"That I am," said Oristian Silverthorn with a weary smile for his admirer.
He knew that his name was not yet legendary, and it was best to be polite.
"And you are?"
"My name would have no meaning to you, but I'm Erer Darothil," he said,
raising a glass of greef. "I hail from the region of Ghostgate which is how I
heard your name. Are you on an adventure as we speak?"
"Yes," said Silverthorn, with a grim expression. "I'm challenged to rid The
Grazelands of a rogue battlemage by the name of Egroamaro."
"I've heard of him as well," said Darothil. "He is said to be very powerful,
an implacable foe."
"That is why I'm drinking now," sighed Silverthorn. "So tell me, what is your
profession?"
"I do nothing," said Darothil with some measure of pride. "But in my youth, I
used to teach the skills of Illusion at the University of Gwylim."
"Perhaps you can help me then," said Silverthorn, suddenly excited. "Can you
teach the spell Silence? I can certainly pay you."
"I know that spell," said Darothil. "You might find Invisibility very helpful
as well, or perhaps Darkness which would allow you to sneak up on old
Egroamaro."
"No," said Silverthorn firmly. "I only have time to learn one spell. I have
to kill Egroamaro, collect the award, and be back in Gnisis as quickly as
possible. My wife worries when I'm away."
Darothil agreed and, as the two settled back in their seats at the cornerclub
and tossed back glasses of greef, the old man shared his knowledge of the
spell. He explained what it truly meant to bend sound, creating a cone of
silence as glass can bend light. He had Silverthorn close his eyes while he
tapped the side of his glass, making him picture the sound as the physical
entity it was, before it was extinguished.
The adventurer, after a few hours of instruction, paid the old teacher and
set off on his way. Indoranyon, Egroamaro's stronghold, was not far from
Sadrith Mora, and he soon saw the blight and ruin that was the battlemage's
calling card. Delving into the depths of the ruins, Silverthorn was set upon
by the servitors of Egroamaro, living and undead. With his enchanted ebony
blade, he cut through legions before facing the master himself in the
desolate main hall.
Egroamaro bowed to his adversary sardonically, and then prepared to unleash a
fireball to incinerate him. Before he had uttered the first word of the
spell, he suddenly found that all the creaking and sighing of the ruins
around him had been stilled. He opened his voice to speak, but there was no
sound. Silverthorn took his time, strolling across the length of the hall,
before dispatching the battlemage with one stroke of his blade.
The adventurer rushed back to the Tribunal Temple where he had received his
quest, accepted the gold and the thanks, and was back in his house in Gnisis
but a few days later. His wife Liah was beside herself with worry.
"All I could do night after night is toss and turn. I kept imagining you
burned to ashes by that battlemage, and where would that leave me? Do we
have enough gold that I could support myself if you, Saint Seryn let it not
be so, were killed during one of these jaunts? I don't think so. Why
couldn't you get a nice position at the Fighters Guild right here in town? I
hear they're looking for a trainer for the Imperial Guard. I know, I know,
you want a life of adventure and danger and freedom, but if you'd only take
one moment to think of me, stuck here all by myself, worrying about you. I
suppose you'd like it if I took more of an interest in your work, but it's
like I was telling Ser Calissiah Vignum the other day, I said Calissah, what
good is a husband--"
Liah continued to talk, deaf to the fact that her words were dead before they
left her mouth. Silverthorn smiled and nodded his head, enjoying the
silence. He could have killed Egroamaro without the spell, he considered,
but he could not have survived his wife.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sithis
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Alteration3
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Alteration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Sithis
Sithis is the start of the house. Before him was nothing, but the foolish
Altmer have names for and revere this nothing. That is because they are lazy
slaves. Indeed, from the Sermons, 'stasis asks merely for itself, which is
nothing.'
Sithis sundered the nothing and mutated the parts, fashioning from them a
myriad of possibilities. These ideas ebbed and flowed and faded away and this
is how it should have been.
One idea, however, became jealous and did not want to die; like the stasis,
he wanted to last. This was the demon Anui-El, who made friends, and they
called themselves the Aedra. They enslaved everything that Sithis had made
and created realms of everlasting imperfection. Thus are the Aedra the false
gods, that is, illusion.
So Sithis begat Lorkhan and sent him to destroy the universe. Lorkhan!
Unstable mutant!
Lorkhan had found the Aedric weakness. While each rebel was, by their nature,
immeasurable, they were, through jealously and vanity, also separate from
each other. They were also unwilling to go back to the nothing of before. So
while they ruled their false dominions, Lorkhan filled the void with a myriad
of new ideas. These ideas were legion. Soon it seemed that Lorkhan had a
dominion of his own, with slaves and everlasting imperfections, and he
seemed, for all the world, like an Aedra. Thus did he present himself as such
to the demon Anui-El and the Eight Givers: as a friend.
Go unto the Sharmat Dagoth Ur as a friend.
AE HERMA MORA ALTADOON PADHOME LKHAN AE AI.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Smuggler's Island
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_spear1
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Spear skill 1 point the first time the book is read
Smuggler's Island
by Quarde Anarion
It took a little over an hour for Harithoel to search the island from one end
to the other. He turned back to S'Riizh who was were he left him, half
buried in the sand to pack his broken bones. One of the crates of moon sugar
was open.
"You're sampling the merchandise?" asked Harithoel angrily.
"It takes away the pain," said S'Riizh. "How far away are we?"
"We didn't make it as far as the mainland," said Harithoel. "I can't see the
coastline at all. But that's not all. I haven't found anything edible
anywhere. Just weeds and a few scraggly trees."
"And no other survivors?" asked S'Riizh.
"No, it looks like we're the only ones. I guess, the nice way to look at it
is that if we're rescued, we can divide the profits between two rather than
between twelve."
"So we'll either be rich or dead," said S'Riizh. "That's a comfort."
S'Riizh was too battered to be of much help, but Harithoel was able to
construct a crude shelter, weaving the sand weeds. As night fell on the
small island, the two men discussed the smuggling operation and what went
wrong. Their boat, laden with five crates of moon sugar, was supposed to
meet another, the Sanchariot, off the coast of Hla Oad. Who could have
predicted the storm? Who could have predicted that everyone would drown,
from the bold captain to the mysterious figure with ties to one of the royal
Houses, everyone except for S'Riizh and Harithoel. They decided that it was
all the whim of Boethiah or one of the other daedra with cruel senses of
humor.
Finding fresh water was their first goal, and it turned out to be a fruitless
quest. Harithoel dug deeply, but there were no springs under the island, just
sand and rock. S'Riizh felt panic seizing his soul, until he saw the small,
quick, golden fish swimming at the edges of the island. He had read
somewhere that fish not only were food, but there was always a little fresh
water within them. If he could catch one, the two men could be saved. With
his broken legs, he was a pathetic predator and he was soon reduced to
hurling rocks at the alert and nimble little fish.
Harithoel watched S'Riizh's futile endeavor for a little while before getting
to work. He used his small knife to whittle a point on a long, straight tree
branch until he had fashioned a spear. Again and again, he thrust the spear
at the fish, but he had no more success than S'Riizh and his stones.
"Have you never used a spear before?" asked S'Riizh.
"It's not my weapon of choice," said Harithoel, quietly, watching his prey
and missing another with a splash and a curse. "Nchow!"
S'Riizh laughed: "Do you want a rock?"
Harithoel ignored S'Riizh, murmuring, "The trick as I've heard it is to
anticipate where your target's going to go and aim your spear there, not
where they are now. I just have to observe them a little longer. Why can't
the little fechers swim in straight lines?"
After an hour of flailing about, Harithoel, by luck, managed to spear a fish.
The men tore it apart and ate it raw. As the days and weeks went by,
Harithoel got better and better until he was able to strike quickly and with
great accuracy. He could hit a fish by throwing the spear or by plunging at
one at his feet. S'Riizh made fire, but being lame, he had to rely on
Harithoel for all the food.
It was nearly two months after washing ashore that the men saw a boat on the
horizon. They set a large fire, and the crew saw them. As it approached,
they saw that it was the Sanchariot, the very boat they were to have met on
the night of the storm. The smugglers aboard would pay them good money for
the moon sugar. Luckily, S'Riizh had used only a little bit of it, and they
still had five nearly full crates. They were not only going to be saved,
they were going to be rich, just as Harithoel had said.
Harithoel excitedly started to help S'Riizh to his feet, but the man rose on
his own.
"You can walk!" he said, laughing. "It's a miracle!"
"S'Riizh is not too steady, though," said S'Riizh. "Would you gather up the
crates?"
Harithoel, overjoyed at rescue at long last, began picking up the crates and
stacking them. "I wish you had told me that you could walk though, mate. I
could have used your help spearing dinner all these months."
"S'Riizh watches though," said S'Riizh. "You'd be surprised how much you can
learn just by watching. Don't forget the fifth crate over by the tree."
S'Riizh shuffled over to the shore and saw that the boat was only a few
minutes from landing. "And S'Riizh listens. When you said that a fortune
divided by two was more profitable than a fortune divided by twelve, S'Riizh
listened to that too." S'Riizh shuffled back to the crate by the tree. "And
it occurred to S'Riizh that a fortune divided by one was even better."
S'Riizh pulled the spear out of Harithoel's skull. The trajectory had been
perfect: it had fallen down from the branches as soon as the crate was
removed, just as he had planned. "Like you said, the trick is to anticipate
where your target's going to go and aim your spear there."
S'Riizh pushed the crate to the shore and waved the boat in.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Song of the Alchemists
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Alchemy3
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Alchemy skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Song of the Alchemists
Ancient Tales of the Dwemer, Part V
By Marobar Sul
When King Maraneon's alchemist had to leave his station
After a laboratory experiment that yielded detonation,
The word went out that the King did want
A new savant
To mix his potions and brews.
But he declared he would only choose
A fellow who knew the tricks and the tools.
The King refused to hire on more fools.
After much deliberation, discussions, and debates,
The King picked two well-learned candidates.
Ianthippus Minthurk and Umphatic Faer,
An ambitious pair,
Vied to prove which one was the best.
Said the King, "There will be a test."
They went to a large chamber with herbs, gems, tomes,
Pots, measuring cups, all under high crystalline domes.
"Make me a tonic that will make me invisible,"
Laughed the King in a tone some would call risible.
So Umphatic Faer and Ianthippus Minthurk
Began to work,
Mincing herbs, mashing metal, refining strange oils,
Cautiously setting their cauldrons to burbling boils,
Each on his own, sending mixing bowls mixing,
Sometimes peeking to see what the other was fixing.
After they had worked for nearly three-quarters an hour,
Both Ianthippus Minthurk and Umphatic Faer
Winked at the other, certain he won.
Said King Maraneon,
"Now you must taste the potions you've wrought,
Take a spoon and sample it right from your pot."
Minthurk vanished as his lips touched his brew,
But Faer tasted his and remained apparent in view.
"You think you mixed silver, blue diamonds, and yellow grass!"
The King laughed, "Look up, Faer, up to the ceiling glass.
The light falling makes the ingredients you choose
Quite different hues."
"What do you get," asked the floating voice, bold,
"Of a potion of red diamonds, blue grass, and gold?"
"By [Dwemer God]," said Faer, his face in a wince,
"I've made a potion to fortify my own intelligence."
Publisher's Note:
This poetry is so clearly in the style of Gor Felim that it really does not
need any commentary. Note the simple rhyming scheme of AA/BB/CC, the sing-
song but purposefully clumsy meter, and the recurring jokes at the obviously
absurd names, Umphatic Faer and Ianthippus Minthurk. The final joke that the
stupid alchemist invents a potion to make himself smarter by pure accident
would have appealed to the anti-intellectualism of audiences in the
Interregnum period, but would certainly be rejected by the Dwemer.
Note that even "Marobar Sul" refuses to name any Dwemer gods. The Dwemer
religion, if it can even be called that, is one of the most complex and
difficult puzzles of their culture.
Over the millennia, the song became a popular tavern song in High Rock before
eventually disappearing from everything but scholarly books. Much like the
Dwemer themselves.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sottilde's Code Book
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_sottildescodebook
Weight: 2
Value: 0
Special Notes: Part of a fighters guild quest
SSF ZAFL
DVWDTQDVFQE TYLSE
BSQ FOF
TZSFHK TOY PCJEK NSZUVWBSR
EAL DVFQE GX
SWSHL LCLQS
XKH ZQG
LGSBFY GXS PAXWC RSXINOFSP
IDV AWD
FGEF PAXWC
BOK DWKB
SUGZD PCJEK
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Special Flora of Tamriel
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_specialfloraoftamriel
Weight: 3
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
Special Flora of Tamriel
by Hardin the Herbalist
The Poppy, in both black and white varieties, may be found growing wild in
the mountains of Hammerfell. Their succulent pods are often the only
nourishment for adventurers who find themselves in the wilderness without
rations. It is said that black and white poppies imbibed together have
magical properties. When they are crushed and mixed with the milk of the
agile-footed mountain goat, the resulting potion allows the user to glide
safely aboveground.
Fire Fern, a perennial herb, is native to the province of Morrowind. The
flowers are inconspicuous and often hidden. The glossy, evergreen foliage
and blossoms are resistant to conditions of high heat and bright light. A
petal from this plant placed under the adventurer's tongue will provide
protection from the heat and fire of the lava pits and thermal streams around
Dagoth-Ur.
Dragon's Tongue, a common name for a fernlike herb found in Black Marsh, is
especially prolific around the area of the Ultherus Swamp. It is a beautiful
wildflower whose name comes from the fire-red fronds that protect its golden
efflorescence. As pretty as it is, however, it is a deadly poison to most
living beings and needs to be avoided by adventurers, especially unprotected
ones, as it is lethal to the touch. It is said, however, that Argonians can
handle the plant and use the sap derived from its roots to enhance their
endurance.
Domica Redwort is an herb grown by many residents of Valenwood for their
beautiful and showy flowers. They attain a height of about three feet and
sport feathery leaves; the flowers are usually bright red. In addition to
their beauty, they are said to have the magical ability of enhancing the
appearance of anyone who carries or wears one of the blooms.
Ironwood Nut is a hard-shelled fruit that comes from the ironwood trees
growing deep in the forests of Skyrim. The wood of these trees is hard as
the metal after which it is named. The very rare black variety of ironwood
is said to produce a nut which is very succulent and believed to greaten the
strength of the adventurer who is able to crack its shell and partake of it.
The Ginko leaves which are found along the banks of rivers and lakes in
Hammerfell are most inconspicuous, only their peculiar half-moon shape making
them noticeable. The edible foliage is very sweet and quite tasty. Legend
has it that when mixed properly with the pulp of the aloe plant, the
resulting concoction has the ability of increasing one's stamina for a short
while.
The Somnalius Fern can be found in the swamps of Black Marsh. The fronds of
this plant are light green and quite delicate. Picking a frond can be very
difficult, as they usually crumble to the touch, but once retrieved it can be
used to put an enemy to sleep for a short while by passing it under his nose.
Arrowroot is a thick, rubbery tuber that can be found in the province of
Valenwood. The plant is quite difficult to find as its aboveground foliage
is very meager and scrawny. But the root itself can be most beneficial to
the gatherer as it has magical properties. The paste made from grinding the
root is quite wholesome and can improve the user's accuracy with a bow and
arrow, or other missile weapon.
Nightshade is reputed to be a very poisonous herb. However, the variety
found in many parts of Elsweyr is cherished by Khajiits who have taken up
careers in thievery. Many Khajiits will tuck a piece of Nightshade inside
their armor to increase their abilities to skulk, hide, and become invisible.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Spirit of Nirn, God of Mortals
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_spiritofnirn
Weight: 3
Value: 40
Special Notes: None
Spirit of Nirn
Lorkhan is the Spirit of Nirn, the god of all mortals. This does not mean all
mortals necessarily like him or even know him. Most Elves hate him, thinking
creation as that act which sundered them from the spirit realm. Most Humans
revere him, or aspects of him, as the herald of existence. The creation of
the Mortal Plane, the Mundus, Nirn, is a source of mental anguish to all
living things; all souls know deep down they came originally from somewhere
else, and that Nirn is a cruel and crucial step to what comes next. What is
this next? Some wish to return to the original state, the spirit realm, and
that Lorkhan is the Demon that hinders their way; to them Nirn is a prison,
an illusion to escape. Others think that Lorkhan created the world as the
testing ground for transcendence; to them the spirit realm was already a
prison, that true escape is now finally possible.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Spirit of the Daedra
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_SpiritOfTheDaedra
Weight: 3
Value: 100
Special Notes: None
HOW YOU SHOULD KNOW US
DEATH, DEFEAT, AND FEAR
We do not die. We do not fear death.
Destroy the Body, and the Animus is cast into The Darkness. But the Animus
returns.
But we are not all brave.
We feel pain, and fear it. We feel shame, and fear it. We feel loss, and fear
it. We hate the Darkness, and fear it.
The Scamps have small thoughts, and cannot fear greatly.
The Vermai have no thoughts, and cannot fear.
The Dremora have deep thoughts, and must master fear to overcome it.
THE CLAN BOND
We are not born; we have not fathers nor mothers, yet we have kin and clans.
The clan-form is strong. It shapes body and thought.
In the clan-form is strength and purpose.
THE OATH BOND
We serve by choice. We serve the strong, so that their strength might shield
us.
Clans serve by long-practice, but practice may change.
Dremora have long served Dagon but not always so.
Practice is secure when oath-bonds are secure, and trust is shared.
When oath-bonds are weak, there is pain, and shame, and loss, and Darkness,
and great fear.
HOW WE THINK ABOUT MAN
Perhaps you find Scamps comic, and Vermai brutish.
How then do you imagine we view you humans?
You are the Prey, and we are the Huntsmen.
The Scamps are the Hounds, and the Vermai the Beaters.
Your flesh is sweet, and the chase is diverting.
As you may sometimes praise the fox or hare, admiring its cunning and speed,
and lamenting as the hounds tear its flesh, so do we sometimes admire our
prey, and secretly applaud when it cheats our snares or eludes pursuit.
But, like all worldly things, you will in time wear, and be used up. You age,
grow ugly, weak, and foolish. You are always lost, late or soon.
Sometimes the prey turns upon us and bites. It is a small thing. When wounded
or weary, we fly away to restore. Sometimes a precious thing is lost, but
that risk makes the chase all the sweeter.
MAN'S MYSTERY
Man is mortal, and doomed to death and failure and loss.
This lies beyond our comprehension - why do you not despair?
6th moon ....... "Alas, the Battlespire appears to be falling into the hands
of evil. Their many attempts in the past have failed, until now. Dagon seems
to have new minions at his side this time. These new horrors are not at all
too powerful beyond our magicks and weaponry, but their numbers are
feverishly great. We grow low on supplies and soldiers for this holdout. I
fear the worst."
8th moon ....... "I have presented to the few remaining Battlemages my last
hope plan. I will fight my way to the bowels of the Battlespire, where I will
mount Dragonne Papre, my Dragon companion. From his lair, we will take
flight. Since the Weir Gate has been taken, teleportation is not possible.
Only Papre can make such a journey to the Imperial Palace. There, we will
report the evil infection and return with a regimental force of rescue. May
the Powers be with me."
9th moon........ "It is as I feared. A carcass is all I have come to find.
They have sealed the main gate so Papre could not escape. I am not sorrowful
though, for I will be eternally reunited with Dragonne Papre. Hope for the
living is lost. My name is Samar Starlover. Tell my sister I am dead, and if
all the seas were ink, I could not write enough how I shall miss her."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Surfeit of Thieves
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_security5
Weight: 4
Value: 350
Special Notes: Raises Security skill 1 point the first time the book is read
Surfeit of Thieves
by Aniis Noru
"This looks interesting," said Indyk, his eyes narrowing to observe the black
caravan making its way to the spires of the secluded castle. A gaudy, alien
coat of arms marked each carriage, the lacquer glistening in the light of the
moons. "Who do you suppose they are?"
"They're obviously well-off," smiled his partner, Heriah. "Perhaps some new
Imperial Cult dedicated to the acquisition of wealth?"
"Go into town and find out what you can about the castle," said Indyk. "I'll
see if I can learn anything about who these strangers are. We meet on this
hill tomorrow night."
Heriah had two great skills: picking locks and picking information. By dusk
of the following day, she had returned to the hill. Indyk joined her an hour
later.
"The place is called Ald Olyra," she explained. "It dates back to the second
era when a collection of nobles built it to protect themselves during one of
the epidemics. They didn't want any of the diseased masses to get into their
midst and spread the plague, so they built up quite a sophisticated security
system for the time. Of course, it's mostly fallen into ruin, but I have a
good idea about what kind of locks and traps might still be operational.
What did you find out?"
"I wasn't nearly so successful," frowned Indyk. "No one seemed to have any
idea about the group, even that that there were here. I was about to give
up, but at the charterhouse, I met a monk who said that his masters were a
hermetic group called the Order of St Eadnua. I talked to him for some time,
this fellow name of Parathion, and it seems they're having some sort of
ritual feast tonight."
"Are they wealthy?" asked Heriah impatiently.
"Embarrassingly so according to the fellow. But they're only at the castle
for tonight."
"I have my picks on me," winked Heriah. "Opportunity has smiled on us."
She drew a diagram of the castle in the dirt: the main hall and kitchen were
near the front gate, and the stables and secured armory were in the back.
The thieves had a system that never failed. Heriah would find a way into the
castle and collect as much loot as possible, while Indyk provided the
distraction. He waited until his partner had scaled the wall before rapping
on the gate. Perhaps this time he would be a bard, or a lost adventurer.
The details were most fun to improvise.
Heriah heard Indyk talking to the woman who came to the gate, but she was too
far away to hear the words exchanged. He was evidently successful: a moment
later, she heard the door shut. The man had charm, she would give him that.
Only a few of the traps and locks to the armory had been set. Undoubtedly,
many of the keys had been lost in time. Whatever servants had been in charge
of securing the Order's treasures had brought a few new locks to affix. It
took extra time to maneuver the intricate hasps and bolts of the new traps
before proceeding to the old but still working systems, but Heriah found her
heart beating with anticipation. Whatever lay beyond the door, she thought,
must be of sufficient value to merit such protection.
When at last the door swung quietly open, the thief found her avaricious
dreams paled to reality. A mountain of golden treasure, ancient relics
glimmering with untapped magicka, weaponry of matchless quality, gemstones
the size of her fist, row after row of strange potions, and stacks of
valuable documents and scrolls. She was so enthralled by the sight, she did
not hear the man behind her approach.
"You must be Lady Tressed," said the voice and she jumped.
It was a monk in a black, hooded robe, intricately woven with silver and gold
threads. For a moment, she could not speak. This was the sort of encounter
that Indyk loved, but she could think to do nothing but nod her head with
what she hoped looked like certainty.
"I'm afraid I'm a little lost," she stammered.
"I can see that," the man laughed. "That's the armory. I'll show you the way
to the dining hall. We were afraid you weren't going to arrive. The feast
is nearly over."
Heriah followed the monk across the courtyard, to the double doors leading to
the dining hall. A robe identical to the one he was wearing hung on a hook
outside, and he handed it to her with a knowing smile. She slipped it on.
She mimicked him as she lowered the hood over her head and entered the hall.
Torches illuminated the figures within around the large table. Each wore the
uniform black robe that covered all features, and from the look of things,
the feast was over. Empty plates, platters, and glasses filled every inch of
the wood with only the faintest spots and dribbles of the food remaining. It
was a breaking of a fast it seemed. For a moment, Heriah stopped to think
about poor, lost Lady Tressed who had missed her opportunity for gluttony.
The only unusual item on the table was its centerpiece: a huge golden
hourglass which was on its last minute's worth of sand.
Though each person looked alike, some were sleeping, some were chatting
merrily to one another, and one was playing a lute. Indyk's lute, she
noticed, and then noticed Indyk's ring on the man's finger. Heriah was
suddenly grateful for the anonymity of the hood. Perhaps Indyk would not
realize that it was she, and that she had blundered.
"Tressed," said the young man to the assembled, who turned as one to her and
burst into applause.
The conscious members of the Order arose to kiss her hand, and introduce
themselves.
"Nirdla."
"Suelec."
"Kyler."
The names got stranger.
"Toniop."
"Htillyts."
"Noihtarap."
She could not help laughing: "I understand. It's all backwards. Your real
names are Aldrin, Celeus, Relyk, Poinot, Styllith, Parathion."
"Of course," said the young man. "Won't you have a seat?"
"Sey," giggled Heriah, getting into the spirit of the masque and taking an
empty chair. "I suppose that when the hourglass runs out, the backwards names
go back to normal?"
"That's correct, Tressed," said the woman next to her. "It's just one of our
Order's little amusements. This castle seemed like the appropriately ironic
venue for our feast, devised as it was to shun the plague victims who were,
in their way, a walking dead."
Heriah felt herself light-headed from the odor of the torches, and bumped
into the sleeping man next to her. He fell face forward onto the table.
"Poor Esruoc Tsrif," said a neighboring man, helping to prop the body up.
"He's given us so much."
Heriah stumbled to her feet and began walking uncertainly for the front gate.
"Where are you going, Tressed?" asked one of the figures, his voice taking on
an unpleasant mocking quality.
"My name isn't Tressed," she mumbled, gripping Indyk's arm. "I'm sorry,
partner. We need to go."
The last crumb of sand fell in the hour glass as the man pulled back his
hood. It was not Indyk. It was not even human, but a stretched grotesquerie
of a man with hungry eyes and a wide mouth filled with tusk-like fangs.
Heriah fell back into the chair of the figure they called Esruoc Tsrif. His
hood fell open, revealing the pallid, bloodless face of Indyk. As she began
to scream, they fell on her.
In her last living moment, Heriah finally spelled Tressed backwards.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tal Marog Ker's Researches
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_TalMarogKersResearches
Weight: 4
Value: 450
Special Notes: None
Harvest's End, 3E 172
Chimere, Master Sorcerer, Summoner, and Direnni retainer:
Chimere Graegyn was a retainer of the ambitious Direnni clan. The Direnni
derived the bulk of their power from their traffickings with Daedra, a very
profitable but risky path to success. Chimere was perhaps the cleverest and
most ambitious of the Direnni summoners. He dared to scheme against Lord
Dagon, and won. When his trick succeeded, Dagon was cast into Oblivion.
However, in the instant of his betrayal, Dagon struck out against the mortal
who tricked him. Chimere's pact assured that he would live forever in his
home town among the happy voices of his friends and countrymen. Twisting the
literal words of Chimere's pact, Dagon scooped up tiny Caecilly Island (a
small island off the coast of Northmoor) and hurled in into the void. All
Chimere's friends and countrymen were instantly killed, though the sounds of
their voices remained to torment Chimere's memory. Chimere was condemned to
live forever, to grow progressively old and crippled with arthritis, and to
contemplate the tragic consequences of his defiance of fate and fortune in
cheating a Daedra Lord.
Armor of the Saviour's Hide:
Created by the Daedra Lord Malacath, this armor has the marvelous property of
turning the blow of an oathbreaker. Chimere tricked Dagon into swearing an
oath against the Powers which he had no intention of keeping. The Hide of the
Savior turned Dagon's titanic fury long enough for Chimere to deliver his own
attack -- an incantation invoked upon Dagon's "Protonymic" (i.e., Incantory
True Name). Unfortunately, like many of Malacath's gifts, the armor is a
mixed blessing. It also makes its wearer exceptionally vulnerable to magical
attacks, so one should only wear it for particular occasions.
Dagon's Protonymic:
Chimere used Dagon's Protonymic in an incantation to invoke a sorcery that
would gradually drain all of Dagon's power into the void. Chimere
miscalculated, however, not realizing that Dagon's resistance could slow the
draining of his power, even if it could not stop it. As a result, Dagon had
the time to curse Chimere with a literal fulfillment of the terms of his
bargain with Chimere. Rather than let his power drain into the void, Dagon
cast it all into his curse. As a result, Caecilly Island was cast into the
void, all its citizens were horribly slain, and Chimere was condemned to live
forever among the ruins of his greatest ambition.
Rituals of the Hunt:
The Chapel of the Innocent Quarry: Chimere believes that Dagon had Caecilly
Island established as the site of the Chapel of the Innocent Quarry to
personally mock and torment Chimere. The green crystal structure was created
by enchantments, and is the only building on the island erected since it was
ripped from Tamriel and loosed in the void.
The Spear:
Supposedly the Spear of Bitter Mercy used in the Wild Hunts could not be
handled by any mortal or immortal save the ones sanctified to the Hunt and
bound by its strictures. However, Chimere has determined that though the
Spear's power is great, it is not unlimited, and that certain enchanted items
-- for instance, the Armor of the Savior's Hide, forged by Malacath -- are
sufficient to protect a mortal or immortal bearer from its maleficent
energies.
The following are notes I have gathered, over the past centuries, of items of
unimaginable significance. All have been seen, owned, and lost, again and
again throughout Tamriel. Some may be myth, others may be hoax, but
regardless, many have lost their lives attempting to find or protect these
very coveted items.
Lord's Mail
Sometimes called the Armor of Morihaus or the gift of Kynareth, this is an
ancient cuirass of unsurpassable quality. It grants the wearer power to
absorb health, resist the effects of spells, and cure oneself of poison when
used. It is said that whenever Kynareth deigns the wearer unworthy, the
Lord's Mail will be taken away and hidden for the next chosen one.
Ebony Mail
The Ebony Mail is a breastplate created before recorded history by the Dark
Elven goddess Boethiah. It is she who determines who should possess the Ebony
Mail and for how long a time. If judged worthy, its power grants the wearer
added resistance of fire, magicka, and grants a magical shield. It is
Boethiah alone who determines when a person is ineligible to bear the Ebony
Mail any longer, and the goddess can be very capricious.
Spell Breaker
Spell Breaker, superficially a Dwemer tower shield, is one of the most
ancient relics of Tamriel. Aside from its historical importance in the Battle
of Rourken-Shalidor, the Spell Breaker protects its wielder almost completely
from any spell caster, either by reflecting magicks or silencing any mage
about to cast a spell. It is said that Spell Breaker still searches for its
original owner, and will not remain the property of anyone else for long. For
most, possessing Spell Breaker for any length of time is power enough.
Chrysamere
The Paladin's Blade is an ancient claymore with offensive capabilities
surpassed only by its own defenses. It lends the wielder health, protects him
or her from fire, and reflects any spells cast against the wielder back to
the caster. Seldom has Chrysamere been wielded by any bladesman for any
length of time, for it chooses not to favor one champion.
Staff of Magnus
The Staff of Magnus, one of the elder artifacts of Tamriel, was a
metaphysical battery of sorts for its creator, Magnus. When used, it absorbs
an enemy's health and mystical energy. In time, the Staff will abandon the
mage who wields it before he becomes too powerful and upsets the mystical
balance it is sworn to protect.
Warlock's Ring
The Warlock's Ring of the Archmage Syrabane is one of the most popular relics
of myth and fable. In Tamriel's ancient history, Syrabane saved all of the
continent by judicious use of his Ring, and ever since, it has helped
adventurers with less lofty goals. It is best known for its ability to
reflect spells cast at its wearer and to improve his or her speed and to
restore health. No adventurer can wear the Warlock's Ring for long, for it is
said that the Ring is Syrabane's alone to command.
Ring of Phynaster
The Ring of Phynaster was made hundreds of years ago by a man who needed good
defenses to survive his adventurous life. Thanks to the Ring, Phynaster lived
for hundreds of years, and since then it has passed from person to person.
The Ring improves its wearer's overall resistance to poison, magicka, and
shock. Still, Phynaster was cunning and cursed the ring so that it eventually
disappears from its holder's possessions and returns to another resting
place, discontent to stay anywhere but with Phynaster himself.
Ring of Khajiit
The Ring of the Khajiit is an ancient relic, hundreds of years older than
Rajhin, the thief that made the Ring famous. It was Rajhin who used the
Ring's powers to make himself invisible and as quick as the breath of wind.
Using the Ring, he became the most successful burglar in Elsweyr's history.
Rajhin's eventual fate is a mystery, but according to legend, the Ring
rebelled against such constant use and disappeared, leaving Rajhin helpless
before his enemies.
Mace of Molag Bal
Also known as the Vampire's Mace, the Mace of Molag Bal drains its victims of
magicka and gives it to the bearer. It also has the ability to transfer an
enemy's strength to its wielder. Molag Bal has been quite free with his
artifact. There are many legends about the Mace. It seems to be a favorite
for vanquishing wizards.
Masque of Clavicus Vile
Ever the vain one, Clavicus Vile made a masque suited to his own personality.
The bearer of the Masque is more likely to get a positive response from the
people of Tamriel. The higher his personality, the larger the bonus. The best
known story of the Masque tells the tale of Avalea, a noblewoman of some
renown. As a young girl, she was grossly disfigured by a spiteful servant.
Avalea made a dark deal with Clavicus Vile and received the Masque in return.
Though the Masque did not change her looks, suddenly she had the respect and
admiration of everyone. A year and a day after her marriage to a well
connected baron, Clavicus Vile reclaimed the Masque. Although pregnant with
his child, Avalea was banished from the Baron's household. Twenty one years
and one day later, Avalea's daughter claimed her vengeance by slaying the
Baron.
Mehrunes Razor
The Dark Brotherhood has coveted this ebony dagger for generations. This
mythical artifact is capable of slaying any creature instantly. History does
not record any bearers of Mehrune's Razor. However, the Dark Brotherhood was
once decimated by a vicious internal power struggle. It is suspected that the
Razor was involved.
Cuirass of the Savior's Hide
Another of Hircine's artifacts was the Cuirass of the Savior's Hide. The
Cuirass has the special ability to resist magicka. Legend has it that Hircine
rewarded his peeled hide to the first and only mortal to have ever escaped
his hunting grounds. This unknown mortal had the hide tailored into this
magical Cuirass for his future adventures. The Savior's Hide has a tendency
to travel from hero to hero as though it has a mind of its own.
Spear of Bitter Mercy
One of the more mysterious artifacts is the Spear of Bitter Mercy. Little to
nothing is known about the Spear. There are no recorded histories but many
believe it to be of Daedric origin. The only known legend about it is its use
by a mighty hero during the fall of the Battlespire. The hero was aided by
the Spear in the defeat of Mehrunes Dagon and the recapturing of the
Battlespire. Since that time, the Spear of Bitter Mercy has made few
appearances within Tamriel.
Daedric Scourge
The Daedric Scourge is a mighty mace forged from sacred ebony in the Fires of
Fickledire. The legendary weapon of Mackkan, it was once a fierce weapon used
to send spirits of black back into Oblivion. The weapon lhas the ability to
summon creatures from Oblivion, Once a tool used against the Daedric Lords in
the Battlespire, it now roams the land with adventurers.
Bow of Shadows
Legend has it that the Bow of Shadows was forged by the Daedra Nocturnal. The
legendary ranger, Raerlas Ghile, was granted the Bow for a secret mission
that failed, and the Bow was lost. Raerlas did not go down without a hearty
fight and is said to have, with the aid of the Bow, taken scores of his foes
with him. The Bow grants the user the ability of invisibility and increased
speed. Many sightings of the Bow of Shadows have been reported, and it is
even said that the sinister Dark Elf assassin of the Second Era, Dram, once
wielded this bow.
Fists of Randagulf
Randagulf of Clan Begalin goes down in Tamrielic history as one of the
mightiest warriors from Skyrim. He was known for his courage and ferocity in
battle and was a factor in many battles. He finally met his fate when King
Harald conquered Skyrim. King Harald respected this great hero and took
Randagulf's gauntlets for his own. After King Harald died, the gauntlets
disappeared. The King claimed that the Fists granted the bearer added
strength.
Ice Blade of the Monarch
The Ice Blade of the Monarch is truly one of Tamriel's most prized artifacts.
Legend has it that the Evil Archmage Almion Celmo enchanted the claymore of a
great warrior with the soul of a Frost Monarch, a stronger form of the more
common Frost Atronach. The warrior, Thurgnarr Assi, was to play a part in the
assassination of a great king in a far off land, and become the new leader.
The assassination failed and the Archmage was imprisoned. The Ice Blade
freezes all who feel its blade. The Blade circulates from owner to owner,
never settling in one place for long.
Ring of Surroundings
Little is known of this prize but it is said that it lends the wearer the
ability to blend in with their surroundings.
Boots of the Apostle
The Boots of the Apostle are a true mystery. The wearer of the boots is
rumored to be able to levitate, though nobody has ever seen them used.
The Mentor's Ring
This ring is a prized possession for any apprentice to magic. It lends the
wearer the ability to increase their intelligence and wisdom, thus making
their use of magic more efficient. The High Wizard Carni Asron is said to be
the creator of the Ring. It was a construct for his young apprentices while
studying under his guidance. After Asron's death, the Ring and several other
possessions vanished and have been circulated throughout Tamriel.
Ring of the Wind
No facts are known about this Ring, but the title and the few rumors lend one
to think it grants the wearer added speed.
Vampiric Ring
One of the more deadly and rare artifacts in Tamriel is the Vampiric Ring. It
is said that the Ring has the power to steal its victim's health and grant it
to the wearer. The exact nature and origin of the Ring is wholly unknown, but
many elders speak of its evil creation in Morrowind long, long ago by a cult
of Vampire followers. The Vampiric Ring is an extremely rare artifact and is
only seen every few hundred cycles of the moons.
Eleidon's Ward
Eleidon was a holy knight of legend in Breton history. He was a sought after
man for his courage and determination to set all wrongs right. In one story,
it is said that he rescued a Baron's daughter from sure death at the hands of
an evil warlord. For his reward, the Baron spent all of his riches to have an
enchanted shield built for Eidelon. The Shield granted Eleidon the
opportunity to heal his wounds.
Staff of Hasedoki
Hasedoki was said to have been a very competitive wizard. He wandered the
land in search for a wizard who was greater than he. To the best of all
knowledge, he never found a wizard who could meet up to his challenge. It is
said that he felt so lonely and isolated because so many feared his power,
that he bonded his life-force into his very own staff, where his soul remains
to this very day. Magic users all over Tamriel have been searching for this
magical staff. Granting its wielder a protection of magicka, it is a sure
prize for any magic user.
Bloodworm Helm
The King of Worms was said to have left behind one of his prized possessions,
the Bloodworm Helm. The Helm is a construct of magically formed bone. The
Helm allows the user to summon skeletons and control the undead. It would be
a prized artifact to a necromancer.
Dragonbone Mail
This cuirass is one of the greatest artifacts any collector or hero could
own. It is constructed of real dragon bone and was enchanted by the first
Imperial Battlemage, Zurin Arctus, in the early years of the Third Era. It is
a truly exquisite piece of work and many have sought to possess it. The
properties of the Cuirass allow the wearer to be resist fire, and to damage
an enemy with a blast of fire. Little is known about the involvement of Zurin
Arctus with the enchantment of the Cuirass, but an old tale speaks of a debt
that he owed to a traveling warrior. Like the warrior, the Dragonbone Mail
never stays put for long.
Skull Crusher
The Skull Crusher is an amazingly large, and powerful weapon. The Warhammer
was created in a fire, magically fueled by the Wizard, Dorach Gusal, and was
forged by the great weaponsmith, Hilbongard Rolamus. The steel is magically
hardened and the weight of the weapon is amazingly light, which makes for
more powerful swings and deadly blows. The Warhammer was to be put on display
for a festival, but thieves got it first. The Skull Crusher still travels
Tamriel in search of its creators.
Goldbrand
This magical Sword is almost a complete mystery. Thieves tell tales about its
golden make and how it was actually forged by ancient dragons of the North.
Their tales claim that it was given to a great knight who was sworn to
protect the dragons. The Sword lends its wielder the ability to do fire
damage on an enemy. Goldbrand has not been sighted in recent history and is
said to be awaiting a worthy hero.
Fang of Haynekhtnamet
Black Marsh was once known to be inhabited with what the Argonians called the
Wamasus. Northern men considered them to be intelligent dragons with
lightning for blood. One such mighty beast, Haynekhtnamet, was slain by the
Northern men, though it took 7 days and nights, and a score of men. One of
the surviving men took a fang home as a trophy. The fang was carved down into
a blade and fashioned into a small dagger. The Dagger mysteriously houses
some of the beast's magical properties and grants the user the ability to do
shock damage on an opponent. This unique Dagger is seen occasionally by
traveling heroes.
Umbra Sword
The Umbra Sword was enchanted by the ancient witch Naenra Waerr, and its sole
purpose was the entrapment of souls. Used in conjunction with a soul gem, the
Sword allows the wielder the opportunity to imprison an enemy's soul in the
gem. Naenra was executed for her evil creation, but not before she was able
to hide the Sword. The Umbra Sword is very choosy when it comes to owners and
therefore remains hidden until a worthy one is found.
Denstagmer's Ring
All that is known of this Ring is that it may grant the user protection from
certain elements. Even the name Denstagmer is a mystery.
Helm of Oreyn Bearclaw
One of Valenwood's legendary heroes is Oreyn Bearclaw. Son of King Faume
Toad-Eye, he was a respected clan hunter and a future leader. Wood Elven
legend claims Oreyn single handedly defeated Glenhwyfaunva, the witch-serpent
of the Elven wood, forever bringing peace to his clan. Oreyn would go on to
accomplish numerous other deeds, eventually losing his life to the Knahaten
Flu. His Helm stood as a monument of his stature for future generations to
remember. The Helm was lost eventually, as the Clan split, and is now a
treasured artifact for adventurers. The Helm of Oreyn Bearclaw is rumored to
improve the wearers agility and endurance.
Daedric Crescent Blade
Probably the most rare and even outlawed item of all the great prizes is the
Daedric Crescent Blade. The Blade was used by Mehrunes Dagon's Daedric forces
in the capture of the Imperial Battlespire. These extremely unique Blades
were gathered up and destroyed after the Battlespire was recaptured by the
Empire. All but one it seems. Though the Empire believes them all to be
destroyed, it is rumored that one still remains in existence, somewhere in
Tamriel, though none have ever seen it. The Blade lends it's weilder the
ability to do great damage on an enemy and allows him to paralyze and put
heavy wear on his enemy's armor. Quite the prize for any mighty warrior, if
it does indeed exist.
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Tarer's Aedra and Daedra
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Object ID: bk_Aedra_Tarer_Unique
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
Aedra and Daedra
The designations of Gods, Demons, Aedra, and Daedra, are universally
confusing to the layman. They are often used interchangeably.
"Aedra" and "Daedra" are not relative terms. They are Elvish and exact. Azura
is a Daedra both in Skyrim and Morrowind. "Aedra" is usually translated as
"ancestor," which is as close as Cyrodilic can come to this Elven concept.
"Daedra" means, roughly, "not our ancestors." This distinction was crucial to
the Dunmer, whose fundamental split in ideology is represented in their
mythical genealogy.
Aedra are associated with stasis. Daedra represent change.
Aedra created the mortal world and are bound to the Earth Bones. Daedra, who
cannot create, have the power to change.
As part of the divine contract of creation, the Aedra can be killed. Witness
Lorkhan and the moons.
The protean Daedra, for whom the rules do not apply, can only be banished.
[This book contains meticulous records of all commerce and transactions via
the Telvanni Vault as well as an up to date account of the current
inventory.]
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The Affairs of Wizards
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Object ID: bk_AffairsOfWizards
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
The Affairs of Wizards
by Turedus Talanian
In the Service of Master Aryon
Want to Become Part of House Telvanni?
Outsiders learning of the rabid isolationist and outlander-hating temperament
of House Telvanni wizards often assume it would be impossible to obtain
positions in service to House Telvanni.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
For example, since the Telvanni vigorously defend the right to own slaves,
and since they keep many Argonian and Khajiit as slaves, many Argonians and
Khajiit assume they would not be accepted for service with House Telvanni.
Not true. Telvanni accept all races as candidates for membership.
And, since the Telvanni are ruled by wizard-lord nobles, many assume they
accept only candidates of the highest intelligence and willpower.
Not true. Telvanni accept candidates of modest intelligence and willpower.
It is true that advancement in Telvanni ranks depends on high intelligence
and willpower, and that candidates proficient in the arts of magic --
especially Mysticism, Conjuration, Illusion, Alteration, Destruction, and
Enchanting -- can expect to advance faster and higher in the ranks.
But adventurers of all races and abilities who apply to Telvanni Mouths at
the Telvanni Council Hall in Sadrith Mora for acceptance in House Telvanni
can expect a cordial welcome.
(Telvanni Councilors do not serve on their house councils in person. Instead,
they are represented by a 'Mouth', a trusted subordinate in residence at the
Council Hall, acting on his patron's behalf, receiving messengers from their
patrons and casting their patron's votes in Council affairs.)
The truth is that House Telvanni wizard-lords depend on loyal, well-paid,
skilled retainers for most services. Though House Telvanni does recruit from
their own lower classes, they must go outside their house to hire the
craftsmen and specialists they need. And since for political reasons House
Telvanni has chosen to reduce its reliance on Redoran mercenaries for
protection and security, it has been forced to turn to Western mercenaries
for guards and agents.
Promotion in the ranks of House Telvanni, however, is very difficult for
outsiders. Most disconcerting for some potential candidates is House
Telvanni's casual acceptance of murder and assassination of rivals as a means
to advancement. Those reluctant to prove their worthiness by killing off the
competition, and those uncomfortable about competing in such a ruthless
atmosphere, might better employ their time and efforts in the Mages Guild.
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The Alchemists Formulary
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_AlchemistsFormulary
Weight: 3
Value: 300
Special Notes: None
The Alchemist's Formulary
Healers' Recipes
Healers should all know the recipes for the following popular potions.
Fortunately, in most cases, the ingredients are common and cheaply obtained.
To restore health to the afflicted and wounded, combine in equal parts two or
more of the following cheap and common ingredients: marshmerrow, wickwheat,
corkbulb root, and saltrice. Marshmerrow is an important crop of the Ascadian
Isles, but it also grows wild in the Grazelands and on Azura's Coast.
Wickwheat is a wild Ashland grain that grows in the Grazelands. Corkbulb
grows best in the Ascadian Isles. Most saltrice comes from southeastern
Morrowind, but there are also some new and prospering farms and plantations
in the Ascadian Isles. Saltrice occasionally grows wild in the Grazelands and
on Azura's Coast.
To restore fatigue after heavy exertion, combine two or more of the
following: crab meat, bread, small kwama egg, and chokeweed. Crabmeat is
taken from the mud crab, commonly found along all coasts. Bread in Morrowind
is usually baked from saltrice flour. Kwama eggs are harvested from egg
mines, and sold everywhere in Morrowind; the smaller eggs retain properties
lost in later states of gestation. Chokeweed is a tough shrub growing in the
rocky highlands of the West Gash.
To cure common diseases, combine gravedust and green lichen. Gravedust is
spirit-affinitive dust taken from remains buried in consecrated ground. Green
lichen is a hardy primitive plant that grows in the Ascadian Isles and
Azura's Coast.
To restore magicka for spellcasting, combine comberry and frost salts.
Comberry is a bitter berry, used to make wines. It grows mainly in the
Ascadian Isles. Frost salts, by contrast, are rare and expensive. These
crystalline compounds precipitate from elemental frost in solution. Such
residues may be collected from the remains of frost atronachs that have been
banished from the mortal plane.
Travelers' Recipes
Pilgrims and travelers will find the following inexpensive recipes of
particular interest.
Feather reduces the weary traveler's burdens and can be gained from heather
and scuttle. Heather is a low evergreen shrub of the Ascadian Isles, known
for its small, pinkish-purple flowers. Scuttle, Vvardenfell's favorite local
dish, is similar to cheese and made from the flesh of local beetles.
Levitation can be produced from any two of the following ingredients: trama
root, racer plumes, and coda flowers. A thick, bitter-tasting root of the
trama shrub grows in the Ashlands, Molag Amur, and Red Mountain regions.
Racer plumes are plucked from dead cliff racers. Coda flowers are collected
from the primitive draggle-tail plant of the Bitter Coast.
The power of Water Breathing is handy for travelers. A potion may be made
from two or more of the following ingredients: luminous russula, hackle-lo
leaf, and kwama cuttle. Luminous russula is a squat, mottled-brown-and-green
toadstool mushroom of the Bitter Coast region. Hackle-lo leaf is a succulent
leaf of the Grazelands, prized for its taste and its roborative powers. Kwama
cuttle is a tough, waxy substance that comes from sacs in the mouths of
kwama.
Adventurers' Recipes
Unfortunately, the potions most favored by adventurers require more rare and
expensive ingredients. There are exceptions, like the easy and affordable
recipe for fire shield. But most such potions require at least one ingredient
with high cost in coin or blood.
Fire Shield potions can be made from comberry and sload soap. Comberry is the
bitter berry of the Ascadian Isles. Sload soap is a waxy substance made from
the immature non-sentient forms of the sload. Sload soap is not expensive,
but is only rarely stocked by apothecaries or alchemists, and cannot be
collected locally.
An adventurer can fortify his strength with a potion made from ash yams and
dreugh wax. Ash yam is a tough tuberous root vegetable common to the Ascadian
Isles region. Dreugh wax is a tough, waxy substance scraped from dreugh
shells. Dreugh are powerful aquatic creatures, and hunting them for their
hides and wax is a dangerous occupation.
Invisibility, one of the most prized effects of potions, can be made only
from crushed diamonds and bittergreen petals. Bittergreen is a red flowering
plant growing in the Red Mountain region. Diamonds, on the other hand, are
very rare and expensive and usually must be purchased from fine alchemists.
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The Annotated Anuad
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Object ID: bk_AnnotatedAnuad
Or
bk_ChildrensAnuad
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
The Anuad Paraphrased
The first ones were brothers: Anu and Padomay. They came into the Void, and
Time began.
As Anu and Padomay wandered the Void, the interplay of Light and Darkness
created Nir. Both Anu and Padomay were amazed and delighted with her
appearance, but she loved Anu, and Padomay retreated from them in bitterness.
Nir became pregnant, but before she gave birth, Padomay returned, professing
his love for Nir. She told him that she loved only Anu, and Padomay beat her
in rage. Anu returned, fought Padomay, and cast him outside Time. Nir gave
birth to Creation, but died from her injuries soon after. Anu, grieving, hid
himself in the sun and slept.
Meanwhile, life sprang up on the twelve worlds of creation and flourished.
After many ages, Padomay was able to return to Time. He saw Creation and
hated it. He swung his sword, shattering the twelve worlds in their
alignment. Anu awoke, and fought Padomay again. The long and furious battle
ended with Anu the victor. He cast aside the body of his brother, who he
believed was dead, and attempted to save Creation by forming the remnants of
the 12 worlds into one -- Nirn, the world of Tamriel. As he was doing so,
Padomay struck him through the chest with one last blow. Anu grappled with
his brother and pulled them both outside of Time forever.
The blood of Padomay became the Daedra. The blood of Anu became the stars.
The mingled blood of both became the Aedra (hence their capacity for good and
evil, and their greater affinity for earthly affairs than the Daedra, who
have no connection to Creation).
On the world of Nirn, all was chaos. The only survivors of the twelve worlds
of Creation were the Ehlnofey and the Hist. The Ehlnofey are the ancestors
of Mer and Men. The Hist are the trees of Argonia. Nirn originally was all
land, with interspersed seas, but no oceans.
A large fragment of the Ehlnofey world landed on Nirn relatively intact, and
the Ehlnofey living there were the ancestors of the Mer. These Ehlnofey
fortified their borders from the chaos outside, hid their pocket of calm, and
attempted to live on as before. Other Ehlnofey arrived on Nirn scattered
amid the confused jumble of the shattered worlds, wandering and finding each
other over the years. Eventually, the wandering Ehlnofey found the hidden
land of Old Ehlnofey, and were amazed and joyful to find their kin living
amid the splendor of ages past. The wandering Ehlnofey expected to be
welcomed into the peaceful realm, but the Old Ehlnofey looked on them as
degenerates, fallen from their former glory. For whatever reason, war broke
out, and raged across the whole of Nirn. The Old Ehlnofey retained their
ancient power and knowledge, but the Wanderers were more numerous, and
toughened by their long struggle to survive on Nirn. This war reshaped the
face of Nirn, sinking much of the land beneath new oceans, and leaving the
lands as we know them (Tamriel, Akavir, Atmora, and Yokuda). The Old
Ehlnofey realm, although ruined, became Tamriel. The remnants of the
Wanderers were left divided on the other 3 continents.
Over many years, the Ehlnofey of Tamriel became the Mer (Elves):
The Dwemer (the Deep Ones, sometimes called Dwarves)
The Chimer (the Changed Ones, who later became the Dunmer)
The Dunmer (the Dark or Cursed Ones, the Dark Elves)
The Bosmer (the Green or Forest Ones, the Wood Elves)
The Altmer (The Elder or High Ones, the High Elves).
On the other continents, the Wandering Ehlnofey became the Men: the Nords of
Atmora, the Redguards of Yokuda, and the Tsaesci of Akavir.
The Hist were bystanders in the Ehlnofey war, but most of their realm was
destroyed as the war passed over it. A small corner of it survived to become
Black Marsh in Tamriel, but most of their realm was sunk beneath the sea.
Eventually, Men returned to Tamriel. The Nords were the first, colonizing
the northern coast of Tamriel before recorded history, led by the legendary
Ysgramor. The thirteenth of his line, King Harald, was the first to appear
in written history. And so the Mythic Era ended.
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The Anticipations
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_Anticipations
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
The Anticipations
The Daedra are powerful ancestor spirits, similar in form and substance to
the Tribunal (Blessed Be Their Holy Names), but weaker in power, and more
arbitrary and removed from the affairs of mortals. In old times, the Chimer
worshiped the Daedra as gods. But they did not deserve this veneration, for
the Daedra harm their worshippers as often as help them.
The Advent of the Tribunal (Blessed Be Their Holy Names) changed this unhappy
state. By the Apotheosis, the Tribunal (Blessed Be Their Holy Names) became
the Protectors and High Ancestor Spirits of the Dunmer, and bade the Daedra
to give proper veneration and obedience. The Three Good Daedra, Boethiah,
Azura, and Mephala, recognized the Divinity of the Triune Ancestors (Blessed
Be Their Holy Names). The Rebel Daedra, Molag Bal, Malacath, Sheogorath, and
Mehrunes Dagon, refused to swear fealty to the Tribunal (Blessed Be Their
Holy Names), and their worshippers were cast out.
These Rebel Daedra thus became the Four Corners of the House of Troubles, and
they continue to plague our tranquility and tempt the unwary into Heresy and
Dark Worship. The Priests of the Temple remain ever vigilant for signs of the
Adversaries' return, sometimes aided by the loyal Three Good Daedra, who are
familiar with the wiles of their rebellious kin.
The Good Daedra are known to the Temple as the Anticipations, since they are
the early ancestral anticipations of the loving patronage of the Tribunal.
The Anticipations are the Daedra Lords Boethiah, Mephala, and Azura.
Boethiah is the Anticipation of Almalexia but male to her female. Boethiah
was the ancestor who illuminated the elves ages ago before the Mythic Era. He
told them the truth of Lorkhan's test, and defeated Auriel's champion,
Trinimac. Boethiah ate Trinimac and voided him. The followers of Boethiah and
Trinimac rubbed the soil of Trinimac upon themselves and changed their skins.
Mephala is the Anticipation of Vivec, but manifold and androgynous. Mephala
taught the Chimer to evade their enemies or kill them with secret murder. The
Chimer were few in those days and threatened on all sides. Mephala taught the
Chimer to build Houses. Later, Mephala created the Morag Tong.
Azura is the Anticipation of Sotha Sil, but female to his male. Azura was the
ancestor who taught the Chimer how to be different from the Altmer. Her
teachings are sometimes attributed to Boethiah. In the stories, Azura is
often encountered more as a communal progenitor of the race as a whole rather
than as an individual ancestor. She is associated with Dusk and Dawn, and is
sometimes called the Mother Soul. Azura's Star, also called the Twilight
Star, appears briefly at dawn and dusk low on the horizon below the
constellation of the Steed. Azura is associated with mystery and magic, fate
and prophecy.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Arcturian Heresy
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Object ID: bk_ArcturianHeresy
Weight: 2
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
The Arcturian Heresy
The Underking, Ysmir Kingmaker
With his god destroyed, Wulfharth finds it hard to keep his form. He staggers
out of Red Mountain to the battlefield beyond. The world has shaken and all
of Morrowind is made of fire. A strong gale picks up, and blows his ashes
back to Skyrim.
Wulfharth adopts and is adopted by the Nords then. Ysmir the Grey Wind, the
Storm of Kyne. But through Lorkhan he lost his national identity. All he
wants the Nords for is to kill the Tribunal. He raises a storm, sends in his
people, and is driven back by Tribunal forces. The Dunmer are too strong now.
Wulfharth goes underground to wait and strengthen and reform his body anew.
Oddly enough, it is Almalexia who disturbs his rest, summoning the Underking
to fight alongside the Tribunal against Ada'Soom Dir-Kamal, the Akaviri
demon. Wulfharth disappears after Ada'Soom is defeated, and does not return
for three hundred years.
It is the rumbling of the Greybeards that wake him. Though the Empire has
crumbled, there are rumors that a chosen one will come to restore it. This
new Emperor will defeat the Elves and rule a united Tamriel. Naturally,
Wulfharth thinks he is the figure of prophecy. He goes directly to High
Hrothgar to hear the Greybeards speak. When they do, Ysmir is blasted to ash
again. He is not the chosen one. It is a warrior youth from High Rock. As the
Grey Wind goes to find this boy, he hears the Greybeards' warning: remember
the color of betrayal, King Wulfharth.
The Western Reach was at war. Cuhlecain, the King of Falkreath in West
Cyrodiil, was in a bad situation. To make any bid at unifying the Colovian
Estates, he needed to secure his northern border, where the Nords and
Reachmen had been fighting for centuries. He allies with Skyrim at the Battle
of Old Hrol'dan. Leading his forces was Hjalti Early-Beard. Hjalti was from
the island kingdom of Alcaire, in High Rock, and would become Tiber Septim,
the First Emperor of Tamriel.
Hjalti was a shrewd tactician, and his small band of Colovian troops and Nord
berserkers broke the Reachman line, forcing them back beyond the gates of Old
Hrol'dan. A siege seemed impossible, as Hjalti could expect no reinforcements
from Falkreath. That night a storm came and visited Hjalti's camp. It spoke
with him in his tent. At dawn, Hjalti went up to the gates, and the storm
followed just above his head. Arrows could not penetrate the winds around
him. He shouted down the walls of Old Hrol'dan, and his men poured in. After
their victory, the Nords called Hjalti Talos, or Stormcrown.
Cuhlecain, with his new invincible general, unifies West Cyrodiil in under a
year. No one can stand before Hjalti's storms. The Underking knows that if
Hjalti is to become Emperor of Tamriel, he must first capture the Eastern
Heartland. Hjalti uses them both. He needs Cuhlecain in the Colovian Estates,
where foreigners are mistrusted. It is obvious why he needs Ysmir. They march
on the East, the battlemages surrender before their armies, and they take the
Citadel. Before Cuhlecain can be crowned, Hjalti secretly murders him and his
loyalist contingent. These assassinations are blamed on the enemies of
Cuhlecain, which, for political reasons, are still the Western Reach. Zurin
Arctus, the Grand Battlemage (not the Underking), then crowns Hjalti as Tiber
Septim, new Emperor of All Cyrodiil. After he captures the Imperil Throne,
Septim finds the initial administration of a fully united Cyrodiil a time-
consuming task. He sends the Underking to deal with Imperial expansion into
Skyrim and High Rock. Ysmir, mindful that it might seem as if Tiber Septim is
in two places at once, works behind the scenes. This period of levelheaded
statesmanship and diplomacy, this sudden silence, heretofore unknown in the
roaring tales of Talosian conquest, are explained away later. (The
assassination story is embroidered -- now it is popularly Talos' own throat
that was cut.)
The human kingdoms are conquered, even Hammerfell, whose capture was figured
to be an arduous task. The Underking wants a complete invasion, a chance to
battle their foreign wind spirits himself, but Tiber Septim refutes him. He
has already made a better plan, one that will seem to legitimize his rule.
Cyrodiil supports the losing side of a civil war and are invited in. Finally,
the Empire can turn its eyes onto the Elves.
The Underking continues to press on Tiber Septim the need to conquer
Morrowind. The Emperor is not sure that it is a wise idea. He has heard of
the Tribunal's power. The Underking wants his vengeance, and reminds Tiber
Septim that he is fated to conquer the Elves, even the Tribunal. Arctus
advises against the move but Septim covets the Ebony in Morrowind, as he
sorely needs a source of capital to rebuild Cyrodiil after 400 years of war.
The Underking tells him that, with the Tribunal dead, Septim might steal the
Tribunal's power and use it against the High Elves (certainly the oldest
enemies of Lorkhan, predating even the Tribunal). Summerset Isle is the
farthest thing from Tiber Septim's mind. Even then, he was planning to send
Zurin Arctus to the King of Alinor to make peace. The Ebony need wins out in
the end. The Empire invades Morrowind, and the Tribunal give up. When certain
conditions of the Armistice include not only a policy of noninterference with
the Tribunal, but also, in the Underking's eyes, a validation of their
religious beliefs, Ysmir is furious. He abandons the Empire completely. This
was the betrayal the Greybeards spoke of. Or so he thinks.
Without the Underking's power, all ideas of conquering Tamriel vanish.
Would've been nice, Septim thinks, but let's just worry about Cyrodiil and
the human nations. Already there is a rebellion in Hammerfell.
Pieces of Numidium trickle in, though. Tiber Septim, always fascinated by the
Dwarves, has Zurin Arctus research this grand artifact. In doing so, Arctus
stumbles upon some of the stories of the war at Red Mountain. He discovers
the reason the Numidium was made and some of it's potential. Most
importantly, he learns the Underking's place in the War. But Zurin Arctus was
working from incomplete plans. He thinks it is the heart of Lorkhan's body
that is needed to power the Numidium.
While Zurin Arctus is raving about his discovery, the prophecy finally
becomes clear to Tiber Septim. This Numidium is what he needs to conquer the
world. It is his destiny to have it. He contacts the Underking and says he
was right all along. They should kill the Tribunal, and they need to get
together and make a plan. While the Underking was away he realized the true
danger of Dagoth-Ur. Something must to be done. But he needs an army, and his
old one is available again. The trap is set.
The Underking arrives and is ambushed by Imperial guards. As he takes them
on, Zurin Arctus uses a soulgem on him. With his last breath, the Underking's
Heart roars a hole through the Battlemage's chest. In the end, everyone is
dead, the Underking has reverted back to ash, and Tiber Septim strolls in to
take the soulgem. When the Elder Council arrives, he tells them about the
second attempt on his life, this time by his trusted battle mage, Zurin
Arctus, who was attempting a coup. He has the dead guards celebrated as
heroes, even the one who was blasted to ash... He warns Cyrodiil about the
dangers within, but says he has a solution to the dangers without. The
Mantella.
The Numidium, while not the god Tiber Septim and the Dwemer hoped for (the
Underking was not exactly Lorkhan, after all), it does the job. After its
work on Summerset Isle a new threat appears -- a rotting undead wizard who
controls the skies. He blows the Numidium apart. But it pounds him into the
ground with its last flailings, leaving only a black splotch. The Mantella
falls into the sea, seemingly forever.
Meanwhile, Tiber Septim crowns himself the First Emperor of Tamriel. He lives
until he is 108, the richest man in history. All aspects of his early reign
are rewritten. Still, there are conflicting reports of what really happened,
and this is why there is such confusion over such questions as: Why does
Alcaire claim to be the birthplace of Talos, while other sources say he came
from Atmora? Why does Tiber Septim seem to be a different person after his
first roaring conquests? Why does Tiber Septim betray his battlemage? Is the
Mantella the heart of the battlemage or is it the heart of Tiber Septim?
Tiber Septim is succeeded by his grandson, Pelagius I. Pelagius is just not
of the same caliber. In truth, he's a little nervous with all these
provinces. Then an advisor shows up.
"I was friends with your grandfather," the Underking says, "He sent me to
help you run the Empire."
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The Armorer's Challenge
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Object ID: BookSkill_Armorer1
Weight: 4
Value: 325
Special Notes: Raises Armorer skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Armorers' Challenge
By Mymophonus
Three hundred years ago, when Katariah became Empress, the first and only
Dunmer to rule all of Tamriel, she faced opposition from the Imperial
Council. Even after she convinced them that she would be the best regent to
rule the Empire while her husband Pelagius sought treatment for his madness,
there was still conflict. In particular from the Duke of Vengheto, Thane
Minglumire, who took a particular delight in exposing all of the Empress's
lack of practical knowledge.
In this particular instance, Katariah and the Council were discussing the
unrest in Black Marsh and the massacre of Imperial troops outside the village
of Armanias. The sodden swampland and the sweltering climate, particular in
summertide, would endanger the troops if they wore their usual armor.
"I know a very clever armorer," said Katariah, "His name is Hazadir, an
Argonian who knows the environments our army will be facing. I knew him in
Vivec where he was a slave to the master armorer there, before he moved to
the Imperial City as a freedman. We should have him design armor and
weaponry for the campaign."
Minglumire gave a short, barking laugh: "She wants a slave to design the
armor and weaponry for our troops! Sirollus Saccus is the finest armorer in
the Imperial City. Everyone knows that."
After much debate, it was finally decided to have both armorers contend for
the commission. The Council also elected two champions of equal power and
prowess, Nandor Beraid and Raphalas Eul, to battle using the arms and
armaments of the real competitors in the struggle. Whichever champion won,
the armorer who supplied him would earn the Imperial commission. It was
decided that Beraid would be outfitted by Hazadir, and Eul by Saccus.
The fight was scheduled to commence in seven days.
Sirollus Saccus began work immediately. He would have preferred more time,
but he recognized the nature of the test. The situation in Armanias was
urgent. The Empire had to select their armorer quickly, and once selected,
the preferred armorer had to act swiftly and produce the finest armor and
weaponry for the Imperial army in Black Marsh. It wasn't just the best
armorer they were looking for. It was the most efficient.
Saccus had only begun steaming the half-inch strips of black virgin oak to
bend into bands for the flanges of the armor joints when there was a knock at
his door. His assistant Phandius ushered in the visitor. It was a tall
reptilian of common markings, a dull, green-fringed hood, bright black eyes,
and a dull brown cloak. It was Hazadir, Katariah's preferred armorer.
"I wanted to wish you the best of luck on the -- is that ebony?"
It was indeed. Saccus had bought the finest quality ebony weave available in
the Imperial City as soon as he heard of the competition and had begun the
process of smelting it. Normally it was a six-month procedure refining the
ore, but he hoped that a massive convection oven stoked by white flames born
of magicka would shorten the operation to three days. Saccus proudly pointed
out the other advancements in his armory. The acidic lime pools to sharpen
the blade of the dai-katana to an unimaginable degree of sharpness. The
Akaviri forge and tongs he would use to fold the ebony back and forth upon
itself. Hazadir laughed.
"Have you been to my armory? It's two tiny smoke-filled rooms. The front is
a shop. The back is filled with broken armor, some hammers, and a forge.
That's it. That's your competition for the millions of gold pieces in
Imperial commission."
"I'm sure the Empress has some reason to trust you to outfit her troops,"
said Sirollus Saccus, kindly. He had, after all, seen the shop and knew that
what Hazadir said was true. It was a pathetic workshop in the slums, fit
only for the lowliest of adventurers to get their iron daggers and cuirasses
repaired. Saccus had decided to make the best quality regardless of the
inferiority of his rival. It was his way and how he became the best armorer
in the Imperial City.
Out of kindness, and more than a bit of pride, Saccus showed Hazadir how, by
contrast, things should be done in a real professional armory. The Argonian
acted as an apprentice to Saccus, helping him refine the ebony ore, and to
pound it and fold it when it cooled. Over the next several days, they worked
together to create a beautiful dai-katana with an edge honed sharp enough to
trim a mosquito's eyebrows, enchanted with flames along its length by one of
the Imperial Battlemages, as well as a suit of armor of bound wood, leather,
silver, and ebony to resist the winds of Oblivion.
On the day of the battle, Saccus, Hazadir, and Phandius finished polishing
the armor and brought in Raphalas Eul for the fitting. Hazadir left only
then, realizing that Nandor Beraid would be at his shop shortly to be
outfitted.
The two warriors met before the Empress and Imperial Council in the arena,
which had been flooded slightly to simulate the swampy conditions of Black
Marsh. From the moment Saccus saw Eul in his suit of heavy ebony and blazing
dai-katana and Beraid in his collection of dusty, rusted lizard-scales and
spear from Hazadir's shop, he knew who would win. And he was right.
The first blow from the dai-katana lodged in Beraid's soft shield, as there
was no metal trim to deflect it. Before Eul could pull his sword back,
Beraid let go of the now-flaming shield, still stuck on the sword, and poked
at the joints of Eul's ebony armor with his spear. Eul finally retrieved his
sword from the ruined shield and slashed at Beraid, but his light armor was
scaled and angled, and the attacks rolled off into the water, extinguishing
the dai-katana's flames. When Beraid struck at Eul's feet, he fell into the
churned mud and was unable to move. The Empress, out of mercy, called a
victor.
Hazadir received the commission and thanks to his knowledge of Argonian
battle tactics and weaponry and how best to combat them, he designed
implements of war that brought down the insurrection in Armanias. Katariah
won the respect of Council, and even, grudgingly, that of Thane Minglumire.
Sirollus Saccus went to Morrowind to learn what Hazadir learned there, and
was never heard from again.
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The Art of War Magic
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Object ID: bookskill_destruction4
Weight: 3
Value: 225
Special Notes: Raises Destruction skill the first time the book is read
The Art of War Magic
by Zurin Arctus
with Commentary By Other Learned Masters
Chapter 3: Dispositions
Master Arctus said:
1. The moment to prepare your offense is the moment the enemy becomes
vulnerable to attack.
Leros Chael: Knowledge of the enemy mage's mind is of the foremost
importance. Once you know his mind, you will know his weaknesses.
Sedd Mar: Master Arctus advised Tiber Septim before the battle of Five
Bridges not to commit his reserves until the enemy was victorious. Tiber
Septim said, "If the enemy is already victorious, what use committing the
reserve?" To which Master Arctus replied, "Only in victory will the enemy be
vulnerable to defeat." Tiber Septim went on to rout an enemy army twice the
size of his.
2. The enemy's vulnerability may be his strongest point; your weakness may
enable you to strike the decisive blow.
Marandro Ur: In the wars between the Nords and the Chimer, the Nord shamans
invariably used their mastery of the winds to call down storms before battle
to confuse and dismay the Chimer warriors. One day, a clever Chimer sorcerer
conjured up an ice demon and commanded him to hide in the rocks near the rear
of the Chimer army. When the Nords called down the storms as usual, the
Chimer warriors began to waver. But the ice demon rose up as the storm
struck, and the Chimer turned in fear from what they believed was a Nord
demon and charged into the enemy line, less afraid of the storm than of the
demon. The Nords, expecting the Chimer to flee as usual, were caught off
guard when the Chimer attacked out of the midst of the storm. The Chimer
were victorious that day.
3. When planning a campaign, take account of both the arcane and the mundane.
The skillful battlemage ensures that they are in balance; a weight lifted by
one hand is heavier than two weights lifted by both hands.
4. When the arcane and mundane are in balance, the army will move
effortlessly, like a swinging door on well-oiled hinges. When they are out
of balance, the army will be like a three-legged dog, with one leg always
dragging in the dust.
5. Thus when the army strikes a blow, it will be like a thunderclap out of a
cloudless sky. The best victories are those unforeseen by the enemy, but
obvious to everyone afterwards.
6. The skillful battlemage ensures that the enemy is already defeated before
the battle begins. A close-fought battle is to be avoided; the fortunes of
war may turn aside the most powerful sorcery, and courage may undo the best-
laid plans. Instead, win your victory ahead of time. When the enemy knows
he is defeated before the battle begins, you may not need to fight.
7. Victory in battle is only the least kind of victory. Victory without
battle is the acme of skill.
8. Conserving your power is another key to victory. Putting forth your
strength to win a battle is no demonstration of skill. This is what we call
tactics, the least form of the art of war magic.
Thulidden dir'Tharkun: By 'tactics', Master Arctus includes all the common
battle magics. These are only the first steps in an understanding of war
magic. Any hedge mage can burn up his enemies with fire. Destroying the
enemy is the last resort of the skillful battlemage.
9. The battle is only a leaf on the tree; if a leaf falls, does the tree die?
But when a branch is lopped off, the tree is weakened; when the trunk is
girdled, the tree is doomed.
10. If you plan your dispositions well, your victories will seem easy and you
will win no acclaim. If you plan your dispositions poorly, your victories
will seem difficult, and your fame will be widespread.
Marandro Sul: Those commonly believed to be the greatest practitioners of
war magic are almost always those with the least skill. The true masters are
not known to the multitude.
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The Axe Man
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Object ID: bookskill_axe2
Weight: 3
Value: 225
Special Notes: Raises Axe skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Axe Man
Of all the members of the Morag Tong I've spoken with, none disturbed me as
much as Minas Torik. A quiet and reserved man who never drank, never visited
a brothel or even uttered a curse, he was famous for his ability to make
people disappear. Once a person was targeted by the Brotherhood and Torik
was sent to them, they would simply cease to be. I asked him once what his
weapon of choice was, and was equally startled by his answer.
"I only likes to use axes," he said in his typical, quiet voice.
The image of this silent, dour fellow attacking anyone with a weapon as
inherently bloody and violent as an axe so frightened and intrigued me that I
questioned him about it further. This is an inherently dangerous activity,
for assassins are not typically keen to give out their stories. Torik did
not mind the questions, though it took some time to get the full story out of
him, as naturally shy and reserved as he was.
It seemed that Torik had been orphaned as a very young age and sent to live
with his uncle, a saltrice plantation owner in Sheogorad in northern
Vvardenfell. The man promised to show his nephew the business and eventually
make him a partner when he was old enough. In the meantime, the boy was put
to work as his uncle's house servant.
It was a grueling life as the old man was very particular about how things
should be done. The boy was first required to give all the floors in the
house a thorough scouring, from the attic to the cellar. Whenever the floor
was not cleaned to the uncle's satisfaction, which was frequent, Torik was
thrashed and forced to begin again.
The boy's second duty was to ring the bell that would bring the laborers into
the house. This was done at least four times a day, once for each meal, but
if his uncle had any news or additional instructions for the laborers --
which he frequently did -- the bell might need to be sounded a dozen times or
more. It was a huge iron bell in the tower and the boy quickly discovered
that he had to throw his entire body into the motion of pulling the chain in
order to have it sound loud enough to bring everyone in from the field. If
he was tired and did not pull the backbreaking chain hard enough, his uncle
was soon at his side to beat him until he rang the bell loud and clear.
Torik's third task was dusting all the shelves in his uncle's vast library.
As deep and old as the shelves were, he was required to work with a long,
heavy duster on a rod. The only way that he could reach to the back of the
shelves was to hold the duster at his shoulder and then swing it out in a
sweeping motion. Again, if the uncle saw any dust left over or felt that the
boy was not working as hard as he ought to, the punishment was swift and
severe.
After several years, Minas Torik grew into a young man, but his job
responsibilities were not increased. His uncle promised to teach him the
business, once Torik had demonstrated his mastery of his servile assignments.
Divorced from any knowledge of any work other than his own, Torik never knew
how badly in debt his uncle was and how poorly the farm's yield was.
In his eighteenth year, Torik was called into the cellar by his uncle. He
thought that he had not done a good enough job scouring the floor down there,
and was frightened of the beating to come. What he found, however, was his
uncle packing his goods into crates.
"I'm leaving Morrowind," he explained. "The business has gone sour, so I
thought I'd try my luck running a caravan in Skyrim. I understand there's
good money to be made, trading fake Dwemer artifacts to the Nords and
Cyrodiils. I wish I could take you with me, my lad, but there won't be much
need for scouring, bell pulling, and dusting where I'm going."
"But uncle," said Torik. "I can't read, I knows nothing of the business you
promised to teach me. What wills I dos on my own?"
"I'm certain you can find a job in some domestic capacity," shrugged the
uncle. "I've done my best with you."
Torik had never stood up to his uncle before, and felt no anger only a sort
of coldness that gripped his heart. Among his uncle's possessions being
packed away was an old heavy iron axe, allegedly of Dwemer manufacture. He
picked it up in his hands and was surprised to find that it was not much
heavier than his dusting rod. In fact, it felt very comfortable as he pulled
it over his shoulder and swung it out as he had done so many times before.
In this instance, however, he swung it into his uncle's right arm.
The old man screamed with pain and rage, but for some reason, Torik didn't
feel frightened anymore. He propped the axe against his other shoulder, and
swung it out again. It cut a swath across the old man's chest and he fell to
the floor.
Torik hesitated before lifting the axe above his head. It was another
natural position for him, like he was ringing a bell. Over and over again,
he swung down as if he was calling the laborers in from the field. Except
that this time, there was no sound except for a wet thump, and no laborers
came in from the field. Of course, his uncle had sent them away hours
before.
After a time, there was nothing left of his uncle that couldn't be washed
down the cellar drain. The process of cleaning up came easily to Torik as
well. Blood scrubbed up much quicker than the usual grime and saltrice flour
that littered the cellar floor.
It was well known that Torik's uncle was planning to leave Morrowind, so his
disappearance provoked no suspicion. The house and all the belongings were
sold to the debt collectors, but Torik took the axe. It seemed that his
uncle had given him some worthwhile business skills after all.
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The Black Arrow, Volume 1
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Object ID: BookSkill_Acrobatics4
Weight: 2
Value: 400
Special Notes: Raises Acrobatis 1 point the first time the book is read
The Black Arrow
Part I
By Gorgic Guine
I was young when the Duchess of Woda hired me as an assistant footman at her
summer palace. My experience with the ways of the titled aristocracy was
very limited before that day. There were wealthy merchants, traders,
diplomats, and officials who had large operations in Eldenroot, and
ostentatious palaces for entertaining, but my relatives were all far from
those social circles.
There was no family business for me to enter when I reached adulthood, but my
cousin heard that an estate far from the city required servants. It was so
remotely located that there were unlikely to be many applicants for the
positions. I walked for five days into the jungles of Valenwood before I met
a group of riders going my direction. They were three Bosmer men, one Bosmer
woman, two Breton women, and a Dunmer man, adventurers from the look of them.
"Are you also going to Moliva?" asked Prolyssa, one of the Breton women,
after we had made our introductions.
"I don't know what that is," I replied. "I'm seeking a domestic position with
the Duchess of Woda."
"We'll take you to her gate," said the Dunmer Missun Akin, pulling me up to
his horse. "But you would be wise not to tell Her Grace that students from
Moliva escorted you. Not unless you don't really want the position in her
service."
Akin explained himself as we rode on. Moliva was the closest village to the
Duchess's estate, where a great and renowned archer had retired after a long
life of military service. His name was Hiomaste, and though he was retired,
he had begun to accept students who wished to learn the art of the bow. In
time, when word spread of the great teacher, more and more students arrived
to learn from the Master. The Breton women had come down all the way from
the Western Reach of High Rock. Akin himself had journeyed across the
continent from his home near the great volcano in Morrowind. He showed me
the ebony arrows he had brought from his homeland. I had never seen anything
so black.
"From what we've heard," said Kopale, one of the Bosmer men. "The Duchess is
an Imperial whose family has been here even before the Empire was formed, so
you might think that she was accustomed to the common people of Valenwood.
Nothing could be further from the truth. She despises the village, and the
school most of all."
"I suppose she wants to control all the traffic in her jungle," laughed
Prolyssa.
I accepted the information with gratitude, and found myself dreading more and
more my first meeting with the intolerant Duchess. My first sight of the
palace through the trees did nothing to assuage my fears.
It was nothing like any building I had ever seen in Valenwood. A vast
edifice of stone and iron, with a jagged row of battlements like the jaws of
a great beast. Most of the trees near the palace had been hewn away long
ago: I could only imagine the scandal that must have caused, and what fear
the Bosmer peasants must have had of the Duchy of Woda to have allowed it.
In their stead was a wide gray-green moat circling in a ring around the
palace, so it seemed to be on a perfect if artificial island. I had seen
such sights in tapestries from High Rock and the Imperial Province, but never
in my homeland.
"There'll be a guard at the gate, so we'll leave you here," said Akin,
stopping his horse in the road. "It'd be best for you if you weren't damned
by association with us."
I thanked my companions, and wished them good luck with their schooling.
They rode on and I followed on foot. In a few minutes' time, I was at the
front gate, which I noticed was linked to tall and ornate railings to keep
the compound secure. When the gate-keeper understood that I was there to
inquire about a domestic position, he allowed me past and signaled to another
guard across the open lawn to extend the drawbridge and allow me to cross the
moat.
There was one last security measure: the front door. An iron monstrosity
with the Woda Coat of Arms across the top, reinforced by more strips of iron,
and a single golden keyhole. The man standing guard unlocked the door and
gave me passage into the huge gloomy gray stone palace.
Her Grace greeted me in her drawing room. She was thin and wrinkled like a
reptile, cloaked in a simple red gown. It was obviously that she never
smiled. Our interview consisted of a single question.
"Do you know anything about being a junior footman in the employment of an
Imperial noblewoman?" Her voice was like ancient leather.
"No, Your Grace."
"Good. No servant ever understands what needs to be done, and I particularly
dislike those who think they do. You're engaged."
Life at the palace was joyless, but the position of junior footman was very
undemanding. I had nothing to do on most days except to stay out of the
Duchess's sight. At such times, I usually walked two miles down the road to
Moliva. In some ways, there was nothing special or unusual about the village
- there are thousands of identical places in Valenwood. But on the hillside
nearby was Master Hiomaste's archery academy, and I would often take my
luncheon and watch the practice.
Prolyssa and Akin would sometimes meet me afterwards. With Akin, the
subjects of conversation very seldom strayed far from archery. Though I was
very fond of him, I found Prolyssa a more enchanting companion, not only
because she was pretty for a Breton, but also because she seemed to have
interests outside the realm of marksmanship.
"There's a circus in High Rock I saw when I was a little girl called the
Quill Circus," she said during one of our walks through the woods. "They've
been around for as long as anyone can remember. You have to see them if you
ever can. They have plays, and sideshows, and the most amazing acrobats and
archers you've ever seen. That's my dream, to join them some day when I'm
good enough."
"How will you know when you're a good enough archer?" I asked.
She didn't answer, and when I turned, I realized that she had disappeared. I
looked around, bewildered, until I heard laughter from the tree above me.
She was perched on a branch, grinning.
"I may not join as an archer, maybe I'll join as an acrobat," she said. "Or
maybe as both. I figured that Valenwood would be the place to go to see what
I could learn. You've got all those great teachers to imitate in the trees
here. Those ape men."
She coiled up, bracing her left leg before springing forward on her right.
In a second, she had leapt across to a neighboring branch. I found it
difficult to keep talking to her.
"The Imga, you mean?" I stammered. "Aren't you nervous up at that height?"
"It's a cliche, I know," she said, jumping to an even higher branch, "But the
secret is not to ever look down."
"Would you mind coming down?"
"I probably should anyhow," she said. She was a good thirty feet up now,
balancing herself, arms outstretched, on a very narrow branch. She gestured
toward the gate just barely visible on the other side of the road. "This tree
is actually as close as I want to get to your Duchess's palace."
I held back a gasp as she dove off the branch, somersaulting until she landed
on the ground, knees slightly bent. That was the trick, she explained.
Anticipating the blow before it happened. I expressed to her my confidence
that she would be a great attraction at the Quill Circus. Of course, I know
now that never was to be.
On that day, as I recall, I had to return early. It was one of the rare
occasions when I had work, of a sort, to do. Whenever the Duchess had
guests, I was to be at the palace. That is not to say that I had any
particular duties, except to be seen standing at attention in the dining
room. The stewards and maids worked hard to bring in the food and clear the
plates afterwards, but the footmen were purely decorative, a formality.
But at least I was an audience for the drama to come.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Black Arrow, Volume II
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_marksman5
Weight: 2
Value: 400
Special Notes: Raises Marksman skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Black Arrow, Part II
By Gorgic Guine
On the last dinner in my employ at the palace, the Duchess, quite
surprisingly, had invited the mayor of Moliva and Master Hiomaste himself
among her other guests. The servants' gossip was manic. The mayor had been
there before, albeit very irregularly, but Hiomaste's presence was
unthinkable. What could she mean by such a conciliatory gesture?
The dinner itself progressed along with perfect if slightly cool civility
among all parties. Hiomaste and the Duchess were both very quiet. The Mayor
tried to engage the group in a discussion of the Emperor Pelagius IV's new
son and heir Uriel, but it failed to spark much interest. Lady Villea,
elderly but much more vivacious than her sister the Duchess, led most of the
talk about crime and scandal in Eldenroot.
"I have been encouraging her to move out to the country, away from all that
unpleasantness for years now," the Duchess said, meeting the eyes of the
Mayor. "We've been discussing more recently the possibility of her building a
palace on Moliva Hill, but there's so little space there as you know.
Fortunately, we've come to a discovery. There is a wide field just a few
days west, on the edge of the river, ideally suited."
"It sounds perfect," the Mayor smiled and turned to Lady Villea: "When will
your ladyship begin building?"
"The very day you move your village to the site," replied the Duchess of
Woda.
The Mayor turned to her to see if she was joking. She obviously was not.
"Think of how much more commerce you could bring to your village if you were
close to the river," said Lady Villea jovially. "And Master Hiomaste's
students could have easier access to his fine school. Everyone would
benefit. I know it would put my sister's heart to ease if there was less
trespassing and poaching on her lands."
"There is no poaching or trespassing on your lands now, Your Grace," frowned
Hiomaste. "You do not own the jungle, nor will you. The villagers may be
persuaded to leave, that I don't know. But my school will stay where it is."
The dinner party never really recovered happily. Hiomaste and the Mayor
excused themselves, and my services, such as they were, were not needed in
the drawing room where the group went to have their drinks. There was no
laughter to be heard through the walls that evening.
The next day, even though there was a dinner planned for the evening, I left
on my usual walk to Moliva. Before I had even reached the drawbridge, the
guard held me back: "Where are you going, Gorgic? Not to the village, are
you?"
"Why not?"
He pointed to the plume of smoke in the distance: "A fire broke out very
early this morning, and it's still going. Apparently, it started at Master
Hiomaste's school. It looks like the work of some traveling brigands."
"Blessed Stendarr!" I cried. "Are the students alive?"
"No one knows, but it'd be a miracle if any survived. It was late and most
everyone was sleeping. I know they've already found the Master's body, or
what was left of it. And they also found that girl, your friend, Prolyssa."
I spent the day in a state of shock. It seemed inconceivable what my
instinct told me: that the two noble old ladies, Lady Villea and the Duchess
of Woda, had arranged for a village and school that irritated them to be
reduced to ashes. At dinner, they mentioned the fire in Moliva only very
briefly, as if it were not news at all. But I did see the Duchess smile for
the first time ever. It was a smile I will never forget until the day I die.
The next morning, I had resolved to go to the village and see if I could be
of any assistance to the survivors. I was passing through the servants' hall
to the grand foyer when I heard the sound of a group of people ahead. The
guards and most of the servants were there, pointing at the portrait of the
Duchess that hung in the center of the hall.
There was a single black bolt of ebony piercing the painting, right at the
Duchess's heart.
I recognized it at once. It was one of Missun Akin's arrows I had seen in
his quiver, forged, he said, in the bowels of Dagoth-Ur itself. My first
reaction was relief: the Dunmer who had been kind enough to give me a ride to
the palace had survived the fire. My second reaction was echoed by all
present in the hall. How had the vandal gotten past the guards, the gate,
the moat, and the massive iron door?
The Duchess, arriving shortly after I, was clearly furious, though she was
too well bred to show it but by raising her web-thin eyebrows. She wasted no
time in assigning all her servants to new duties to keep the palace grounds
guarded at all times. We were given regular shifts and precise, narrow
patrols.
The next morning, despite all precautions, there was another black arrow
piercing the Duchess's portrait.
So it continued for a week's time. The Duchess saw to it that at least one
person was always present in the foyer, but somehow the arrow always found
its way to her painting whenever the guard's eyes were momentarily averted.
A complex series of signals were devised, so each patrol could report back
any sounds or disturbances they encountered during their vigil. At first,
the Duchess arranged them so her castellan would receive record of any
disturbances during the day, and the chief of the guard during the night.
But when she found that she could not sleep, she made certain that the
information came to her directly.
The atmosphere in the palace had shifted from gloomy to nightmarish. A snake
would slither across the moat, and suddenly Her Grace would be tearing
through the east wing to investigate. A strong gust of wind ruffling the
leaves on one of the few trees in the lawn was a similar emergency. An
unfortunate lone traveler on the road in front of the palace, a completely
innocent man at it turned out, brought such a violent reaction that he must
have thought that he had stumbled on a war. In a way, he had.
And every morning, there was a new arrow in the front hall, mocking her.
I was given the terrible assignment of guarding the portrait for a few hours
in the early morning. Not wanting to be the one to discover the arrow, I
seated myself in a chair opposite, never letting my eyes move away for even a
second. I don't know if you've had the experience of watching one object
relentlessly, but it has a strange effect. All other senses vanish. That
was why I was particularly startled when the Duchess rushed into the room,
blurring the gulf for me between her portrait and herself.
"There's something moving behind the tree across the road from the gate!" she
roared, pushing me aside, and fumbling with her key in the gold lock.
She was shaking with madness and excitement, and the key did not seem to want
to go in. I reached out to help her, but the Duchess was already kneeling,
her eye to the keyhole, to be certain that the key went through.
It was precisely in that second that the arrow arrived, but this one never
made it as far as the portrait.
I actually met Missun Akin years later, while I was in Morrowind to entertain
some nobles. He was impressed that I had risen from being a humble domestic
servant to being a bard of some renown. He himself had returned to the
ashlands, and, like his old master Hiomaste, was retired to the simple life
of teaching and hunting.
I told him that I had heard that Lady Villea had decided not to leave the
city, and that the village of Modiva had been rebuilt. He was happy to hear
that, but I could not find a way to ask him what I really wanted to know. I
felt like a fool just wondering if what I thought were true, that he had been
behind Prolyssa's tree across the road from the gate every morning that
summer, firing an arrow through the gate, across the lawn, across the moat,
through a keyhole, and into a portrait of the Duchess of Woda until he struck
the Duchess herself. It was clearly an impossibility. I chose not to ask.
As we left one another that day, and he was waving good-bye, he said, "I am
pleased to see you doing so well, my friend. I am happy you moved that
chair."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Black Glove
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BlackGlove
Weight: 2
Value: 60
Special Notes: None
The Black Glove
Swift and agile are the Morag Tong. Silent and unseen they move. Illusions
they supply to misdirect their prey. Close and sure they strike with
shortblade, or distant and secure they strike from afar with accurate missile
fire. Light armor protects them from harm, and the acrobatic discipline finds
for them the unseen and unlooked-for path. Have you these virtues? Then,
perhaps, your oath and service may please the Morag Tong.
Do you have your friends and your finery, but no place to go? Do you laugh
and cry, but no longer feel? Do you wear these masks? Then, perhaps, your
oath and service may please the Black Glove.
The blood of the hunter and the blood of the hunted. The joy of the hidden
and the joy of the seeker. The blood of the eye and the blood of the gate.
The joy of the living and the joy of the dead. Are you one with these things?
Then, perhaps, your oath and service may please Mephala.
To make your oath and enter our service, the worthy must seek the
Grandmaster, who by tradition lives in the unseen and unlooked-for corners of
Vivec City between the blood of battle and the waters of life.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Blue Book of Riddles
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BlueBookOfRiddles
Weight: 2
Value: 250
Special Notes: None
The Blue Book of Riddles
Herein are presented all manner of riddles, as collected by the scholars of
St Rilms, to the greater glory of the Tribunal, Almsivi!
[The posing and puzzling of riddles is a convention of polite aristocratic
Western society. Nobles and social aspirants collect books of riddles and
study them, hoping thereby to increase the chances of their appearing sly and
witty in conversation.]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Book of Daedra
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BookOfDaedra
Weight: 2
Value: 45
Special Notes: None
The Book of Daedra
[These are excerpts from this lengthy tome, describing the nature of each of
the Daedra.]
Azura, whose sphere is dusk and dawn, the magic in-between realms of
twilight, known as Moonshadow, Mother of the Rose, and Queen of the Night
Sky.
Boethiah, whose sphere is deceit and conspiracy, and the secret plots of
murder, assassination, treason, and unlawful overthrow of authority.
Clavicus Vile, whose sphere is the granting of power and wishes through
ritual invocations and pact.
Hermaeus Mora, whose sphere is scrying of the tides of Fate, of the past and
future as read in the stars and heavens, and in whose dominion are the
treasures of knowledge and memory.
Hircine, whose sphere is the Hunt, the Sport of Daedra, the Great Game, the
Chase, known as the Huntsman and the Father of Manbeasts.
Malacath, whose sphere is the patronage of the spurned and ostracized, the
keeper of the Sworn Oath, and the Bloody Curse.
Mehrunes Dagon, whose sphere is Destruction, Change, Revolution, Energy, and
Ambition.
Mephala, whose sphere is obscured to mortals; known by the names Webspinner,
Spinner, and Spider; whose only consistent theme seems to be interference in
the affairs of mortals for her amusement.
Meridia, whose sphere is obscured to mortals; who is associated with the
energies of living things.
Molag Bal, whose sphere is the domination and enslavement of mortals; whose
desire is to harvest the souls of mortals and to bring mortals souls within
his sway by spreading seeds of strife and discord in the mortal realms.
Namira, whose sphere is the ancient Darkness; known as the Spirit Daedra,
ruler of sundry dark and shadowy spirits; associated with spiders, insects,
slugs, and other repulsive creatures which inspire mortals with an
instinctive revulsion.
Nocturnal, whose sphere is the night and darkness; who is known as the Night
Mistress.
Peryite, whose sphere is the ordering of the lowest orders of Oblivion, known
as the Taskmaster.
Sanguine, whose sphere is hedonistic revelry and debauchery, and passionate
indulgences of darker natures.
Sheogorath, whose sphere is Madness, and whose motives are unknowable.
Vaernima, whose sphere is the realm of dreams and nightmares, and from whose
realm issues forth evil omens.
[Especially marked for special interest under the heading "Malacath" you find
a reference to SCOURGE, blessed by Malacath, and dedicated to the use of
mortals. In short, the reference suggests that any Daedra attempting to
invoke the weapon's powers will be expelled into the voidstreams of
Oblivion.]
"Of the legendary artifacts of the Daedra, many are well known, like Azura's
Star, and Sheogorath's Wabbajack. Others are less well known, like Scourge,
Mackkan's Hammer, Bane of Daedra...."
"...yet though Malacath blessed Scourge to be potent against his Daedra kin,
he thought not that it should fall into Daedric hands, then to serve as a
tool for private war among caitiff and forsaken. Thus did Malacath curse the
device such that, should any dark kin seek to invoke its powers, that a void
should open and swallow that Daedra, and purge him into Oblivion's
voidstreams, from thence to pathfind back to the Real and Unreal Worlds in
the full order of time."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Book of Dawn and Dusk
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BookDawnAndDusk
Weight: 3
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
The Book of Dawn and Dusk
[The Book of Dawn and Dusk is a collections of sayings and aphorisms
attributed variously to the Tribunals and to their saints and servants. Many
of these sayings have become common cliches of everyday life in Morrowind.
The following selection of slogans will illustrate many of the simplest
notions of the Tribunal faithful.]
Speak none but good of the Gods.
We can have no opinions about Truth.
Rumors flow from the House of Troubles.
Count only the happy hours.
No child has a sinner's heart.
Let faith be your only law.
Fear of the fool is the beginning of wisdom.
Almsivi in every hour.
Walk always in the presence of your Lords.
Comfort is given, justice is taken.
Learn by serving.
From the heart, the light; from the head, the law.
Blessed Almsivi, Mercy, Mastery, Mystery.
Forge a keen Faith in the crucible of suffering.
Engrave upon thy eye the image of injustice.
Death does not diminish; the ghost gilds with glory.
Faith conquers all. Let us yield to Faith.
Better to suffer a wrong than to do one.
The heavens are in their glory, applaud!
Folly secures its power to harm.
Though forbidden to some, not to you.
Oh, how rarely wisdom rules our hearts!
Blessed are we who serve Almsivi.
Three mouths sing Mercy, Mastery, Mystery.
Gather no seed in the fields of Hell.
The Thrice-Sealed House withstands the Storm.
By Breath and Blood protect us all!
Can ghosts or justice change with time?
Consider your end, mortal!
Accept grace without limits.
Enter the rhapsody of the God-Poet.
Kneel before the Teacher's chair.
Three Hands, three Hearts, three Eyes.
Keep no secret from your Judge's scale.
Forge Darkness into Light.
Refuse neither brother nor ghost.
Blessed Almsivi, through birth, life, ghost.
From glowing ashes the Poet's wrath shall shine.
If Vivec is for us, who can stand against us?
Fate, monstrous and empty, the whirling wheel of evil.
How black my heart, roasting fiercely?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Brothers of Darkness
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BrothersOfDarkness
Weight: 4
Value: 100
Special Notes: None
The Brothers of Darkness
by Pellarne Assi
As their name suggests, the Dark Brotherhood has a history shrouded in
obfuscation. Their ways are secret to those who are not themselves Brothers
of the Order ("Brother" is a generic term; some of their deadliest assassins
are female, but they are often called Brothers as well). How they continue
to exist in shadow, but be easily found by those desperate enough to pay for
their services, is not the least of the mysteries surrounding them.
The Dark Brotherhood sprang from a religious order, the Morag Tong, during
the Second Era. The Morag Tong were worshippers of the Daedra spirit
Mephala, who encouraged them to commit ritual murders. In their early years,
they were as disorganized as only obscure cultists could be-there was no one
to lead the band, and as a group they dared not murder anybody of any
importance. This changed with the rise of the Night Mother.
All leaders of the Morag Tong, and then afterward the Dark Brotherhood, have
been called the Night Mother. Whether the same woman (if it is even a woman)
has commanded the Dark Brotherhood since the Second Era is unknown. What is
believed is that the original Night Mother developed an important doctrine of
the Morag Tong-the belief that, while Mephala does grow stronger with every
murder committed in her name, certain murders were better than others.
Murders that came from hate pleased Mephala more than murders committed
because of greed. Murders of great men and women pleased Mephala more than
murders of relative unknowns.
We can approximate the time this belief was adopted with the first known
murder committed by the Morag Tong. In the year 324 of the Second Era, the
Potentate Versidue-Shaie was murdered in his palace in what is today the
Elsweyr kingdom of Senchal. In a brash move, the Night Mother announced the
identity of the murderers by painting "MORAG TONG" on the walls in the
Potentate's own blood.
Previous to that, the Morag Tong existed in relative peace, more or less like
a witches' coven-occasionally persecuted but usually ignored. In remarkable
synchronicity at a time when Tamriel the Arena was a fractured land, the
Morag Tong was outlawed throughout the continent. Every sovereign gave the
cult's elimination his highest priority. Nothing more was officially heard
of them for a hundred years.
It is more difficult to date the Era when the Morag Tong re-emerged as the
Dark Brotherhood, especially as other guilds of assassins have sporadically
appeared throughout the history of Tamriel. The first mention of the Dark
Brotherhood that I have found is from the journals of the Blood Queen
Arlimahera of Hegathe. She spoke of slaying her enemies by her own hand, or
if necessary "with the help of the Night Mother and her Dark Brotherhood, the
secret arsenal my family has employed since my grandfather's time."
Arlimahera wrote this in 2E412, so one can surmise that the Dark Brotherhood
had been in existence since at least 360 if her grandfather had truly made
use of them.
The important distinction between the Dark Brotherhood and the Morag Tong was
that the Brotherhood was a business as much as it was a cult. Rulers and
wealthy merchants used the order as an assassin's guild. The Brotherhood
gained the obvious rewards of a profitable enterprise, as well as the
secondary benefit that rulers could no longer actively persecute them: They
were needed. They were purveyors of an essential commodity. Even an
extremely virtuous leader would be unwise to mistreat the Brotherhood.
Not long after Alimahera's journal entry came perhaps the most famous series
of executions in the history of the Dark Brotherhood. The Colovian Emperor-
Potentate Savirien-Chorak and every one of his heirs were murdered on one
bloody night in Sun's Dawn in 430. Within a fortnight, the Colovian Dynasty
crumbled, to the delight of its enemies. For over four hundred years, until
the advent of the Warrior Emperor Tiber Septim, chaos reigned over Tamriel.
Though no comparably impressive executions have been recorded, the
Brotherhood must have grown fat with gold during that interregnum.
The Dark Brotherhood has no shortage of business opportunities-an
"accounting," I have been informed, is the Brotherhood's favorite euphemism
for an execution. While they are officially considered an unlawful
organization in every corner of the Empire, like the Thieves Guild, they are
almost as universally tolerated.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Buying Game
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_mercantile1
Weight: 4
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Mercantile skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Buying Game
by Ababael Timsar-Dadisun
So many people simply buy the items they need at the price they are given.
It's a very sad state of affairs, when the game is really open to all, you
don't need an invitation. And it is a game, the game of bargaining, to be
played seriously and, I hasten to add, politely. In Elsweyr, it is common
for the shop-owner to offer the prospective buyer tea or sweetmeats and
engage in polite conversation before commencing the business. This eminently
civilized tradition has a practical purpose, allowing the buyer to observe
the wares for sale. It is considered impolite not to accept, though it does
not imply obligation on the part of the buyer.
Whether this particular custom is part of the culture or not, it's wise for
the buyer and seller to greet one another with smiles and warm salutations,
like gladiators honoring one another before the battle.
Bargaining is expected all over Tamriel, but the game can be broken if one's
offer is so preposterously low that it insults the shop-keeper. If you are
offered something for ten gold pieces, try offering six and see where that
takes you.
Do not look like you're very interested, but do not mock the quality of the
goods, even if they deserve it. Much better to admire the quality of
workmanship, but comment that, regretfully, you simply cannot afford such a
price. When the shop-keeper compliments your taste, smile, but try to resist
the flattery.
A lot of the game depends on recognizing the types of shop-keepers and not
automatically assuming that the rural merchant is ignorant and easily fooled,
or the rapacious city merchant is selling shoddy merchandise. Caravans, it
should be mentioned, are always good places to go to buy or trade.
Knowing what you're buying and from whom is a talent bought only after years
of practice. Know the specialties of certain regions and merchants before
you even step foot in a shop. Recognize too the prejudices of the region.
In Morrowind where I hail from, for example, Argonians are viewed with a
certain amount of suspicion. Don't be surprised or insulted if the
shopkeepers follow you around the shop, assuming you're going to steal
something. Similarly, Nords, Bretons, and Cyrodiils are sometimes treated
coolly by merchants in the Summurset Isles. Of course, I don't know any
shopkeepers anywhere, no matter their open-mindedness, who aren't alerted
when a Khajiit or a Bosmer enters their shop. Even Khajiiti and Bosmeri
shopkeepers.
If you see something you really like or need, buy it then and there at the
best price you can get. I cannot tell you how many times I passed up a rare
and interesting relic, assuming that I could find it elsewhere in the region,
perhaps at a larger town at a better price. Too late, I discovered I was
wrong, and when I returned to the shop weeks later, the item I wanted was
gone. Better to get a great purchase at a decent price and discover it again
at a worse price than to miss out on your opportunities for ownership.
Occasionally impulsiveness is the best buying strategy.
Sense the moves of the game, and everyone can win.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Cake and the Diamond
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Alchemy2
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Alchemy skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Cake and The Diamond
by Athyn Muendil
I was in the Rat and the Pot, a foreigner cornerclub in Ald'ruhn, talking to
my fellow Rats when I first saw the woman. Now, Breton women are fairly
common in the Rat and the Pot. As a breed, they seem inclined to wander far
from their perches in High Rock. Old Breton women, however, are not so
migratory, and the wizened old biddy drew attention to herself, wandering
about the room, talking to everyone.
Nimloth and Oediad were at their usual places, drinking their usual stuff.
Oediad was showing off a prize he had picked up in some illicit manner -- a
colossal diamond, large as a baby's hand, and clear as spring water. I was
admiring it when I heard the creaking of old bones behind me.
"Good day to you, friends," said the old woman. "My name is Abelle Chriditte,
and I am in need of financial assistance to facilitate my transportation to
Ald Redaynia."
"You'll want to see the Temple for charity," said Nimloth curtly.
"I am not looking for charity," said Abelle. "I'm looking to barter
services."
"Don't make me sick, old woman," laughed Oediad.
"Did you say your name was Abelle Chriditte?" I asked, "Are you related to
Abelle Chriditte, the High Rock alchemist?"
"Closely related," she said, with a cackle. "We are the same person. Perhaps
I could prepare you a potion in exchange for gold? I noticed that you have
in your possession a very fine diamond. The magical qualities of diamonds
are boundless."
"Sorry, old woman, I ain't giving it up for magic. It was trouble enough
stealing this one," said Oediad. "I've got a fence who'll trade it for gold."
"But your fence will demand a certain percentage, will he not? What if I
could give you a potion of invisibility in exchange? In return for that
diamond, you could have the means to steal many more. A very fair exchange
of services, I would say."
"It would be, but I have no gold to give you," said Oediad.
"I'll take what remains of the diamond after I've made the potion," said
Abelle. "If you took it to the Mages Guild, you'd have to supply all the
other ingredients and pay for it as well. But I learned my craft in the
wild, where no Potion-makers existed to dissolve diamonds into dust. When
you must do it all by hand, by simple skill, you are blessed with remnants
those fool potion-makers at the Guild simply swallow up."
"That sounds all very nice," said Nimloth, "But how do we know your potion is
going to work? If you make one potion, take the rest of Oediad's diamond,
and leave, we won't know until you've gone whether the potion works or not."
"Ah, trust is so rare these days," sighed Abelle. "I suppose I could make two
potions for you, and there'd still be a little bit of the diamond left for
me. Not a lot, but perhaps enough to get me to Ald Redaynia. Then you could
try the first potion right here and now, and see if you're satisfied or not."
"But," I interjected. "You could make one potion that works and one that
doesn't, and take more of the diamond. She could even give you a slow-acting
poison, and by the time she got to Ald Redaynia, you'd be dead."
"Bleedin' Kynareth, you Dunmer are suspicious! I will hardly have any
diamond left, but I could make two potions of two doses each, so you can
satisfy yourself that the potion works and has no negative effects. If you
still don't trust me, come along with me to my table and witness my craft if
you'd like."
So it was decided that I would accompany Abelle back to her table where she
had all her traveling bags full of herbs and minerals, to make certain that
she was not making two different potions. It took nearly an hour of
preparation, but she kindly allowed me to finish her half-filled flagon of
wine while I watched her work. Splintering the diamond and powdering the
pieces required the bulk of the time; over and over again, she waved her
gnarled hands over the gem, intoning ancient enchantments, breaking the
facets of the stone into smaller and smaller pieces. Separately she made
pastes of minced bittergreen, crushed red bulbs of dell'arco spae, and
driblets of ciciliani oil. I finished the wine.
"Old woman," I finally said with a sigh. "How much longer is this going to
take? I'm getting tired of watching you work."
"The Mages Guild has fooled the populace into thinking alchemy is a science,"
she said. "But if you're tired, rest your eyes."
My eyes closed, seemingly of their own volition. But there had been
something in that wine. Something that made me do what she asked.
"I think I'll make up the potion as cakes. It's much more potent that way.
Now, tell me, young man, what will your friends do once I give them the
potion?"
"Mug you in the street afterwards to retrieve the rest of the diamond," I
said simply. I didn't want to tell the truth, but there it was.
"I thought so, but I wanted to be certain. You may open your eyes now."
I opened my eyes. Abelle had made a small presentation on a wooden platter:
two small cakes and a silver cutting knife.
"Pick up the cakes and bring them to the table," said Abelle. "And don't say
anything, except to agree with whatever I say."
I did as I was told. It was a curious sensation. I didn't really mind being
her puppet. Of course, in retrospect, I resent it, but it seemed perfectly
natural at the time to obey without question.
Abelle handed the cakes to Oediad and I dutifully verified that both cakes
were made the same way. She suggested that he cut one of the cakes in half,
and she would take one piece and he'd take the other, just so he would know
that they worked and weren't poisoned. Oediad thought it was a good idea,
and used Abelle's knife to cut the cake. Abelle took the piece on the left
and popped into her mouth. Oediad took the piece on the right and swallowed
it more cautiously.
Abelle and all the bags she was carrying vanished from sight almost
instantly. Nothing happened to Oediad.
"Why did it work for the witch and not for me?" cried Oediad.
"Because the diamond dust was only on the left-hand side of the blade," said
the old alchemist through me. I felt her control lessening as the distance
grew and she hurried invisibly down the dark Ald'ruhn street away from the
Rat and the Pot.
We never found Abelle Chriditte or the diamond. Whether she completed her
pilgrimage to Ald Redaynia is anyone's guess. The cakes had no effect,
except to give Oediad a bad case of droops that lasted for nearly a week.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Cantatas of Vivec
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_CantatasOfVivec
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
The Cantatas of Vivec
[The Cantatas of Vivec are gospels written in the form of epic songs. They
trace the evolution of Vivec from a foolish mortal into an enlightened
divine. Vivec sought out experiences that tested him in every way possible,
particularly in the defense and protection of his Dunmer people, and through
his long life, his humility, and his unconquerable spirit, he attained the
Wisdom of the Seven Graces. The Cantatas relate many stories of Vivec's
experiments with challenge and risk, his failures and triumphs, his blessings
of insight and good fortune, and his debt to his partners, Almalexia the
Lover and Sotha Sil the Teacher. The poetry is simple and dramatic, lyric and
personal, composed to be sung or recited. The following is an excerpt from
Lord Vivec's 'Brooding Beneath Red Mountain'.]
The gaunt ghostfires loom as subtle shrouds,
Smokes and shades on the biers of Red Mountain.
Arches and spires line the rock halls,
Dimly lit by the spirits of the dead.
The blood of broken hearths and houses
Runs in red rivers, blossoms in fountains.
Girdled round within walls of wit's glass
The shattered hosts slumber in cradles of ash.
But when shall they wake?
What dark crucible may kindle their souls to light?
How long beneath red-reeking clouds
Must flickering watchfires burn?
How many lifetimes of labor and lament
Will it take to seal this restless tomb?
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The Changed Ones
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_ChangedOnes
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
Changed Ones
Of all the et'Ada who wandered Nirn, Trinimac was the strongest. He, for a
very long time, fooled the Aldmeri into thinking that tears were the best
response to the Sundering. They cried and shamed our ancestors, especially
the feminine Altmer. They even took the Missing God's name in vain, calling
His narratives into question. So one day Boethiah, Prince of Plots,
precocious youth, tricked Trinimac to go into his mouth. Boethiah talked like
Trinimac for awhile then, and gathered enough people to listen to him.
Boethiah showed them the lies of the et'Ada, the Aedra, and told them
Trinimac was the biggest liar of all, saying all this with Trinimac's voice!
Boethiah told the mass before him the Tri-Angled Truth. He showed them, with
Mephala, the rules of Psijic Endeavor. He taught them how to build Houses,
and what items they needed to bury in the Corners. He demonstrated the right
way to wear their skin. He performed the way to walk to achieve an Exodus.
Then Boethiah relieved himself of Trinimac right there on the ground before
them to prove all the things he said were the truth. It was easy then for his
new people to become the Changed Ones.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Consolations of Prayer
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_ConsolationsOfPrayer
Weight: 3
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
The Consolations of Prayer
Through the bounty of Blessed Almsivi, Triune Grace, and all the hosts of
saints, the faithful who pray at the Temple's shrines may be granted
blessings through the miraculous sacraments of prayer and devotion. The
three-sided shrines betoken the three-faced benison of Almsivi, and may be
found in Temples, or at sites of pilgrimage, or at pilgrim waysides, or in
the tomb of the sanctified.
What benefits may be gained shall be listed herein for the edification of the
worshipper and pilgrim.
All shrines grant cures of common diseases, of blight diseases, and of
afflictions of poison.
Those shrines bearing the images of Vivec, Almalexia, and Sotha Sil also may
grant the blessing of Almsivi Restoration, which restores damaged attributes,
and the three blessings of Almsivi: Vivec's Mystery, for good fortune; Soul
of Sotha Sil, for magical power, and Lady's Grace, for endurance of
hardships.
Those shrines bearing the images of the saints may also grant the particular
blessings of the saints, which are listed for you here:
St. Aralor grants Aralor's Intervention, for fortifying character.
St. Delyn grants Shield of St. Delyn, for resistance to blight diseases.
St. Felms grants Felm's Glory, for greater skill in restoring magics.
St. Llothis grants Rock of Llothis, for fortifying the will.
St. Meris grants Meris's Warding, for resistance to corprus disease.
St. Nerevar grants Spirit of Nerevar, for fortifying the body's vigor.
St. Olms grants Olm's Benediction, for resistance to common disease.
St. Rilms grants Rilm's Grace, for endurance of hardships.
St. Roris grants Roris's Bloom, for fortifying the body's health.
St. Seryn grants Seryn's Shield, for resistance to poisons.
St. Veloth grants Veloth's Indwelling, for magical power, and also grants the
blessing of Almsivi Restoration, which restores damaged attributes.
The Faithful are granted these blessings when they pray at the shrines and
make a modest donation. The Blessed of the Initiate rank and higher of the
Temple have already made their devotions in service and piety, and need only
pray at the shrines to receive their benefits. And Almsivi is generous, so
even the Unbeliever may receive a blessing if he prays, if he proves his
respect with a generous donation.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Doors of the Spirit
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_DoorsOfTheSpirit
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
The Doors of the Spirit
The Ancestors are among us. They are never farther away than the Waiting
Door.
The Ancestors are not departed. The dead are not under the earth. Their
spirits are in the restless wind, in the fire's voice, in the foot-smoothed
step. Pay heed to these things, and you will know your absent kin.
Pay reverence through gift and prayer. Acquaint the Ancestors with your
affairs, with your comings and goings, with your blessings and trials.
From the Waiting Door comes your protection. Heed the spirits, who are the
guardians of your hearth, teachers of wisdom, counselors of fortune, seers of
fate.
Each bone is a door through the wall of the world. Each bone is the road,
with Wisdom and Power the travelers. Each bone is the ghost fence that guards
us from evil.
Honor the Ancestors upon your hearths, within your halls, in the community of
your temples, in the solitude of your tombs.
Guard your Ancestors from beasts, from thieves, from profane priest and
sorcerers. Let no creature steal your spirits, for the plundered hearth is
diminished, and the plundered tomb is shamed.
Live in One World with your spirits. Honor the spirits within and without
you. Do not grieve for the dead. Take shelter in their arms, and pay heed to
their words.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Dowry
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Security3
Weight: 3
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Security skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Dowry
Ancient Tales of the Dwemer, Part X
By Marobar Sul
Ynaleigh was the wealthiest landowner in Gunal, and he had over the years
saved a tremendous dowry for the man who would marry his daughter, Genefra.
When she reached the age of consent, he locked the gold away for safe-
keeping, and announced his intention to have her marry. She was a comely
lass, a scholar, a great athlete, but dour and brooding in aspect. This
personality defect did not bother her potential suitors any more than her
positive traits impressed them. Every man knew the tremendous wealth that
would be his as the husband of Genefra and son-in-law of Ynaleigh. That
alone was enough for hundreds to come to Gunal to pay court.
"The man who will marry my daughter," said Ynaleigh to the assembled. "Must
not be doing so purely out of avarice. He must demonstrate his own wealth to
my satisfaction."
This simple pronouncement removed a vast majority of the suitors, who knew
they could not impress the landowner with their meager fortunes. A few dozen
did come forward within a few days, clad in fine killarc cloth of spun
silver, accompanied by exotic servants, traveling in magnificent carriages.
Of all who came who met with Ynaleigh's approval, none arrived in a more
resplendent fashion that Welyn Naerillic. The young man, who no one had ever
heard of, arrived in a shining ebon coach drawn by a team of dragons, his
clothing of rarest manufacture, and accompanied by an army of the most
fantastical servants any of Gunal had ever seen. Valets with eyes on all
sides of their heads, maidservants that seemed cast in gemstones.
But such was not enough with Ynaleigh.
"The man who marries my daughter must prove himself a intelligent fellow, for
I would not have an ignoramus as a son-in-law and business partner," he
declared.
This eliminated a large part of the wealthy suitors, who, through their lives
of luxury, had never needed to think very much if at all. Still some came
forward over the next few days, demonstrating their wit and learning, quoting
the great sages of the past and offering their philosophies of metaphysics
and alchemy. Welyn Naerillic too came and asked Ynaleigh to dine at the villa
he had rented outside of Gunal. There the landowner saw scores of scribes
working on translations of Aldmeri tracts, and enjoyed the young man's
somewhat irreverent but intriguing intelligence.
Nevertheless, though he was much impressed with Welyn Naerillic, Ynaleigh had
another challenge.
"I love my daughter very much," said Ynaleigh. "And I hope that the man who
marries her will make her happy as well. Should any of you make her smile,
she and the great dowry are yours."
The suitors lined up for days, singing her songs, proclaiming their devotion,
describing her beauty in the most poetic of terms. Genefra merely glared at
all with hatred and melancholia. Ynaleigh who stood by her side began to
despair at last. His daughter's suitors were failing to a man at this task.
Finally Welyn Naerillic came to the chamber.
"I will make your daughter smile," he said. "I dare say, I'll make her laugh,
but only after you've agreed to marry us. If she is not delighted within one
hour of our engagement, the wedding can be called off."
Ynaleigh turned to his daughter. She was not smiling, but her eyes had
sparked with some morbid curiosity in this young man. As no other suitor had
even registered that for her, he agreed.
"The dowry is naturally not to be paid 'til after you've wed," said Ynaleigh.
"Being engaged is not enough."
"Might I see the dowry still?" asked Welyn.
Knowing how fabled the treasure was and understanding that this would likely
be the closest the young man would come to possessing it, Ynaleigh agreed.
He had grown quite found of Welyn. On his orders, Welyn, Ynaleigh, glum
Genefra, and the castellan delved deep into the stronghold of Gunal. The
first vault had to be opened by touching a series of runic symbols: should
one of the marks be mispressed, a volley of poisoned arrows would have struck
the thief. Ynaleigh was particularly proud of the next level of security --
a lock composed of blades with eighteen tumblers required three keys to be
turned simultaneously to allow entry. The blades were designed to eviscerate
any who merely picked one of the locks. Finally, they reached the storeroom.
It was entirely empty.
"By Lorkhan, we've been burgled!" cried Ynaleigh. "But how? Who could have
done this?"
"A humble but, if I may say so, rather talented burglar," said Welyn. "A man
who has loved your daughter from afar for many years, but did not possess the
glamour or the learning to impress. That is, until the gold from her dowry
afforded me the opportunity."
"You?" bellowed Ynaleigh, scarcely able to believe it. Then something even
more unbelievable happened.
Genefra began to laugh. She had never even dreamed of meeting anyone like
this thief. She threw herself into his arms before her father's outraged
eyes. After a moment, Ynaleigh too began to laugh.
Genefra and Welyn were married in a month's time. Though he was in fact
quite poor and had little scholarship, Ynaleigh was amazed how much his
wealth increased with such a son-in-law and business partner. He only made
certain never to ask from whence came the excess gold.
Publisher's Note:
The tale of a man trying to win the hand of a maiden whose father (usually a
wealthy man or a king) tests each suitor is quite common. See, for instance,
the more recent "Four Suitors of Benitah" by Jole Yolivess. The behavior of
the characters is quite out of character for the Dwemer. No one today knows
their marriage customs, or even if they had marriage at all.
One rather odd theory of the Disappearance of the Dwarves came from this and
a few other tales of "Marobar Sul." It was proposed that the Dwemer never, in
fact, left. They did not depart Nirn, much less the continent of Tamriel, and
they are still among us, disguised. These scholars use the story of "Azura
and the Box" to suggest that the Dwemer feared Azura, a being they could
neither understand nor control, and they adopted the dress and manner of
Chimer and Altmer in order to hide from Azura's gaze.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Dragon Break Re-Examined
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Alteration2
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Alteration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Dragon Break Reexamined
by Fal Droon
The late 3rd era was a period of remarkable religious ferment and creativity.
The upheavals of the reign of Uriel VII were only the outward signs of the
historical forces that would eventually lead to the fall of the Septim
Dynasty. The so called "Dragon Break" was first proposed at this time, by a
wide variety of cults and fringe sects across the Empire, connected only by a
common obsession with the events surrounding Tiber Septim's rise to power --
the "founding myth", if you will, of the Septim Dynasty.
The basis of the Dragon Break doctrine is now known to be a rather prosaic
error in the timeline printed in the otherwise authoritative "Encyclopedia
Tamrielica", first published in 3E 12, during the early years of Tiber
Septim's reign. At that time, the archives of Alinor were still inaccessible
to human scholars, and the extant records from the Alessian period were
extremely fragmentary. The Alessians had systematically burned all the
libraries they could find, and their own records were largely destroyed
during the War of Righteousness.
The author of the Encyclopedia Tamrielica was apparently unfamiliar with the
Alessian "year", which their priesthood used to record all dates. We now know
this refers to the length of the long vision-trances undertaken by the High
Priestess, which might last anywhere from a few weeks to several months.
Based on analysis of the surviving trance scrolls, as well as murals and
friezes from Alessian temples, I estimate that the Alessian Order actually
lasted only about 150 years, rather than the famous "one thousand and eight
years" given by the Encyclopedia Tamrielica. The "mystery" of the millennial-
plus rule of the Alessians was accepted but unexplained until the spread of
the Lorkhan cults in the late 3rd era, when the doctrine of the Dragon Break
took hold. Because this dating (and explanation) was so widely held at the
time, and then repeated by historians down through today, it has come to have
the force of tradition. Recall, however, that the 3rd era historians were
already separated from the Alessians by a gulf of more than 2,000 years. And
history was still in its infancy, relying on the few archives from those
early days.
Today, modern archaeology and paleonumerology have confirmed what my own
research in Alessian dating first suggested: that the Dragon Break was
invented in the late 3rd era, based on a scholarly error, fueled by obsession
with eschatology and Numidiumism, and perpetuated by scholarly inertia.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Eastern Provinces...
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_easternprovincesimpartial
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
The Eastern Provinces Impartially Considered
..and even if we overlook the dubious moral and legal justifications for
hundreds of years of occupation of these two provinces, what economic or
military benefits can we derive from Morrowind and Black Marsh?
Indeed, a few beneficiaries of Imperial monopolies in the provinces do profit
from exploitation of their wealth and resources. But does the Empire as a
whole benefit? Hardly. The vast machineries of the Imperial bureaucracies
cost far more to maintain than can be recovered in duties and taxes. And the
cost of establishing and maintaining the garrisons of the Imperial legion in
the far-flung wilderness posts of these provinces would be cost-effective
only if there were evidence of a military threat from the East. But no such
evidence exits. No army of Morrowind or Black Marsh has ever threatened the
security of any other Imperial province, let alone the security of Cyrodiil
itself.
In fact, a greater threat to Imperial security lies in the idle legions that
the taxpayer spends thousands of drakes to support. The generals of these
legions, facing no enemies or opposition within the borders of their
provinces, may look with ambition to the West. With their loyal veteran
troops and coffers fattened by friendly monopolists, they become
unpredictable political factors in the uncertainties surrounding the Imperial
succession.
If the occupation of Morrowind and Black Marsh were motivated by idealistic
aspirations, perhaps there might lie some justification for bearing the
burden of Empire. But consider the shame of the Empire's mute acceptance to
the unspeakable practice of slavery in Morrowind. Instead of using our
Imperial legions to free the wretched Khajiit and Argonian slaves from their
Dark Elf masters, we pay our troopers to PROTECT the indefensible institution
of slavery. Within the ebony mines of Morrowind, bloated monopolists under
Imperial charters exploit slave labor to harvest the outrageous profits
assured by rampant graft and corruption.
Consider the colossal arrogance of our proposition to bring Peace and
Enlightenment to the East, when in fact, we have only brought our armies into
lands who have never threatened us, and when we have only exploited the most
shameful and evil practices we have found in Morrowind and Black Marsh simply
to enrich the friends and flatterers of the Imperial family.
Impartially considered, our occupation of the Eastern provinces is morally
corrupt, militarily indefensible, and economically ruinous. The only
conclusion is that we should disband the Eastern legions, withdraw the
Imperial bureaucracies and monopolists from the East, and give these ancient
lands and peoples their freedom. Only by doing so may we hope to preserve the
fragile ideals and fortunes of Western culture.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Egg of Time
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_EggOfTime
Weight: 4
Value: 1000
Special Notes: Adds "The Egg of Time" Conversation topic
[Undecipherable Runes]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Final Lesson
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_enchant5
Weight: 3
Value: 350
Special Notes: Raises Enchant skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Final Lesson
By Aegrothius Goth
"It is time for you to leave your apprenticeship here," said the Great Sage
to his students, Taksim and Vonguldak.
"So soon?" cried Vonguldak, for it had been but a few years since the
training began. "Are we such poor pupils?"
"We have learned much for you, master, but you have no more to teach us?"
Taksim asked. "You have told us so many tales of great enchanters of the
past. Can't we continue to learn until we have reached some level of their
power?"
"I have one last story for you," smiled the Great Sage.
Many thousands of years ago, long before the Cyrodilic Dynasty of Reman and
even longer before the Septim Dynasty ruled Tamriel, and before there was a
Mages Guild, and when the land called Morrowind was known as Resdayn, and the
land of Elsweyr was called Anequina and Pellitine, and the only law of the
land was the cruel ways of the Alessian Doctrines of Marukh, there lived a
hermetic enchanter named Dalak who had two apprentices, Uthrac and Loreth.
Uthrac and Loreth were remarkable students, both equally assiduous in their
learning, the pride of their Master. Both excelled at the arts of the
cauldron, mirror castings, the infusion of spiritas into mundus, and the
weaving of air and fire. Dalak was very fond of his boys, and they of him.
On a springtide morn, Dalak received a message from another enchanter named
Peothil, who lived deep in the forests of the Colovian heartland. You must
remember that in the dark days of the First Era, mages were solitary
practitioners with the only organized consortium being the Psijics of
Artaeum. Away from that island, mages seldom saw one another and even more
rarely corresponded. Thus, when Dalak received Peothil's letter, he gave it
his great attention.
Peothil was greatly aged, and he had found the peace of his isolation
threatened by the Alessian Reform. He feared for his life, knowing that the
fanatical priests and their warriors were close at hand. Dalak brought his
students to him.
"It will be an arduous and perilous journey to the Colovian Estates, one that
I would fear partaking even in my youth," Dalak said. "My heart trembles to
send you two forth to Peothil's cave, but I know that he is a great and
benevolent enchanter, and his light must continue to burn in the heart of the
continent if we are to survive these dark nights."
Uthrac and Loreth pled with their teacher not to order them to go to Peothil.
It was not the priests and warriors of the Alessian Reform they feared, but
they knew their Master was aged and infirm, and could not protect himself if
the Reform moved further westward. Finally, he relented and allowed that one
would stay with him, and the other would journey forth to the Colovian
Estates. He would let them decide which of them would go.
The lads debated and discussed, fought and compromised, and at last elected
to let fate make the choice. They threw lots, and Loreth came up short. He
left early the next morning, miserable and filled with fear.
For a month and a day, he tramped through the forests into the midst of the
Colovian Estates. Through some planning, some skill, and much assistance for
sympathetic peasants, he managed to avoid the ever-tightening circle of the
Alessian Reform by crossing through unclaimed mountain passes and hidden
bogs. When at last he found the dark caverns where Dalak had told him to
search for Peothil, it was still many hours before he could find the
enchanter's lair.
No one appeared to be there. Loreth searched through the laboratory of
ancient tomes, cauldrons and crystalline flutes, herbs kept alive by the glow
of mystic circles, strange liquids and gasses caught in transparent
membranes. At last, he found Peothil, or so he presumed. The desiccated
shell on the floor of the study, clutching tools of enchantment, scarcely
seemed human.
Loreth decided that he could do nothing further for the mage, and began at
once the journey back to his true master Dalak and his friend Uthrac. The
armies of the Reform had moved quickly since he passed. After more than one
close near encounter, the young enchanter realized that he was trapped on all
sides. The only retreat that was possible was back in the caves of Peothil.
The first thing to be done, Loreth saw, was to find a means to keep the army
from finding the laboratory. That, he found, was what Peothil himself had
been trying to do, but by a simple error even an apprentice enchanter could
recognize, he had only succeeded in destroying himself. Loreth was able to
take what he had learned from Dalak and apply it to Peothil's enchantments,
quite successfully. The laboratory was never found or even detected by the
Reform.
Much time passed. In the 480th year of the First Era, the great Aiden
Direnni won many battles against the Alessian horde, and many passages and
routes that had once been closed were now open. Loreth, now no longer young,
was able to return to Dalak.
When at last he found his way to his Master's old hovel, he saw candles of
mourning lit in all the trees surrounding. Even before he knocked on the
door and met his old fellow student Uthrac, Loreth knew that Dalak had died.
"It was only a few months ago," said Uthrac, after embracing his friend. "He
talked of you every day of every year you were away. Somehow he knew that
you had not preceded him to the world beyond. He told me that you would come
back."
The gray-haired men sat before the fire and reminisced of the old days. The
sad truth was that they both discovered how different they had become.
Uthrac spoke of carrying on the Master's work, while Loreth described his new
discoveries. They left one another that day, each shaking his head, destined
to never see one another again.
In the years ahead, before they left the mortal world to join their great
teacher Dalak, they both achieved their desires. Uthrac went on to become
respected if minor enchanter in the service of Clan Direnni. Loreth took the
skills he had learned on his own, and used them to fashion the Balac-thurm,
the Staff of Chaos.
My boys, the lesson is you have to learn from a teacher to avoid those small
but essential errors that claimed the life of such self-taught enchanters as
Peothil. And yet, the only way to become truly great is to try all the
possibilities on your own.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Firmament
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_firmament
Weight: 3
Value: 40
Special Notes: None
The Firmament
by Ffoulke
The Stars of Tamriel are divided into thirteen constellations. Three of them
are the major constellations, known as the Guardians. These are the Warrior,
the Mage, and the Thief. Each of the Guardians protects its three Charges
from the thirteenth constellation, the Serpent.
When the sun rises near one of the constellations, it is that constellation's
season. Each constellation has a Season of approximately one month. The
Serpent has no season, for it moves about in the heavens, usually threatening
one of the other constellations.
The Warrior
The Warrior is the first Guardian Constellation and he protects his charges
during their Seasons. The Warrior's own season is Last Seed when his Strength
is needed for the harvest. His Charges are the Lady, the Steed, and the Lord.
Those born under the sign of the Warrior are skilled with weapons of all
kinds, but prone to short tempers.
The Mage
The Mage is a Guardian Constellation whose Season is Rain's Hand when magicka
was first used by men. His Charges are the Apprentice, the Golem, and the
Ritual. Those born under the Mage have more magicka and talent for all kinds
of spellcasting, but are often arrogant and absent-minded.
The Thief
The Thief is the last Guardian Constellation, and her Season is the darkest
month of Evening Star. Her Charges are the Lover, the Shadow, and the Tower.
Those born under the sign of the Thief are not typically thieves, though they
take risks more often and only rarely come to harm. They will run out of luck
eventually, however, and rarely live as long as those born under other signs.
The Serpent
The Serpent wanders about in the sky and has no Season, though its motions
are predictable to a degree. No characteristics are common to all who are
born under the sign of the Serpent. Those born under this sign are the most
blessed and the most cursed.
The Lady
The Lady is one of the Warrior's Charges and her Season is Heartfire. Those
born under the sign of the Lady are kind and tolerant.
The Steed
The Steed is one of the Warrior's Charges, and her Season is Mid Year. Those
born under the sign of the Steed are impatient and always hurrying from one
place to another.
The Lord
The Lord's Season is First Seed and he oversees all of Tamriel during the
planting. Those born under the sign of the Lord are stronger and healthier
than those born under other signs.
The Apprentice
The Apprentice's Season is Sun's Height. Those born under the sign of the
apprentice have a special affinity for magick of all kinds, but are more
vulnerable to magick as well.
The Atronach
The Atronach (often called the Golem) is one of the Mage's Charges. Its
season is Sun's Dusk. Those born under this sign are natural sorcerers with
deep reserves of magicka, but they cannot generate magicka of their own.
The Ritual
The Ritual is one of the Mage's Charges and its Season is Morning Star. Those
born under this sign have a variety of abilities depending on the aspects of
the moons and the Divines.
The Lover
The Lover is one of the Thief's Charges and her season is Sun's Dawn. Those
born under the sign of the Lover are graceful and passionate.
The Shadow
The Shadow's Season is Second Seed. The Shadow grants those born under her
sign the ability to hide in shadows.
The Tower
The Tower is one of the Thief's Charges and its Season is Frostfall. Those
born under the sign of the Tower have a knack for finding gold and can open
locks of all kinds.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Firsthold Revolt
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_mysticism1
Weight: 4
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Mysticism skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Firsthold Revolt
by Maveus Cie
"You told me that if her brother won, she would be sister to the King of
Wayrest, and Reman would want to keep her for the alliance. But her brother
Helseth lost and has fled with his mother back to Morrowind, and still Reman
has not left her to marry me." Lady Gialene took a long, slow drag of the
hookah and blew out dragon's breath, so the scent of blossoms perfumed her
gilded chamber. "You make a very poor advisor, Kael. I might have spent my
time romancing the king of Cloudrest or Alinor instead of the wretched royal
husband of Queen Morgiah."
Kael knew better than to hurt his lady's vanity by the mere suggestion that
the King of Firsthold might have come to love his Dunmer Queen. Instead he
gave her a few minutes to pause and look from her balcony out over the high
cliff palaces of the ancient capitol. The moons shone like crystal on the
deep sapphire waters of the Abecean Sea. It was ever springtide here, and he
could well understand why she would prefer a throne in this land than in
Cloudrest or Alinor.
Finally, he spoke: "The people are with you, my lady. They do not relish the
idea of Reman's Dark Elf heirs ruling the kingdom when he is gone."
"I wonder," she said calmly. "I wonder if as the King would not give up his
Queen for want of alliances, whether she would give herself up out of fear.
Of all the people of Firsthold, who most dislikes the Dunmer influence on the
court?"
"Is this a trick question, my lady?" asked Kael. "The Trebbite Monks, of
course. Their credo has ever been for pure Altmer bloodlines on Summurset,
and among the royal families most of all. But, my lady, they make very weak
allies."
"I know," said Gialene, taking up her hookah again thoughtfully, a smile
creeping across her face. "Morgiah has seen to it that they have no power.
She would have exterminated them altogether had Reman not stopped her for all
the good they do for the country folk. What if they found themselves with a
very powerful benefactress? One with intimate knowledge of the court of
Firsthold, the chief concubine of the King, and all the gold to buy weapons
with that her father, the King of Skywatch, could supply?"
"Well-armed and with the support of the country people, they would be
formidable," nodded Kael. "But as your advisor, I must warn you: if you make
yourself an active foe of Queen Morgiah, you must play to win. She has
inherited much of her mother Queen Barenziah's intelligence and spirit of
vengeance."
"She will not know I am her foe until it is too late," shrugged Gialene. "Go
to the Trebbite monastery and bring me Friar Lylim. We must strategize our
plan of attack."
For two weeks, Reman was advised about growing resentment in the countryside
from peasants who called Morgiah the "Black Queen," but it was nothing that
he had not heard before. His attention was on the pirates on a small island
off the coast called Calluis Lar. They had been more brazen as late,
attacking royal barges in organized raids. To deliver a crushing blow, he
ordered the greatest part of his militia to invade the island -- an incursion
he himself would lead.
A few days after Reman left the capitol, the revolt of the Trebbite Monks
exploded. The attacks were well-coordinated and without warning. The Chief
of the Guards did not wait to be announced, bursting into Morgiah's
bedchamber ahead of a flurry of maidservants.
"My Queen," he said. "It is a revolution."
By contrast, Gialene was not asleep when Kael came to deliver the news. She
was seated by the window, smoking her hookah and looking at the fires far off
in the hills.
"Morgiah is with council," he explained. "I am certain they are telling her
that the Trebbite Monks are behind the uprising, and that the revolution will
be at the city gates by morning."
"How large is the revolutionary army in contrast to the remaining royal
militia?" asked Gialene.
"The odds are well in our favor," said Kael. "Though not perhaps as much as
we hoped. The country folk, it seems, like to complain about their queen,
but stop short of insurrection. Primarily, the army is composed of the Monks
themselves and a horde of mercenaries your father's gold bought. In a way of
thinking, it is preferable this way -- they are more professional and
organized that a common mob. Really, they are a true army, complete with a
horn section."
"If that doesn't frighten the Black Queen into abdication, nothing will,"
smiled Gialene, rising from her chair. "The poor dear must be beside herself
with worry. I must fly to her side and enjoy it."
Gialene was disappointed when she saw Morgiah come out of the Council
Chambers. Considering that she had been woken from a deep sleep with cries
of revolution and had spent the last several hours in consultation with her
meager general force, she looked beautiful. There was a sparkle of proud
defiance in her bright red eyes.
"My Queen," Gialene cried, forcing real tears. "I came as soon as I heard!
Will we all be slaughtered?"
"A distinct possibility," replied Morgiah simply. Gialene tried to read her,
but the expressions of women, especially alien women, were a far greater
challenge than those of Altmer men.
"I hate myself for even thinking to propose this," said Gialene. "But since
the cause of their fury is you, perhaps if you were to give up the throne,
they might disperse. Please understand, my queen, I am thinking only of the
good of the kingdom and our own lives."
"I understand the spirit of your suggestion," smiled Morgiah. "And I will
take it under advisement. Believe me, I've thought of it myself. But I
don't think it will come to that."
"Have you a plan for defending us?" asked Gialene, contorting her features to
an expression she knew bespoke girlish hope.
"The king left us several dozen of his royal battlemages," said Morgiah. "I
think the mob believes we have nothing but palace guards and a few soldiers
to protect us. When they get to the gates are greeted with a wave of
fireballs, I find it highly likely that they will lose heart and retreat."
"But isn't there some protection they could be using against such an
assault?" asked Gialene in her best worried voice.
"If they knew about it, naturally there is. But an unruly mob is unlikely to
have mages skilled in the arts of Restoration, by which they could shield
themselves from the spells, or Mysticism, by which they could reflect the
spells back on my battlemages. That would be the worst scenario, but even if
they were well-organized enough to have Mystics in their ranks -- and enough
of them to reflect so many spells -- it just isn't done. No battlefield
commander would advise such a defense during a siege unless he knew precisely
was he was going to be meeting. And then, of course, once the trap is
sprung" Morgiah winked. "It's too late for a countering spell."
"A most cunning solution, your highness," said Gialene, honestly impressed.
Morgiah excused herself to meet with her battlemages, and Gialene gave her an
embrace. Kael was waiting in the palace garden for his lady.
"Are there Mystics among the mercenaries?" she asked quickly.
"Several, in fact," replied Kael, bewildered by her query. "Largely rejects
from the Psijic Order, but they know enough to cast the regular spells of the
school."
"You must sneak out the city gates and tell Friar Lylim to have them cast
reflection spells on all the front line before they attack," said Gialene.
"That's most irregular battlefield strategy," frowned Kael.
"I know it is, fool, that's what Morgiah is counting on. There's a gang of
battlemages who are going to be waiting on the battlements to greet our army
with a barrage of fire balls."
"Battlemages? I would have thought that King Reman would have brought them
with him to fight the pirates."
"You would have thought that," laughed Gialene. "But then we would be
defeated. Now go!"
Friar Lylim agreed with Kael that it was a bizarre, unheard-of way to begin a
battle, casting reflection spells on all one's troops. It went against every
tradition, and as a Trebbite Monk, he valued tradition above every other
virtue. There was little other choice, though, given the intelligence. He
had few enough healers in the army as it were, and their energies could not
be wasted casting resistance spells.
At dawn's light, the rebel army was in sight of the gleaming spires of
Firsthold. Friar Lylim gathered together every soldier who knew even the
rudimentary secrets of Mysticism, who knew how to tap in to the elementary
conundrums and knots of the energies of magicka. Though few were masters of
the art, their combined force was powerful to behold. A great surge of
entangling power washed over the army, crackling, hissing, and infusing all
with their ghostly force. When they arrived at the gates, every soldier,
even the least imaginative, knew that no spell would touch him for a long
time.
Friar Lylim watched his army batter into the gate with the great satisfaction
of a commander who has counteracted an unthinkable attack with an outrageous
defense. The smile quickly faded from his face.
They were met at the battlements not by mages but by common archers of the
palace guard. As the flaming arrows fell upon the siegers like a red rain,
the healers ran in to help the wounded. Their healing spells reflected off
the dying men, one after the other. Chaos ruled as the attackers suddenly
found themselves defenseless and began a panicked, unorganized retreat.
Friar Lylim himself considered briefly holding his ground before fleeing
himself.
Later, he would send furious notes to Lady Gialene and Kael, but they were
returned. Even his best secret agents within the palace were unable to find
their whereabouts.
Neither had, as it turns out, much previous experience with torture, and they
soon confessed their treachery to the King's satisfaction. Kael was
executed, and Gialene was sent back with escort to her father's court of
Skywatch. He has still to find a husband for her. Reman, by contrast, has
elected not to take a new royal concubine. The common folk of Firsthold
consider this break in palace protocol to be more of the sinister alien
influence of the Black Queen, and grumble to all who will listen.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Five Far Stars
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_five_far_stars
Weight: 3
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
The Five Far Stars
[This is a volume of verse collected from wise women of the Urshilaku
Ashlanders. It consists of verses composed by Ashlander warriors, champions,
and ashkhans, committed to memory by the wise women and transmitted down the
generations. 'May I shrink to dust' is attributed to the long-dead poet and
warrior Zershishi Mus-Manul.]
Rise from darkness, Red Mountain!
Spread your dark clouds and green vapors!
Birth earthquakes, shatter stones!
Feed the winds with fire!
Flay the tents of the tribes from the land!
Feed the burned earth with our souls!
Yet never shall you have your rule over me.
Never shall I tremble or flinch from your power.
Never shall I yield my home and hearth.
And from my tears shall spring forth
The flowers of grassland springs.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Four Suitors of Benitah
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_restoration3
Weight: 3
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Restoration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Four Suitors of Benitah
by Jole Yolivess
Up until he was ten years old, Oin Parnafacasis was in an elite group of the
very best families of Gnisis. They went to the very best tailors, shared the
same tutors, played in the same exclusive company. When his mother died, and
his father discovered that the money they had been living on was based on a
thief's salary, he suddenly found himself on a very different kind of
society, one that he had been ill-equipped to deal with. They were poor.
Oin eventually learned to make a living at the only skill he seemed to be
well-suited for: gardening. In time, he had grown an impressive garden of
willow anther, gold kanet, chokeweed, white bloatroot, and trama shrubs. He
had also grown himself into a remarkably uninteresting man -- aside from his
gardening, he had little to say for himself. Unlearned, uncharismatic,
unathletic, uncoordinated. And yet he yearned. Specifically, he yearned for
a girl he had known before all his trouble, a sweet thing with curly locks
and a joyous laugh named Benitah Gorgoth. Once when at play he had pushed a
bully away who was trying to hurt her, and the look of appreciation she gave
him was enough to make all his days since then worth their while.
As he tended his garden one springtide, not very many years ago, he heard
some people talking through the thick tall trama shrubs about the marriage of
Sedura Indoril Pavflek Mamoona, one of the wealthiest and most respected
nobles in Gnisis, and Serjo Benitah Gorgoth. His heart fell. She had found
another, a mere nine years since she had given him that look while at play.
As spring turned into summer and summer into fall, Oin began to sell his
herbs, including some to Kena Yakin Bael, a prominent healer in town. He had
been a tutor to both Benitah and Oin, and told the young man that the lady's
husband was not very well. Oin held back his happiness and continued on his
errands.
Not long afterwards, Sedura Indoril Pavflek Mamoona fell ill and died,
despite all the skills of the great healers, including Yakin Bael. When Oin
came to deliver the herbs that day, he said, "If you are still in
communication with Benitah, please give her my sympathies."
"'Nchow," said Yakin. "If I could get a word in with all her counselors.
They are trying to find her a new husband, and she has made it clear that she
will only marry the strongest man in Morrowind."
"Who is that?" asked Oin.
"Horath the Strong," replied Yakin. "It is said that he can lift a wagon with
but his forefinger and thumb."
"You can teach me a spell that will fortify my own strength," said Oin. "I
beg you to teach it to me now."
"Very well," replied Yakin. "But in return, I want your next season's worth
of trama root, all to myself."
Oin agreed, and Yakin taught him the spell to fortify his strength. It took
him some time to master it, visualizing magicka streaming through his body,
pumping through the very fibers of his muscles for a time, giving him
strength far beyond the puny power nature had intended. When Oin met Horath
on the street of Gnisis, he cast the spell and challenged him to a duel of
strength.
"I am Horath the Strong," said Horath the Strong, predictably, "Witness as I
lift this wagon with but my thumb and forefinger." And he did so.
"I am Nimlom the Mighty," said Oin, taking some artistic liberty. "Witness as
I lift the stable that houses your wagon with but my forefinger." And he too
did so.
The word went out quickly throughout Morrowind: the strongest man alive was
in the province. Oin went to visit his friend, Yakin Bael.
"Her lady Benitah has heard of the strength of Nimlom the Mighty, and has
said that she was mistaken. She was not looking for a man of strength to
marry, but a man of intelligence, a great scholar. The greatest in all
Morrowind."
"Who is that?" asked Oin.
"Kena Warfel Tomasin," replied Yakin. "It is said that he can best any man or
woman in a battle of wits."
"You can teach me a spell that will fortify my own intelligence," said Oin.
"I beg you to teach it to me now."
"Very well," replied Yakin. "But in return, I want your next season's worth
of white bloatroot, all to myself."
Oin agreed and for the next couple of weeks, Yakin taught him the spell and
trained him in its use. He taught him how to entrench his mind for the
sudden assault of awareness and aptitude that would assail it, how to give
himself to the sudden thoughts and theorems that would invade his
consciousness. When he met Warfel Tomasin in the Mages Guild of Gnisis, he
cast his spell and gave the challenge.
"I am Kena Warfel Tomasin, and I can prove that Akatosh, Nirn, and Oblivion
are one," said Warfel, writing out the mathematical formula that showed it
was so.
"I am Kena Zombel Mokafa, and I can prove that you do not exist," said Oin.
He wrote out the mathematical formula, which proved correct, and Kena Warfel
Tomasin vaporized on the spot.
The word went out quickly throughout Morrowind: the most intelligent man
alive was in the province. Oin went to visit his friend, Yakin Bael.
"Her lady Benitah has heard of the intelligence of Kena Zombel Mokafa, and
has said that she was mistaken. She was not looking for a man of
intelligence to marry, but a man of endurance, a rock. The greatest in all
Morrowind."
"Who is that?" asked Oin.
"I would say, Master Combova," said Yakin. "They say he can stand in blue
flames for twenty minutes."
"You can teach me a spell that will fortify my own endurance," said Oin. "I
beg you to teach it to me now."
"Very well," replied Yakin. "But in return, I want your next season's worth
of chokeweed, all to myself."
Oin agreed, and for the next several weeks, he learned the spell to make his
endurance like that of the oldest stone. He learned how to shrug off the
effects of frost, poison, fire, and charges of lightning, pulling the pain
into a reservoir of magicka and expelling it. The lesson learned, he came
across Master Combova at the Madach Tradehouse.
"My name is Master Combova," said the fellow, nudging the witch next to him.
"Kena Leles, cast a ball of blue flame for me." And he sat in the inferno of
flame for twenty minutes before he left.
"Master Combova, my name is Master Vomph," said Oin. "Kena Leles, cast a
ball of blue flames for me." Oin sat in the inferno of blue fire for very
nearly an hour before he left.
The word went out quickly throughout Morrowind: the toughest man alive was in
the province. Oin went to visit his friend, Yakin Bael.
"Her lady Benitah has heard of the endurance of Master Vomph," he said, not
entirely approving of Oin's latest sobriquet, "And has said that she was
mistaken. She was not looking for a man of endurance to marry, but a man of
agility, a nimble acrobat. The greatest in all Morrowind."
"Who is that?" asked Oin.
"I would say, Funcrazot Priif," said Yakin. "They say he is the greatest
shield-blocker and pickpocket in Morrowind."
"You can teach me a spell that will fortify my own agility," said Oin. "I
beg you to teach it to me now."
"Very well," replied Yakin. "But in return, I want your next season's worth
of gold kanet, all to myself."
Oin agreed, and Yakin taught him the spell that would fire his impulses with
magicka. Over several weeks, he learned how to supplant his own natural
energy with the spell's, how to view the world at the slower pace a man with
advanced agility sees. In time, Oin came upon Funcrazot in a field outside
the city, doing his regular exercises. Oin cast his spell and approached the
acrobat.
"Ah, behold the power of the amazing Funcrazot Priif," said the afore-
mentioned, and prompted his sparring partner to attack him with his sword.
He blocked the blows effortlessly with a shield for ten minutes, and then
revealed afterwards that he had picketpocketed the young man's purse.
"Very impressive, Ser Priif. Now, behold the power of the remarkable Gazouf
Mough," said Oin, and prompted Priif's sparring partner to attack him with
his sword. After twenty minutes of blocking the man's blows with his shield,
he revealed that he had pickpocketed Funcrazot Priif's purse.
The word went out quickly throughout Morrowind: the most agile man alive was
in the province. Oin went to visit his friend, Yakin Bael. The door was
closed this time and he heard voices within.
"Have you heard about the remarkable Gazouf Mough?" Yakin Bael was asking.
"He sounds like a very promising suitor."
"The truth is, kena, that I have no more interest in him that I had in Nimlom
the Mighty, Kena Zombel Mokafa, or Master Vomph," replied a feminine voice
that seemed familiar to Oin. "I will have to invent a new test for suitors,
while I search for my true love."
"You don't wish to marry the strongest, most intelligent, toughest, most
agile suitors?" asked the old Healer.
"No, not at all," said the woman. "I had to make some kind of test to rebuff
the advances of so many men interested in my money and the money of my late
husband. The truth is that I've never forgotten the young boy who was so
kind to me when I was a little girl, and so brave fighting off the bullies.
His name was Oin Parnafacasis."
Oin burst into the room and was reunited with Benitah. They were married at
once. A week later, he returned to Yakin Bael and learned how to fortify his
personality in exchange for next season's worth of willow anther. Then they
lived happily ever after.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Gold Ribbon of Merit
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_marksman1
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Marksman skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Gold Ribbon of Merit
by Ampyrian Brum
In that early springtime morning, pale sunlight flickered behind the morning
mist floating through the trees as Templer and Stryngpool made their way to
the clearing. Neither had been back in High Rock, let alone in their
favorite woods for four years. The trees had changed little even if they
had. Stryngpool had a handsome blond moustache now, stiffened and spiked
with wax, and Templer seemed to be a completely alien creature to the young
lad who searched for adventure in the ancient grove. He was much quieter, as
if scarred within as well as without.
They each carried their bows and quivers with extra care as they maneuvered
their way through the clusters of vine and branch.
"This is the path that used to lead to your house, isn't it, old boy?" asked
Stryngpool.
Templer glanced at the overgrowth and nodded, before continuing on.
"I thought so," said Stryngpool and laughed: "I remember it because you used
to run down it every time you got a bloody nose. I know I can't offend you,
but I have to say, it's hard to believe that you ended up a soldier."
"How's your family?" asked Templer.
"The same. A bit more pompous, if that's possible. It's obvious they wish
I'd come back from the academy, but there's nothing much for me here. At
least not until I collect my inheritance. Did I you see I got a gold ribbon
of merit in archery?"
"How could I miss it?" said Templer.
"Oh yes, I nearly forgot that the family's put it in the Great Hall. Very
ostentatiously. I suppose you can actually see it through the picture
window. Silly, but I hope the peasants are impressed."
The clearing opened up before them, where the mist settled on the grass,
enveloping it in an opaque, chilly vapor. Burlap targets were arranged
around in a semi-circle, several meters apart, like sentinels.
"You've been practicing," observed Templer.
"Well, a bit. I've only been back in town for a few days." said Stryngpool
with a smile. "My parents said you got here a week ago?"
"That's right. My unit's camped a few miles east, and I thought I'd visit
the old haunts. A lot's changed, I could hardly recognize anything at all."
Templer looked down at the valley below, to the vast empty tilled ground,
stretching out for miles around. "It looks like a good planting."
"My family's rather spread out since yours left. There was some discussion I
think about keeping your old house up, but it seemed a little sentimental.
Especially as there was fertile ground beneath."
Stryngpool strung his bow carefully. It was a beautiful piece of art,
darkest ebony and spun silver filigrees, hand-crafted for him in Wayrest. He
looked over at Templer stringing his bow, and felt a twinge of pity. It was
a sad, weathered utensil, bound together with strips of fabric.
"If that's how they taught you to string your bow, you need some advisors
from the academy in that army of yours," said Stryngpool as gently as he
could. "The untightened loop is supposed to look like an X in an O. Yours
looks like a Z in a Y."
"It works for me," said Templer. "I should tell you, I won't be able to make
an afternoon of this. I'm supposed to join my unit this evening."
Stryngpool began to feel annoyed by his old friend. If he was angry about
his family losing their land, why couldn't he just say it? Why did he come
back to the valley at all? He watched Templer nock his first arrow, taking
aim at a target, and coughed.
"I'm sorry, but I can't in good faith send you back to the army without a
little new wisdom. There are three types of draw, three-fingers, thumb and
index, thumb and two fingers. Then there's the thumb draw which I like, but
you see," Stryngpool showed Templer the small leather loop fastened on the
cord of his bow, "You need to have one of these thingies or you'll tear your
thumb right off."
"I think I like my stupid method best."
"Don't be pigheaded, Templer. They didn't give me the gold ribbon of merit
for nothing. I had demonstrated shooting from under a shield, standing,
sitting, squatting, kneeling, and sitting on horseback. This is practical
information I'm imparting for the sake of our friendship which I, at least,
haven't completely forgotten. Sweet Kynareth, I remember when you were just
an oily little squirt, begging for this kind of honest guidance."
Templer looked at Stryngpool for a moment, and lowered his bow. "Show me."
Stryngpool relaxed, shook away the tensions that had been building. He did
his exercise, drawing the bow back to his eyebrow, his moustache, his chest,
his earlobe.
"There are three ways of shooting: snatching and releasing in one continuous
motion, like the Bosmer do; holding with a short draw and a pause before
releasing like the Khajiit; and partial draw, pause, final draw," Stryngpool
fired the arrow into the center of the target with cool precision, "And
release. Which I prefer."
"Very nice," said Templer.
"Now you," said Stryngpool. He helped Templer select a grip, nock his arrow
correctly, and take aim. A smile grew on Templer's face -- the first time
Stryngpool had seen such a childlike expression on the war-etched visage all
afternoon. When Templer released the arrow, it rocketed high over the top of
the target and into the valley below where it disappeared from sight.
"Not bad," said Templer.
"No, not bad," said Stryngpool, feeling friendly once again. "If you
practice, you should be able to focus your aim a little bit."
The two shot a few more practice bolts before parting ways. Templer began
the long trek east to his unit's camp, and Stryngpool wound his way down
through the woods to the valley and his family's mansion. He hummed a little
tune he learned at the academy as he passed the great lawn and walked up to
the front door, pleased with himself for helping his old friend. It entirely
escaped his attention that the large picture window was broken.
But he noticed right away when he came into the Great Hall, and saw Templer's
wild-shot bolt sticking in his gold ribbon of merit.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Hope of the Redoran
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_blunt weapon1
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Blunt Waepon skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Hope of the Redoran
by Turiul Nirith
One of the few magical arts the Psijics of Artaeum have kept to themselves,
away from the common spells and schools of the Mages Guild, is the gift of
divination. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, omens and prophesies
abound in Tamriel, some of substance, others of pure folly, and still others
so ambiguous as to be unverifiable. There are still other prophesies kept
secret, from the prophesies of Dro'Jizad in Elsweyr and the Nerevarine in
Morrowind, to the Elder Scrolls themselves.
The Nord nobility have a tradition of having omens read for their children.
In general, these readings are of the obscure variety. One of my
acquaintances told me that her parents were told, for example, that their
daughter would have her life rescued by a snake, and so gave her the name
Serpentkin in a special ceremony. And this young lady, Eria Valkor
Serpentkin, was indeed saved by a snake many years later, when an assassin
creeping on her stepped on a danswyrm viper.
Occasionally, omens seem to be almost purposefully misleading, as if Boethiah
had crafted them as traps. I recall one particularly. Many, many years ago,
a male child was born into House Redoran. It was a very difficult birth, and
the mother was delirious and near death by the time it was over. She chanted
just as her son came into the world and she passed from it.
Fortune has smiled this day not frowned
My child will be mighty in mind and in arm
He shall bring hope to House Redoran
Neither spell nor blade shall hurt the man
Nor illness nor poison cause any harm
His blood shall never drop on the ground
The boy, named Andas, was indeed extraordinary. He never was ill and never
suffered so much as a scratch all through his childhood. He was also quite
intelligent and strong, which, combined with his invulnerability, caused many
to call him, after his mother's omen, the Hope of the Redoran. Of course,
any one who is called the Hope of the Redoran will eventually develop some
taint of impertinence, and it wasn't long before he had enemies.
His worst enemy was his cousin Athyn, who had borne much abuse at the hands
of Andas. Primary among the grudges was that Athyn had been sent to Rihad to
complete his education at Andas's insistence. When Athyn returned from
Hammerfell, it was because of the death of his father, who had also been a
councilor of the House. Athyn was old enough to take his seat in the
Council, but Andas claimed the seat as well, saying that his cousin had been
gone too long from Morrowind and didn't understand politics as he did. The
majority of the House agreed with Andas, wanting to see the Hope of Redoran
rise quickly.
Athyn exercised his right to combat his cousin for the seat. No one thought
he had any chance of winning, of course, but the battle was scheduled to
commence the following morn. Andas whored and dined and drank with the
councilors that night, confident that his place in the House was secured and
the hopeful new dawn of House Redoran was rising. Athyn retired to his
castle with his friends, Andas's enemies, and his servants he had brought
from Hammerfell.
Athyn and his friends were discussing the duel morosely when one of his old
teachers, a warrior called Shardie, came into the hall. She had grown quite
proud of her student over the years in Hammerfell, proud enough to accompany
him across the Empire to his family's lands, and wanted to know why they had
so little confidence in his odds in the battle. They explained to her
Andas's uncommon blessings and the nature of his mother's omen.
"If he can't be harmed by disease, poison, magicka, and his blood can never
be spilled, what hope have I of ever besting him?" cried Athyn.
"Have you remembered nothing I taught you?" replied Shardie. "Is there no
weapon you can think of that will slay without blood? Are swords and spears
and arrows the only items in your arsenal?"
Athyn quickly realized the weapon Shardie was speaking of, but it seemed
absurd. Not only absurd, but pathetic and primitive. Still, it was the only
hope he had. All that night, Shardie trained him in the art and techniques,
showing him the various swings and stances her people had developed in
Albion-Gora; counter-attacks, feints, and blocks imported from Yokuda; the
classic one and two-handed grips for the most ancient weapon in history.
The cousins faced one another the next morning, and never have two combatants
looked so unevenly matched. Andas's entrance brought a great cheer, for not
only was he much beloved as the Hope of the Redoran, but as his victory was a
foregone conclusion, most wanted to be in good standing with him. His
shining mail and blade drew admiration and awe. By contrast, Athyn drew a
gasp of surprise and only a smattering of polite applause. He appeared
costumed and armed like a barbarian.
As Shardie had suggested, Athyn allowed Andas to attack first. The Hope of
the Redoran was eager to finish the battle and take the power he deserved
quickly. The blade pushed by Andas's mighty arm slashed across Athyn's
chest, but shallowly, and before it could be counterswung, Athyn knocked it
back with his own weapon. When Athyn attacked and wounded Andas, the Hope of
the Redoran was so surprised by being hurt for the first time in his life, he
dropped his sword.
The less said about the end of the battle, the better. Suffice it to say
that Athyn, wielding a simple club, battered Andas to death without spilling
a drop of blood.
Athyn took his father's seat as councilor, and it was then said that the hope
in the omen referred to Athyn, not Andas. After all, had Andas not tried to
take the councilor seat away from his cousin, Athyn, being not very
ambitious, might have never tried to get it. It can certainly be argued that
way, I suppose.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Horror of Castle Xyr
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_destruction1
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Destruction skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Horror of Castle Xyr
A One Act Play
by Baloth-Kul
Dramatis Personae
Clavides, Captain of the Imperial Guard. Cyrodilic.
Anara, a Dunmer maid.
Ullis, a Lieutenant of the Imperial Guard. Argonian.
Zollassa, a young Argonian mage
Late evening. The play opens in the interior Great Entrance Hall of a castle
in Scath Anud, replete with fine furnishings and tapestries. Torches provide
the only illumination. In the center of the foyer is a great iron door, the
main entrance to the castle. The staircase up to the landing above is next
to this door. On stage left is the door to the library, which is currently
closed. On stage right is a huge suit of armor, twenty feet tall, nearly
touching the ceiling of the room. Though no one can be seen, there is the
sound of a woman singing coming from the library door.
A loud thumping knock on the iron front door stops the woman's singing. The
door to the library opens and ANARA, a common-looking maid, comes out and
hurries to open the front door. CLAVIDES, a handsome man in Imperial garb
stands there.
ANARA: Good evening to you, serjo.
CLAVIDES: Good evening. Is your master at home?
ANARA: No, serjo, it's only me here. My master Sedura Kena Telvanni Hordalf
Xyr is at his winter estate. Is there something I can do for you?
CLAVIDES: Possibly. Would you mind if I came in?
ANARA: Not at all, serjo. Please. May I offer you some flin?
Clavides comes into the Hall and looks around.
CLAVIDES: No thank you. What's your name?
ANARA: Anara, serjo.
CLAVIDES: Anara, when did your master leave Scath Anud?
ANARA: More than a fortnight ago. That's why it's only me in the castle,
serjo. All the other servants and slaves who tend to his lordship travel
with him. Is there something wrong?
CLAVIDES: Yes, there is. Do you know an ashlander by the name of Sul-
Kharifa?
ANARA: No, serjo. I don't know no one by that name.
CLAVIDES: Then you aren't likely to now. He's dead. He was found a few
hours ago dying of frostbite in the ashlands. He was hysterical, nearly
incomprehensible, but among his last words were "castle" and "Xyr."
ANARA: Dying of frostbite in summertide in the ashlands? B'vek, that's
strange. I suppose it's possible that my master knew this man, but being an
ashlander and my master being of the House of Telvanni, well, if you'll
pardon me for being flippant, serjo, I don't think they coulda been friends.
CLAVIDES: That is your master's library? Would you mind if I looked in?
ANARA: Please, serjo, go wherever you want. We got nothing to hide. We're
loyal Imperial subjects.
CLAVIDES: As, I hear, are all Telvanni.
(Note from the playwright: this line should be delivered without sarcasm.
Trust the audience to laugh -- it never fails, regardless of the politics of
the locals.)
Clavides enters the library and looks over the books.
CLAVIDES: The library needs dusting.
ANARA: Yes, serjo. I was just doing that when you knocked at the door.
CLAVIDES: I'm grateful for that. If you had finished, I wouldn't notice the
space in the dust where a rather large book has recently been removed. Your
master is a wizard, it seems.
ANARA: No, serjo. I mean, he studies a lot, but he don't cast no spells, if
that's what you mean by wizard. He's a kena, went to college and everything.
You know, now that I think about it, I know what happened to that book. One
of the other kenas from the college been round yesterday, and borrowed a
couple of books. He's a friend of the master, so I thought it'd be all fine.
CLAVIDES: This kena, was his name Warvim?
ANARA: Coulda been. I don't remember.
CLAVIDES: There is a suspected necromancer at the college named Kena Warvim
we arrested last night. We don't know what he was doing at the college, but
it was something illegal, that's for certain. Was that the kena who borrowed
the book? A little fellow, a cripple with a withered leg?
ANARA: No, serjo, it weren't the kena from yesterday. He was a big fella
who could walk, so I noticed.
CLAVIDES: I'm going to have a look around the rest of the house, if you don't
mind.
Clavides goes up the stairs, and delivers the following dialogue from the
landing and the rooms above. Anara continues straightening up the
downstairs, moving a high-backed bench in front of the armor to scrub the
floor.
ANARA: Can I ask, serjo, what you're looking for? Maybe I could help you.
CLAVIDES: Are these all the rooms in the castle? No secret passages?
ANARA (laughing): Oh, serjo, what would Sedura Kena Telvanni Hordalf Xyr
want with secret passages?
CLAVIDES (looking at the armor): Your master is a big man.
ANARA (laughing): Oh, serjo, don't tease. That's giant armor, just for
decoration. My master slew that giant ten years ago, and kind of keeps it
for a souvenir.
CLAVIDES: That's right, I remember hearing something about that when I first
took my post here. It was someone named Xyr who killed the giant, but I
didn't think the first name was Hordalf. Memory fades I'm afraid. What was
the giant's name?
ANARA: I'm afraid I don't remember, serjo.
CLAVIDES: I do. It was Torfang. "I got out of Torfang's Shield."
ANARA: I don't understand, serjo. Torfang's shield?
Clavides runs down the stairs, and examines the armor.
CLAVIDES: Sul-Kharifa said something about getting out of Torfang's shield.
I thought he was just raving, out of his mind.
ANARA: But he ain't got a shield, serjo.
Clavides pushes the high-backed bench out of the way, revealing the large
mounted shield at the base of the armor.
CLAVIDES: Yes, he does. You covered it up with that bench.
ANARA: I didn't do it on purpose, serjo! I was just cleaning! I see that
armor ever day, serjo, and b'vek I swear I ain't never noticed the shield
before!
CLAVIDES: It's fine, Anara, I believe you.
Clavides pushes on the shield and it pulls back to reveal a tunnel down.
CLAVIDES: It appears that Sedura Kena Telvanni Hordalf Xyr does have a need
for a secret passage. Could you get me a torch?
ANARA: B'vek, I ain't never seen that before!
Anara takes a torch from the wall, and hands it to Clavides. Clavides enters
the tunnel.
CLAVIDES: Wait here.
Anara watches Clavides disappear down the tunnel. She appears agitated, and
finally runs for the front door. When she opens it, ULLIS, an Argonian
lieutenant in the Imperial guard is standing at the entrance. She screams.
ULLIS: I'm sorry to frighten you.
ANARA: Not now! Go away!
ULLIS: I'm afraid the Captain wouldn't like that, miss.
ANARA: You're ... with the Captain? Blessed mother.
Clavides comes out of the tunnel, white-faced. It takes him a few moments to
speak.
ULLIS: Captain? What's down there?
CLAVIDES (to Anara): Did you know your master's a necromancer? That your
cellar is filled with bodies?
Anara faints. Ullis carries her to the bench and lays her down.
ULLIS: Let me see, serjo.
CLAVIDES: You'll see soon enough. We're going to need every soldier from
the post here to cart away all the corpses. Ullis, I've seen enough battles,
but I've never seen anything like this. No two are alike. Khajiiti, sload,
dunmer, cyrodiil, breton, nord, burned alive, poisoned, electrified, melted,
torn apart, turned inside out, ripped to shreds and sewn back up together.
ULLIS: You think the ashlander escaped, that's what happened?
CLAVIDES: I don't know. Why would someone do something like this, Ullis?
There is a knock on the door. Clavides answers it. A young Argonian woman,
ZOLLASSA, is standing, holding a package and a letter.
ZOLLASSA: Good morning, you're not Lord Xyr, are you?
CLAVIDES: No. What do you have there?
ZOLLASSA: A letter and a package I'm supposed to deliver to him. Will he be
back shortly?
CLAVIDES: I don't believe so. Who gave you the package to deliver?
ZOLLASSA: My teacher at the college, Kema Warvim. He has a bad leg, so he
asked me to bring these to his lordship. Actually, to tell you the truth, I
was supposed to deliver them last night, but I was busy.
ULLIS: Greetings, sistre. We'll give the package to his lordship when we
see him.
ZOLLASSA: Ah, hail, brothre. I had heard there was a handsome Argonian in
Scath Anud. Unfortunately, I promised Kema Warvim that I'd deliver the
package directly to his lordship's hands. I'm already late, I can't just --
CLAVIDES: We're Imperial Guard, miss. We will take the package and the
letter.
Zollassa reluctantly hands Clavides the letter and the package. She turns to
go.
ULLIS: You're at the college, if we need to see you?
ZOLLASSA: Yes. Fare tidings, brothre.
ULLIS: Goodnight, sistre.
Clavides opens the package as Zollassa exits. It is a book with many loose
sheets.
CLAVIDES: It appears we've found the missing book. Delivered to our very
hands.
Clavides begins to read the book, silently to himself.
ULLIS (to himself, very pleased): Another Argonian in Scath Anud. And a
pretty one, at that. I hope we weren't too rude to her. I'm tired of all
these women with their smooth, wet skin, it would be wonderful if we could
meet when I'm off duty.
While Ullis talks, he opens the letter and reads it.
ULLIS (continued): She looks like she's from the south, like me. You know,
Argonians from northern Black Marsh are... much... less...
Ullis continues reading, transfixed by the letter. Clavides skips to the
back of the book, and reads the last sentences.
CLAVIDES (reading): In black ink "The Khajiiti male showed surprisingly
little fortitude to a simple lightning spell, but I've had interesting
physiological results with a medium-level acid spell cast slowly over several
days." In red ink on the margins, "Yes, I see. Was the acid spell cast
uniformly over the entire body of the subject?" In black ink "The Nord
female was subjected to sixteen hours of a frost spell which eventually
crystalized her into a state of suspended animation, from which she
eventually expired. Not so the Nord male, nor the Ashlander male who lapsed
into their comas much earlier, but then recovered. The Ashlander then tried
to escape, but I restrained him. The Nord then had an interesting chemical
overreaction to a simple fire spell and expired. See the accompanying
illustration." In red ink, "Yes, I see. The pattern of boils and lesions
suggest some sort of internal incineration perhaps caused by the combination
of a short burst of flame following a longer session with frost. It's such a
shame I can't come to see the experiment personally, but I compliment you on
your excellent notation." In black ink, "Thank you for the suggestion about
slowly poisoning my maid Anara. The dosages you've suggested have had
fascinating results, eroding her memory very subtly. I intend to increase it
expotentially and see how long it is before she notices. Speaking of which,
it is a pity that I haven't any Argonian subjects, but the slave-traders
promise me some healthy specimens in the autumn. I should like to test their
metabolism in comparison to elves and humans. It's my theory that a medium-
level lightning spell cast in a continuous wave on an Argonian wouldn't be
lethal for several hours at least, similiar to my results with the Cyrodilic
female and, of course, the giant." In red ink, "It'd be a shame to wait
until autumn to see."
ULLIS (reading the letter): In red ink, "Here is your Argonian. Please let
me know the results." It's signed "Kema Warvim."
CLAVIDES: By Kynareth, this isn't necromancy. It's Destruction. Kema
Warvim and Kena Telvanni Hordalf Xyr haven't been experimenting with death,
but with the limits of magical torture.
ULLIS: The letter isn't addressed to Kena Telvanni Hordalf Xyr. It's
addressed to Sedura Iachilla Xyr. His wife, do you think?
CLAVIDES: Iachilla. That was the Telvanni of the Xyr family who I heard
about in connection with the giant slaying. We'd best get the maid out of
here. She'll need to go to a healer.
Clavides wakes up Anara. She appears disoriented.
ANARA: What's happening? Who are you?
CLAVIDES: Don't worry, everything is going to be fine. We're going to take
you to a healer.
ULLIS: Do you need a coat, Iachilla?
ANARA: Thank you, no, I'm not cold --
Anara/Iachilla stops, realizing that she's been caught. Clavides and Ullis
unsheathe their blades.
CLAVIDES: You have black ink on your fingers, your ladyship.
ULLIS: And when you saw me at the door, you thought I was the Argonian your
friend Warvim sent over. That's why you said, "Not now. Go away."
ANARA/IACHILLA: You're much more observant than Anara. She never did
understand what was happening, even when I tripled the poison spell and she
expired in what I observed as considerable agony.
ULLIS: What were you going to use on me first, lightning or fire?
ANANA/IACHILLA: Lightning. I find fire to be too unpredictable.
As she speaks, the flames in the torchs extinguish. The stage is utterly
dark.
There is the sound of a struggle, swords clanging. Suddenly a bolt of
lightning flashes out, and there is silence. From the darkness,
Anana/Iachilla speaks.
ANANA/IACHILLA: Fascinating.
There are several more flashes of lightning as the curtain closes.
THE END.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The House of Troubles
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_HouseOfTroubles_c
Or
bk_HouseOfTroubles_o
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
The House of Troubles
Among the ancient ancestral spirits who accompanied Saint Veloth and the
Chimer into the promised land of Morrowind, the four Daedra Lords, Malacath,
Mehrunes Dagon, Molag Bal, and Sheogorath, are known as the Four Corners of
the House of Troubles. These Daedra Lords rebelled against the counsel and
admonition of the Tribunal, causing great kinstrife and confusion among the
clans and Great Houses.
Malacath, Mehrunes Dagon, Molag Bal, and Sheogorath are holy in that they
serve the role of obstacles during the Testing. Through time they have
sometimes become associated with local enemies, like the Nords, Akaviri, or
Mountain Orcs.
Malacath is the reanimated dung that was Trinimac, Malacath is a weak but
vengeful god. The Dark Elves say he is Malak, the god-king of the orcs. He
tests the Dunmer for physical weakness.
Molag Bal is, in Morrowind, the King of Rape. He tries to upset the
bloodlines of Houses and otherwise ruin the Dunmer gene pool. A race of
monsters, said to live in Molag Amur, are the result of his seduction of
Vivec during the previous era.
Sheogorath is the King of Madness. He always tests the Dunmer for mental
weakness. In many legends he is called upon by one Dunmer faction against
another; in half of these stories he does not betray those who called him,
further confusing the issue of his place in the scheme of things (can he help
us? is he not an obstacle?). He is often associated with the fear other races
have of the Dunmer, especially those who, like the Empire, might prove as
useful allies.
Mehrunes Dagon is the god of destruction. He is associated with natural
dangers like fire, earthquakes, and floods. To some he represents the
inhospitable land of Morrowind. He tests the Dunmer will to survive and
persevere.
The worship of these four malevolent spirits is against the law and practice
of the Temple. However, the Four Corners seldom fail to discover those
greedy, reckless, or mad enough to serve them. By ancient Temple law and
custom, and also by imperial law, the lives of witches and warlocks are
forfeit, and Imperial garrisons join Ordinators and Buoyant Armigers of the
Temple in tracking down and destroying these foul covens in the wilderness
refuges and ancient ruins where they conceal their profane worships.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Importance of Where
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Blunt Weapon2
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Blunt Weapon skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Importance of Where
Ancient Tales of the Dwemer, Part III
By Marobar Sul
The chieftain of Othrobar gathered his wise men together and said, "Every
morning a tenfold of my flock are found butchered. What is the cause?"
Fangbith the Warleader said, "A Monster may be coming down from the Mountain
and devouring your flock."
Ghorick the Healer said, "A strange new disease perhaps is to blame."
Beran the Priest said, "We must sacrifice to the Goddess for her to save us."
The wise men made sacrifices, and while they waited for their answers from
the Goddess, Fangbith went to Mentor Joltereg and said, "You taught me well
how to forge the cudgel of Zolia, and how to wield it in combat, but I must
know now when it is wise to use my skill. Do I wait for the Goddess to
reply, or the medicine to work, or do I hunt the Monster which I know is in
the Mountain?"
"When is not important," said Joltereg. "Where is all that is important."
So Fangbith took his Zolic cudgel in hand and walked far through the dark
forest until he came to the base of the Great Mountain. There he met two
Monsters. One bloodied with the flesh of the chieftain of Othrobar's flock
fought him while its mate fled. Fangbith remembered what his master had
taught him, that "where" was all that was important.
He struck the Monster on each of its five vital points: head, groin, throat,
back, and chest. Five blows to the five points and the Monster was slain.
It was too heavy to carry with him, but still triumphant, Fangbith returned
to Othrobar.
"I say I have slain the Monster that ate your flock," he cried.
"What proof have you that you have slain any Monster?" asked the chieftain.
"I say I have saved the flock with my medicine," said Ghorick the Healer.
"I say The Goddess has saved the flock by my sacrifices," said Beran the
Priest.
Two mornings went by and the flocks were safe, but on the morning of the
third day, another tenfold of the chieftain's flock was found butchered.
Ghorick the Healer went to his study to find a new medicine. Beran the
Priest prepared more sacrifices. Fangbith took his Zolic cudgel in hand,
again, and walked far through the dark forest until he came to the base of
the Great Mountain. There he met the other Monster, bloodied with the flesh
of the chieftain of Othrobar's flock. They did battle, and again Fangbith
remembered what his master had taught him, that "where" was all that was
important.
He struck the Monster five times on the head and it fled. Chasing it along
the mountain, he struck it five times in the groin and it fled. Running
through the forest, Fangbith overtook the Monster and struck it five times in
the throat and it fled. Entering into the fields of Othrobar, Fangbith
overtook the Monster and struck it five times in the back and it fled. At
the foot of the stronghold, the chieftain and his wise men emerged to the
sound of the Monster wailing. There they beheld the Monster that had slain
the chieftain's flock. Fangbith struck the Monster five times in the chest
and it was slain.
A great feast was held in Fangbith's honor, and the flock of Othrobar was
never again slain. Joltereg embraced his student and said, "You have at last
learned the importance of where you strike your blows."
Publisher's Note:
This tale is another, which has an obvious origin among the Ashlander tribes
of Vvardenfell and is one of their oldest tales. "Marobar Sul" merely changed
the names of the character to sound more "Dwarven" and resold it as part of
his collection. The Great Mountain in the tale is clearly "Red Mountain,"
despite its description of being forested. The Star-Fall and later eruptions
destroyed the vegetation on Red Mountain, giving it the wasted appearance it
has today.
This tale does have some scholarly interest, as it suggests a primitive
Ashlander culture, but it talks of living in "strongholds" much like the
ruined strongholds on Vvardenfell today. There are even references to a
stronghold of "Othrobar" somewhere between Vvardenfell and Skyrim, but few
strongholds outside of sparsely-settled Vvardenfell have survived to the
present. Scholars do not agree on who built these strongholds or when, but I
believe it is clear from this story and other evidence that the Ashlander
tribes used these strongholds in the ancient past instead of making camps of
wickwheat huts as they do today.
The play on words that forms the lesson of the fable -- that it is as
important to know where the monster should be slain, at the stronghold, as it
is to know where the monster must be struck on its body to be slain -- is
typical of many Ashlander tales. Riddles, even ones as simple as this one,
are loved by both the Ashlanders and the vanished Dwemer. Although the Dwemer
are usually portrayed as presenting the riddles, rather than being the ones
who solve it as in Ashlander tales.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Legendary Scourge
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_LegendaryScourge
Weight: 2
Value: 200
Special Notes: None
"Not till the very evening they came," answered he, and then told of his
dealings with Mehrunes Dagon's thralls, saying that Mackkan would find it
easier to whistle on the wind's tracks and go on a fool's errand than to
fight his toads. Then said Mackkan:
"Now see to thy safety henceforward,
And stick to thy parts and thy pride;
Or this mallet of mine, Malacath's Scourge,
Will meet with thine ear of a surety.
For quick as I can cry "Equality",
Though eight arms thou couldst boast of,
Such bumps thou shalt comb on thy brainpan,
Thou that breakest the howes of the dead.
EXPLICATION: The mace Scourge, Blessed of Malacath, Mackkan's legendary
weapon, forged from sacred ebony in the Fountains of Fickledire, has ever
been the bane of the Dark Kin, and many a black spirit has been hurled back
into Oblivion with a single blow of this bold defender of the friendless.
Scourge now hangs within the armory of Battlespire, ready to take up in the
name of the Emperor against the Daedric Lords.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Locked Room
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_security1
Weight: 4
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Security skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Locked Room
By Porbert Lyttumly
Yana was precisely the kind of student her mentor Arthcamu despised: the
professional amateur. He enjoyed all the criminal types who were his usual
pupils at the stronghold, from the common burglar to the more sophisticated
blackmailers, children and young people with strong career ambitions which
the art and science of lockpicking could facilitate. They were always
interested in simple solutions, the easy way, but people like Yana were
always looking for exceptions, possibilities, exotica. For pragmatists like
Arthcamu, it was intensely vexing.
The Redguard maiden would spend hours in front of a lock, prodding at it with
her wires and picks, flirting with the key pins and driver pins, exploring
the hull with a sort of casual fascination that no delinquent possesses.
Long after her fellow students had opened their test locks and moved on, Yana
was still playing with hers. The fact that she always opened it eventually,
no matter how advanced a lock it was, irked Arthcamu even further.
"You are making things much too difficult," he would roar, boxing her ears.
"Speed is of the essence, not merely technical know-how. I swear that if I
put the key to the lock right in front of you, you'd still never get around
to opening it."
Yana would bear Arthcamu's abuse philosophically. She had, after all, paid
him in advance. Speed was doubtless an important factor for the picker
trying to get somewhere he wasn't supposed to go with the city guard on
patrol behind him, but Yana knew it wouldn't apply to her. She merely wanted
the knowledge.
Arthcamu did everything he could think of to encourage Yana to move faster.
She seemed to perversely thrive on his physical and verbal blows, spending
more and more time on each lock, learning its idiosyncrasies and personality.
Finally, he could bear it no longer. Very late one afternoon after Yana had
dawdled over a perfectly ordinary lock, he grabbed the girl by her ear and
dragged her to a room in the stronghold far from the other students, an area
they had always been forbidden to visit.
The room was completely barren, except for one large crate in the center.
There were no windows and no other door except for the one leading in.
Arthcamu slammed his student against the crate and closed the door behind
her. There was a distinct click of the lock.
"This is the test for my advanced students," he laughed behind the door. "See
if you can escape."
Yana smiled and began her usual slow process of massaging the lock, gaining
information. After a few minutes had gone by, she heard Arthcamu's voice
again call out from behind the door.
"Perhaps I should mention that this is a test of speed. You see the crate
behind you? It contains a vampire ancient who has been locked in here for
many months. It is absolutely ravenous. In a few minutes' time, the sun
will have completely set, and if you have not opened the door, you will be
nothing but a bloodless husk."
Yana considered only for a moment whether Arthcamu was joking or not. She
knew he was an evil, horrible man, but to resort to murder to teach his
pupil? The moment she heard a rustling in the crate, any doubts she had were
erased. Ignoring all her usual explorations, she jammed her wire into the
lock, thrust the pegs against the pressure plate, and shoved open the door.
Arthcamu stood in the hallway beyond, laughing cruelly, "So, now you've
learned the value of fast work."
Yana fled from Arthcamu's stronghold, fighting back her tears. He was
certain that she would never return to his tutelage, but he considered that
he had taught her at last a very valuable lesson. When she did return the
next morning, Arthcamu registered no surprise, but inside he was seething.
"I'll be leaving shortly," she explained, quietly. "But I believe I've
developed a new type of lock, and I'd be grateful if you'd give me your
opinion of it."
Arthcamu shrugged and asked her to present her design.
"I was wondering if I might use the vampire room and install the lock. I
think it would be better if I demonstrated it."
Arthcamu was dubious, but the prospect of the tiresome girl leaving at last
put him in an excellent and even indulgent mood. He agreed to give her
access to the room. For all morning and most of the afternoon, she worked
near the slumbering vampire, removing the old lock and adding her new
prototype. Finally, she asked her old master to take a look.
He studied the lock with an expert eye, and found little to be impressed
with.
"This is the first and only pick-proof lock," Yana explained. "The only way
to open it is to have the right key."
Arthcamu scoffed and let Yana close the door, shutting him in the room. The
door clicked and he began to go to work. To his dismay, the lock was much
more difficult than he thought it would be. He tried all his methods to
force it, and found that he had to resort to his hated student's method of
careful and thorough exploration.
"I need to leave now," called Yana from the other side of the door. "I'm
going to bring the city guard to the stronghold. I know that it's against
the rules, but I really think it's for the welfare of the villagers not to
have a hungry vampire on the loose. It's getting dark, and even though you
aren't able to unlock the door, the vampire might be less proud about using
the key to escape. Remember when you said 'If I put the key to the lock
right in front of you, you'd still never get around to opening it'?"
"Wait!" Arthcamu yelled back. "I'll use the key! Where is it? You forgot to
give it to me!"
But there was no reply, only the sound of footfall disappearing down the
corridor beyond the door. Arthcamu began to work harder on the lock, but his
hands were shaking with fear. With no windows, it was impossible to tell how
late it was getting to be. Were minutes that were flying by or hours? He
only knew that the vampire ancient would know.
The tools could not stand very much twisting and tapping from Arthcamu's
hysterical hands. The wire snapped in the keyhole. Just like a student.
Arthcamu screamed and pounded on the door, but he knew that no one could
possibly hear him. It was while sucking in his breath to scream again, he
heard the distinct creak of the crate opening behind him.
The vampire ancient regarded the master locksmith with insane, hungry eyes,
and flew at him in a frenzy. Before Arthcamu died, he saw it: on a chain
that had been placed around the vampire's neck while it had been sleeping was
a key.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Lunar Lorkhan
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Alteration5
Weight: 4
Value: 350
Special Notes: Raises Alteration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Lunar Lorkhan
by Fal Droon
I will not go into the varying accounts of what happened at Adamantine Tower,
nor will I relate the War of Manifest Metaphors that rendered those stories
unable to support most qualities of what is commonly known as "narrative." We
all have our favorite Lorkhan story and our favorite Lorkhan motivation for
the creation of Nirn and our favorite story of what happened to His Heart.
But the Theory of the Lunar Lorkhan is of special note.
In short, the Moons were and are the two halves of Lorkhan's 'flesh-
divinity'. Like the rest of the Gods, Lorkhan was a plane(t) that
participated in the Great Construction... except where the Eight lent
portions of their heavenly bodies to create the mortal plane(t), Lorkhan's
was cracked asunder and his divine spark fell to Nirn as a shooting star "to
impregnate it with the measure of its existence and a reasonable amount of
selfishness."
Masser and Secunda therefore are the personifications of the dichotomy-- the
"Cloven Duality," according to Artaeum-- that Lorkhan legends often rail
against: ideas of the anima/animus, good/evil, being/nothingness, the poetry
of the body, throat, and moan/silence-as-the-abortive, and so on -- set in
the night sky as Lorkhan's constant reminder to his mortal issue of their
duty.
Followers of this theory hold that all other "Heart Stories" are mythical
degradations of the true origin of the moons (and it needn't be said that
they observe the "hollow crescent theory" as well).
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Lusty Argonian Maid
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_lustyargonianmaid
Weight: 3
Value: 20
Special Notes: None
The Lusty Argonian Maid
Act IV, Scene III, continued
Lifts-Her-Tail: Certainly not, kind sir! I am here but to clean your
chambers.
Crantius Colto: Is that all you have come here for, little one? My chambers?
Lifts-Her-Tail: I have no idea what it is you imply, master. I am but a poor
Argonian maid.
Crantius Colto: So you are, my dumpling. And a good one at that. Such strong
legs and shapely tail.
Lifts-Her-Tail: You embarrass me, sir!
Crantius Colto: Fear not. You are safe here with me.
Lifts-Her-Tail: I must finish my cleaning, sir. The mistress will have my
head if I do not!
Crantius Colto: Cleaning, eh? I have something for you. Here, polish my
spear.
Lifts-Her-Tail: But it is huge! It could take me all night!
Crantius Colto: Plenty of time, my sweet. Plenty of time.
END OF ACT IV, SCENE III
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Madness of Pelagius
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_madnessofpelagius
Weight: 3
Value: 20
Special Notes: None
The Madness of Pelagius
By Tsathenes
The man who would be Emperor of all Tamriel was born Thoriz Pelagius Septim,
a prince of the royal family of Wayrest in 3E 119 at the end of the glorious
reign of his uncle, Antiochus I. Wayrest had been showered by much preference
during the years before Pelagius' birth, for King Magnus was Antiochus'
favorite brother.
It is hard to say when Pelagius' madness first manifested itself, for, in
truth, the first ten years of his life were marked by much insanity in the
land itself. When Pelagius was just over a year old, Antiochus died and a
daughter, Kintyra, assumed the throne to the acclaim of all. Kintyra II was
Pelagius' cousin and an accomplished mystic and sorceress. If she had
sufficient means to peer into the future, she would have surely fled the
palace.
The story of the War of the Red Diamond has been told in many other scholarly
journals, but as most historians agree, Kintyra II's reign was usurped by her
and Pelagius' cousin Uriel, by the power of his mother, Potema -- the so-
called wolf queen of Solitude. The year after her coronation, Kintyra was
trapped in Glenpoint and imprisoned in the Imperial dungeons there.
All of Tamriel exploded into warfare as Prince Uriel took the throne as Uriel
III, and High Rock, because of the imprisoned Empress' presence there, was
the location of some of the bloodiest battles. Pelagius' father, King Magnus,
allied himself with his brother Cephorus against the usurper Emperor, and
brought the wrath of Uriel III and Queen Potema down on Wayrest. Pelagius,
his brothers and sisters, and his mother Utheilla fled to the Isle of
Balfiera. Utheilla was of the line of Direnni, and her family manse is still
located on that ancient isle even to this day.
There is thankfully much written record of Pelagius' childhood in Balfiera
recorded by nurses and visitors. All who met him described him as a handsome,
personable boy, interested in sport, magic, and music. Even assuming
diplomats' lack of candor, Pelagius seemed, if anything, a blessing to the
future of the Septim Dynasty.
When Pelagius was eight, Cephorus slew Uriel III at the Battle of Ichidag and
proclaimed himself Emperor Cephorus I. For the next ten years of his reign,
Cephorus battled Potema. Pelagius' first battle was the Siege of Solitude,
which ended with Potema's death and the final end of the war. In gratitude,
Cephorus placed Pelagius on the throne of Solitude.
As king of Solitude, Pelagius' eccentricities of behavior began to be
noticeable. As a favorite nephew of the Emperor, few diplomats to Solitude
made critical commentary about Pelagius. For the first two years of his
reign, Pelagius was at the very least noted for his alarming shifts in
weight. Four months after taking the throne, a diplomat from Ebonheart called
Pelagius "a hale and hearty soul with a heart so big, it widens his waist";
five months after that, the visiting princess of Firsthold wrote to her
brother that "the king's gripped my hand and it felt like I was being
clutched by a skeleton. Pelagius is greatly emaciated, indeed."
Cephorus never married and died childless three years after the Siege of
Solitude. As the only surviving sibling, Pelagius' father Magnus left the
throne of Wayrest and took residence at the Imperial City as the Emperor
Magnus I. Magnus was elderly and Pelagius was his oldest living child, so the
attention of Tamriel focused on Sentinel. By this time, Pelagius'
eccentricities were becoming infamous.
There are many legends about his acts as King of Sentinel, but few well-
documented cases exist. It is known that Pelagius locked the young princes
and princesses of Silvenar in his room with him, only releasing them when an
unsigned Declaration of War was slipped under the door. When he tore off his
clothes during a speech he was giving at a local festival, his advisors
apparently decided to watch him more carefully. On the orders of Magnus,
Pelagius was married to the beautiful heiress of an ancient Dark Elf noble
family, Katariah Ra'athim.
Nordic kings who marry Dark Elves seldom improve their popularity. There are
two reasons most scholars give for the union. Magnus was trying to cement
relations with Ebonheart, where the Ra'athim clan hailed. Ebonheart's
neighbor, Mournhold, had been a historical ally of the Empire since the very
beginning, and the royal consort of Queen Barenziah had won many battles in
the War of the Red Diamond. Ebonheart had a poorly-kept secret of aiding
Uriel III and Potema.
The other reason for the marriage was more personal: Katariah was as shrewd a
diplomat as she was beautiful. If any creature was capable of hiding
Pelagius' madness, it was she.
On the 8th of Second Seed, 3E 145, Magnus I died quietly in his sleep.
Jolethe, Pelagius' sister took over the throne of Solitude, and Pelagius and
Katariah rode to the Imperial City to be crowned Emperor and Empress of
Tamriel. It is said that Pelagius fainted when the crown was placed on his
head, but Katariah held him up so only those closest to the thrones could see
what had happened. Like so many Pelagius stories, this cannot be verified.
Pelagius III never truly ruled Tamriel. Katariah and the Elder Council made
all the decisions and only tried to keep Pelagius from embarrassing all.
Still, stories of Pelagius III's reign exist.
It was said that when the Argonian ambassador from Blackrose came to court,
Pelagius insisted on speaking in all grunts and squeaks, as that was the
Argonian's natural language.
It is known that Pelagius was obsessed with cleanliness, and many guests
reported waking to the noise of an early-morning scrubdown of the Imperial
Palace. The legend of Pelagius while inspecting the servants' work, suddenly
defecating on the floor to give them something to do, is probably apocryphal.
When Pelagius began actually biting and attacking visitors to the Imperial
Palace, it was decided to send him to a private asylum. Katariah was
proclaimed regent two years after Pelagius took the throne. For the next six
years, the Emperor stayed in a series of institutions and asylums.
Traitors to the Empire have many lies to spread about this period. Whispered
stories of hideous experiments and tortures performed on Pelagius have almost
become accepted as fact. The noble lady Katariah became pregnant shortly
after the Emperor was sent away, and rumors of infidelity and, even more
absurd, conspiracies to keep the sane Emperor locked away, ran amok. As
Katariah proved, her pregnancy came about after a visit to her husband's
cell. With no other evidence, as loyal subjects, we are bound to accept the
Empress' word on the matter. Her second child, who would reign for many years
as Uriel IV, was the child of her union with her consort Lariate, and
publicly acknowledged as such.
On a warm night in Suns Dawn, in his 34th year, Pelagius III died after a
brief fever in his cell at the Temple of Kynareth in the Isle of Betony.
Katariah I reigned for another forty six years before passing the scepter
onto the only child she had with Pelagius, Cassynder.
Pelagius' wild behavior has made him perversely dear to the province of his
birth and death. The 2nd of Suns Dawn, which may or may not be the
anniversary of his death (records are not very clear) is celebrated as Mad
Pelagius, the time when foolishness of all sorts is encouraged. And so, one
of the least desirable Emperors in the history of the Septim Dynasty, has
become one of the most famous ones.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Marksmanship Lesson
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_marksman4
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Marksman skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Marksmanship Lesson
By Alla Llaleth
Kelmeril Brin had very definite opinions on how things should be done. Every
slave he bought on the day he bought him or her was soundly whipped in the
courtyard for a period of one to three hours, depending on the individual
degree of independent spirit. The whip he used -- or had his castellan use -
- was of wet, knotted cloth, which regularly drew blood but very seldom
maimed. To his great satisfaction and personal pride, few slaves ever needed
to be whipped more than once. The memory of their first day, and the sight
and sound of every subsequent slave's first day, stayed with them throughout
their lives.
When Brin bought his first Bosmer slave, he ordered his castellan to whip him
only for an hour. The creature, which Brin had named Dob, seemed so much
more delicate than the Argonians and Khajiiti and Orcs who made up the bulk
of his slaves. Dob was clearly ill suited for work in the mines or in the
fields, but he seemed presentable enough for domestic service.
Dob did his work quietly and tolerably well. Brin occasionally had to
correct him by refusing him food, but the punishment never needed to go
further. Whenever guests arrived at the plantation, the sight of the exotic
and elegant addition to Brin's household staff always impressed them.
"Here, you," said Genethah Illoc, a minor but still noble member of the House
Indoriil, as Dob presented her with a glass of wine. "Were you born a slave?"
"No, sedura," Dob answered with a bow. "I used to rob nice ladies like you on
the road."
The company all laughed with delight, but Kelmeril Brin checked with the
slave trader from whom he had bought Dob, and found that the story was true.
The Bosmer had been a highwayman, though not one of any great notoriety,
before he had been caught and sold into slavery as punishment. It seemed so
extraordinary that a quiet fellow like Dob, who always looked respectfully
downward at the sight of his superiors, could have been a criminal. Brin
made up his mind to question him about it.
"You must have used some sort of weapon when you were robbing all those
pilgrims and merchants," Brin grinned as he watched Dob mop.
"Yes, sedura," Dob replied humbly. "A bow."
"Of course. You Bosmeri are supposed to be very handy with those," Brin
thought a moment and then asked: "A bit of a marksman, were you?"
Dob nodded humbly.
"You will tutor my son Wodilic in archery," the master said after another
moment's pause. Wodilic was twelve years of age and had been rather sadly
spoiled by his mother, Brin's late wife. The boy was useless at swordplay,
fearful of being cut. He embarrassed his father's pride, but the personality
defect seemed ideally suited to the bow.
Brin had his castellan purchase a finely wrought bow, several quivers of
arrows, and ordered targets to be set up in the wildflower field next to the
plantation house. In a few days time, the lessons began.
For the first few days, the master watched Wodilic and Dob to be certain that
the slave knew how to teach. He was pleased to see the boy learn the grips
and the different stances. Business concerns, however, had to take
precedence. Brin only had time to see to it that the lessons were
continuing, but not how well they were progressing.
It was a month's time before the issue was reexamined. Brin and his
castellan were reviewing the plantation's earnings and expenses, and they had
come to the area of miscellaneous household costs.
"You might also check to see how many targets in the field need to be
repaired."
"I have already anticipated that, sedura," said the castellan. "They are in
pristine condition."
"How is that possible?" Brin shook his head. "I've seen targets fall apart
after only a few good shots. There shouldn't be anything left after a
month's worth of lessons."
"There are no holes of any kind in the targets, sedura. See for yourself."
As it happened at that hour, the marksmanship lesson was underway. Brin
walked across the field, watching Dob guide Wodilic's arm as the boy took aim
at the sky. The arrow flew up into an arc, over the top of the target,
burying itself in the ground. Brin examined the target and found it to be,
as his castellan said, in pristine condition. No arrow had touched it.
"Master Wodilic, you must pull your right arm down further," Dob was saying.
"And the follow-through is essential if you expect your arrow to gain any
height."
"Height?" Brin snarled. "What about accuracy? Unless he's been secretly
racking up a high kill ratio on birds, you haven't taught my son a thing
about marksmanship."
Dob bowed humbly. "Sedura, first Master Wodilic must become comfortable with
the weapon before he need worry about accuracy. In Valenwood, we learn by
watching the bolt arc at different levels, in different winds, before we try
very hard to strike targets."
Brin's face turned purple with fury: "I'm not a fool! I should have known
not to trust a slave with my boy's education!"
The master grabbed Dob and shoved him toward the plantation house. Dob, head
down, began the humble, shuffling walk he had learned in his domestic duties.
Wodilic, tears streaming down his face, tried to follow.
"You stay and practice!" roared his father. "Try aiming at the target itself,
not at the sky! You are not coming back into the house until there is one
hole in that damned bullseye!"
The boy tearfully returned to practice, while Brin brought Dob into the
courtyard and called for his whip. Dob suddenly broke away and scrambled to
hide between some barrels in the center of the yard.
"Take your punishment, slave! I should have never shown you mercy the day I
bought you!" Brin bellowed, bringing the whip down on Dob's exposed back
again and again. "I have to toughen you up! There'll be no more soft jobs as
tutor and valet in your future!"
Wodilic's plaintive yell drifted in from the meadow: "I can't! Father, I
can't hit it!"
"Master Wodilic!" Dob cried back as loud as he could, his voice shaking with
pain. "Keep your left arm straight and aim slightly east! The wind has
changed!"
"Stop confusing my son!" Brin screamed. "You'll be in the saltrice fields if
I don't beat you to death first! Like you deserve!"
"Dob!" the boy wailed, far away. "I still can't hit it!"
"Master Wodilic! Take four steps back, aim east, and don't be afraid of the
height!" Dob tore away from the barrels, hiding under a cart near the wall.
Brin pursued him, raining down blows.
The boy's arrow sailed high over the target and kept climbing, reaching a
pinnacle at the edge of the plantation house before coming down in a
magnificent arc. Brin tasted the blood before he realized he'd been hit.
Gingerly, he raised his hands and felt the arrowhead protruding out of the
back of his neck. He looked at Dob crouching under the wagon, and thought he
saw a thin smile cross the slave's lips. Just for an instant before he died,
Brin saw the face of the rogue highwayman on Dob.
"Bullseye, Master Wodilic!" Dob crowed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Mirror
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_block2
Weight: 2
Value: 225
Special Notes: Raises Block skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Mirror
by Berdier Wreans
The wind blew over the open plain, jostling the few trees within to move back
and forth with the irritation of it. A young man in bright green turban
approached the army and gave his chieftain's terms for peace to the
commander. He was refused. It was to be battle, the battle of Ain-Kolur.
So the chief Iymbez had decreed his open defiance and his horsemen were at
war once again. Many times the tribe had moved into territory that was not
theirs to occupy, and many times the diplomatic approach had failed. It had
come to this, at long last. It was just as well with Mindothrax. His allies
may win or lose, but he would always survive. Though he had occasionally
been on the losing side of a war, never once in all his thirty-four years had
he lost in hand-to-hand combat.
The two armies poured like dual frothing streams through the dust, and when
they met a clamor rang out, echoing into the hills. Blood, the first liquor
the clay had tasted in many a month, danced like powder. The high and low
battle cries of the rival tribes met in harmony as the armies dug into one
another's flesh. Mindothrax was in the element he loved.
After ten hours of fighting with no ground given, both commanders called a
mutual and honorable withdrawal from the field.
The camp was positioned in a high-walled garden of an old burial ground,
adorned by springtide blossoms. As Mindothrax toured the grounds, he was
reminded of his childhood home. It was a happy and a sad recollection, the
purity of childhood ambition, all of his schooling in the ways of battle, but
tinged with memories of his poor mother. A beautiful woman looking down at
her son with both pride and unspoken sorrow. She never talked about what
troubled her, but it came as no surprise to any when she took the walk across
the moors and was found days later, her throat slit open by her own hand.
The army itself was like a colony of ants, newly shaken. Within a half
hour's time after the end of the battle, they had reorganized as if by
instinct. As the medicos looked to the wounded, someone remarked, with a
measure of admiration and astonishment, "Look at Mindothrax. His hair isn't
even out of place."
"He is a mighty swordsman," said the attending physician.
"The sword is a greatly overvalued article," said Mindothrax, nevertheless
pleased with the attention. "Warriors pay too much attention to striking and
not enough in defending strikes. The proper way to go into battle is to
defend yourself, and to hit your opponent only when the ideal moment arises."
"I prefer a more straight-forward approach," smiled one of the wounded. "It
is the way of the horse men."
"If it is the way of the Bjoulsae tribes to fail, then I renounce my
heritage," said Mindothrax, making a quick sign to the spirits that he was
being expressive not blasphemous. "Remember what the great blademaster Gaiden
Shinji said, 'The best techniques are passed on by the survivors.' I have
been in thirty-six battles, and I haven't a scar to show for them. That is
because I rely on my shield, and then my blade, in that order."
"What is your secret?"
"Think of melee as a mirror. I look to my opponent's left arm when I am
striking with my right. If he is prepared to block my blow, I blow not. Why
exert undue force?" Mindothrax cocked an eyebrow, "But when I see his right
arm tense, my left arm goes to my shield. You see, it takes twice as much
power to send force than it does to deflect it. When your eye can recognize
whether your opponent is striking from above, or at angle, or in an uppercut
from below, you learn to pivot and place your shield just so to protect
yourself. I could block for hours if need be, but it only takes a few
minutes, or even seconds, for your opponent, used to battering, to leave a
space open for your own strike."
"What was the longest you've ever had to defend yourself?" asked the wounded
man.
"I fought a man once for an hour's time," said Mindothrax. "He was tireless
with his bludgeoning, never giving me a moment to do aught but block his
strikes. But finally, he took a moment too long in raising his cudgel and I
found my mark in his chest. He struck my shield a thousand times, and I
struck his heart but once. But that was enough."
"So he was your greatest opponent?" asked the medico.
"Oh, indeed not," said Mindothrax, turning his great shield so the silvery
metal reflected his own face. "There is he."
The next day, the battle recommenced. Chief Iymbez had brought in
reinforcements from the islands to the south. To the horror and disgrace of
the tribe, mercenaries, renegade horsemen and even some Reachmen witches were
included in the war. As Mindothrax stared across the field at the armies
assembling, putting on his helmet and readying his shield and blade, he
thought again of his poor mother. What had tortured her so? Why had she
never been able to look at her son without grief?
Between sunrise and sundown, the battle raged. A bright blue-sky overhead
burned down on the combatants as they rushed against one another over and
over again. In every melee, Mindothrax prevailed. A foe with an ax rained a
series of strokes against his shield, but every one was deflected until at
last Mindothrax could best the warrior. A spear maiden nearly pierced the
shield with her first strike, but Mindothrax knew how to give with the blow,
throwing her off balance and leaving her open for his counterstrike.
Finally, he met a mercenary on the field, armed with shield and sword and a
helm of golden bronze. For an hour and a half they battled.
Mindothrax tried every trick he knew. When the mercenary tensed his left
arm, he held back his strike. When his opponent rose his sword, his shield
rose too and expertly blocked. For the first time in his life, he was
battling another defensive fighter. Stationary, reflective, with energy to
battle for days if need be. Occasionally, another warrior would enter into
the fray, sometimes from Mindothrax's army, sometimes from his opponent's.
These distractions were swiftly dispatched, and the champions returned to
their fight.
As they fought, circling one another, matching block for blow and blow for
block, it dawned on Mindothrax that here at last he was fighting the perfect
mirror.
It became more a game, almost a dance, than a battle of blood. It was not
until Mindothrax missed his own step, striking too soon, throwing himself off
balance, that the promenade was ended. He saw, rather than felt, the
mercenary's blade rip across him from throat to chest. A good strike. The
sort he himself might have delivered.
Mindothrax fell to the ground, feeling his life passing. The mercenary stood
over him, prepared to give his worthy adversary the killing blow. It was a
strange, honorable deed for an outsider to do, and Mindothrax was greatly
moved. Across the battlefield, he heard someone call a name, similar to his
own.
"Jurrifax!"
The mercenary removed his helmet to answer the call. As he did so,
Mindothrax saw through the slits of his helmet his own reflection in the man.
It was his own close-set eyes, red and brown hair, thin and wide mouth, and
blunt chin. For a moment he marveled at the mirror, before the stranger
turned back to him and delivered the death stroke.
Jurrifax returned to his commander and was well paid for his part in the
day's victory. They retired for a hot meal under the stars in a garden by an
old cairn that had previously been occupied by their foes. The mercenary was
strangely quiet as he observed the land.
"Have you been here before, Jurrifax?" asked one of the tribesmen who had
hired him.
"I was born a horseman just like you. My mother sold me when I was just a
babe. I have always wondered how my life might have been different had I not
been bartered away. I might never have been a mercenary."
"There are many things that decide our fate," said the witch. "It is madness
to try to see how you might have taken this turn or that in the world. There
are none exactly like yourself, so it is foolish to compare."
"But there is one," said Jurrifax, looking to the stars. "My master, before
he set me free, said that my mother had twin sons when I was born. She could
only afford to raise but one child, but somewhere out there, there is a man
just like me. My brother. I hope to meet him."
The witch saw the spirits before her and knew the truth that the twins had
met already. She remained silent and stared into the fire, banishing the
thoughts from her head, too wise to tell all.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Monomyth
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_manyfacesmissinggod
Weight: 3
Value: 30
Special Notes: None
The Monomyth
"In Mundus, conflict and disparity are what bring change, and change is the
most sacred of the Eleven Forces. Change is the force without focus or
origin."-Oegnithr, Taheritae, Order of PSJJJJ
Simply put, the schism in the Human/Aldmeri worldview is the mortal's
relationship to the divine. Humans take the humble path that they were
created by the immortal forces, while the Aldmer claim descent from them. It
doesn't seem like much, but it is a distinction that colors the rest of their
diverging mythologies.
All Tamrielic religions begin the same. Man or mer, things begin with the
dualism of Anu and His Other. These twin forces go by many names: Anu-
Padomay, Anuiel-Sithis, Ak-El, Satak-Akel, Is-Is Not. Anuiel is the
Everlasting Ineffable Light, Sithis is the Corrupting Inexpressible Action.
In the middle is the Gray Maybe ('Nirn' in the Ehlnofex).
In most cultures, Anuiel is honored for his part of the interplay that
creates the world, but Sithis is held in highest esteem because he's the one
that causes the reaction. Sithis is thus the Original Creator, an entity who
intrinsically causes change without design. Even the hist acknowledge this
being.
Anuiel is also perceived of as Order, opposed to the Sithis-Chaos. Perhaps it
is easier for mortals to envision change than perfect stasis, for often
Anuiel is relegated to the mythic background of Sithis' fancies. In Yokudan
folk-tales, which are among the most vivid in the world, Satak is only
referred to a handful of times, as "the Hum"; he is a force so prevalent as
to be not really there at all.
In any case, from these two beings spring the et'Ada, or Original Spirits. To
humans these et'Ada are the Gods and Demons; to the Aldmer, the Aedra/Daedra,
or the 'Ancestors'. All of the Tamrielic pantheons fill their rosters from
these et'Ada, though divine membership often differs from culture to culture.
Like Anu and Padomay, though, every one of these pantheons contains the
archetypes of the Dragon God and the Missing God.
The Dragon God and the Missing God
The Dragon God is always related to Time, and is universally revered as the
"First God." He is often called Akatosh, "whose perch from Eternity allowed
the day." He is the central God of the Cyrodilic Empire.
The Missing God is always related to the Mortal Plane, and is a key figure in
the Human/Aldmeri schism. The 'missing' refers to either his palpable absence
from the pantheon (another mental distress that is interpreted a variety of
ways), or the removal of his 'divine spark' by the other immortals. He is
often called Lorkhan, and his epitaphs are many, equally damnable and devout.
Note that Tamriel and the Mortal Plane do not exist yet. The Gray Maybe is
still the playground of the Original Spirits. Some are more bound to Anu's
light, others to the unknowable void. Their constant flux and interplay
increase their number, and their personalities take long to congeal. When
Akatosh forms, Time begins, and it becomes easier for some spirits to realize
themselves as beings with a past and a future. The strongest of the
recognizable spirits crystallize: Mephala, Arkay, Y'ffre, Magnus, Rupgta,
etc., etc. Others remain as concepts, ideas, or emotions. One of the
strongest of these, a barely formed urge that the others call Lorkhan,
details a plan to create Mundus, the Mortal Plane.
Humans, with the exception of the Redguards, see this act as a divine mercy,
an enlightenment whereby lesser creatures can reach immortality. Aldmer, with
the exception of the Dark Elves, see this act as a cruel deception, a trick
that sundered their connection to the spirit plane.
The Myth of Aurbis
Subtitled "The Psijiic Compensation," "Mythic Aurbis" was an attempt by
Artaeum apologists to explain the basics of Aldmeri religion to Uriel V in
the early, glorious part of his reign. It quietly avoided any blame or bias
against the Lorkhan-concept, which was still held in esteem by the Cyrodiils
as "Shezarr", the missing sibling of the Divines. Despite this, the Psijiici
still give a nice summary of the Elder view, and it will serve our purposes
here. This version comes from the archives of the Imperial Seminary from the
handwritten notes of an unknown scribe.
Mythic Aurbis exists, and has existed from time without measure, as a
fanciful Unnatural Realm.
'Aurbis' is used to connote the imperceptible Penumbra, the Gray Center
between the IS/IS NOT of Anu and Padomay. It contains the multitude realms of
Aetherius and Oblivion, as well as other, less structured forms.
The magical beings of Mythic Aurbis live for a long time and have complex
narrative lives, creating the patterns of myth.
These are spirits made from bits of the immortal polarity. The first of these
was Akatosh the Time Dragon, whose formation made it easier for other spirits
to structure themselves. Gods and demons form and reform and procreate.
Finally, the magical beings of Mythic Aurbis told the ultimate story -- that
of their own death. For some this was an artistic transfiguration into the
concrete, non-magical substance of the world. For others, this was a war in
which all were slain, their bodies becoming the substance of the world. For
yet others, this was a romantic marriage and parenthood, with the parent
spirits naturally having to die and give way to the succeeding mortal races.
The agent of this communal decision was Lorkhan, whom most early myths vilify
as a trickster or deceiver. More sympathetic versions of this story point out
Lorkhan as being the reason the mortal plane exists at all.
The magical beings created the races of the mortal Aurbis in their own image,
either consciously as artists and craftsmen, or as the fecund rotting matter
out of which the mortals sprung forth, or in a variety of other analogical
senses.
The magical beings, then, having died, became the et'Ada. The et'Ada are the
things perceived and revered by the mortals as gods, spirits, or geniuses of
Aurbis. Through their deaths, these magical beings separated themselves in
nature from the other magical beings of the Unnatural realms.
The Daedra were created at this time also, being spirits and Gods more
attuned to Oblivion, or that realm closer to the Void of Padomay. This act is
the dawn of the Mythic (Merethic) Era. It has been perceived by the earliest
mortals many different ways, either as a joyous 'second creation', or
(especially by the Elves) as a painful fracturing from the divine. The
originator of the event is always Lorkhan.
Lorkhan
This Creator-Trickster-Tester deity is in every Tamrielic mythic tradition.
His most popular name is the Aldmeri "Lorkhan," or Doom Drum. He convinced or
contrived the Original Spirits to bring about the creation of the Mortal
Plane, upsetting the status quo much like his father Padomay had introduced
instability into the universe in the Beginning Place. After the world is
materialized, Lorkhan is separated from his divine center, sometimes
involuntarily, and wanders the creation of the et'Ada. Interpretations of
these events differ widely by culture. Below are some of the better known:
Yokudan, "Satakal the Worldskin"
"Satak was First Serpent, the Snake who came Before, and all the worlds to
come rested in the glimmer of its scales. But it was so big there was nothing
but, and thus it was coiled around and around itself, and the worlds to come
slid across each other but none had room to breathe or even be. And so the
worlds called to something to save them, to let them out, but of course there
was nothing outside the First Serpent, so aid had to come from inside it;
this was Akel, the Hungry Stomach. Akel made itself known, and Satak could
only think about what it was, and it was the best hunger, so it ate and ate.
Soon there was enough room to live in the worlds and things began. These
things were new and they often made mistakes, for there was hardly time to
practice being things before. So most things ended quickly or were not good
or gave up on themselves. Some things were about to start, but they were
eaten up as Satak got to that part of its body. This was a violent time.
"Pretty soon Akel caused Satak to bite its own heart and that was the end.
The hunger, though, refused to stop, even in death, and so the First Serpent
shed its skin to begin anew. As the old world died, Satakal began, and when
things realized this pattern so did they realize what their part in it was.
They began to take names, like Ruptga or Tuwhacca, and they strode about
looking for their kin. As Satakal ate itself over and over, the strongest
spirits learned to bypass the cycle by moving at strange angles. They called
this process the Walkabout, a way of striding between the worldskins. Ruptga
was so big that he was able to place the stars in the sky so that weaker
spirits might find their way easier. This practice became so easy for the
spirits that it became a place, called the Far Shores, a time of waiting
until the next skin.
"Ruptga was able to sire many children through the cycles and so he became
known as the Tall Papa. He continued to place stars to map out the void for
others, but after so many cycles there were almost too many spirits to help
out. He made himself a helper from the detritus of past skins and this was
Sep, or Second Serpent. Sep had much of the Hungry Stomach still left in him,
multiple hungers from multiple skins. He was so hungry he could not think
straight. Sometimes he would just eat the spirits he was supposed to help,
but Tall Papa would always reach in and take them back out. Finally, tired of
helping Tall Papa, Sep went and gathered the rest of the old skins and balled
them up, tricking spirits to help him, promising them this was how you
reached the new world, by making one out of the old. These spirits loved this
way of living, as it was easier. No more jumping from place to place. Many
spirits joined in, believing this was good thinking. Tall Papa just shook his
head.
"Pretty soon the spirits on the skin-ball started to die, because they were
very far from the real world of Satakal. And they found that it was too far
to jump into the Far Shores now. The spirits that were left pleaded with Tall
Papa to take them back. But grim Ruptga would not, and he told the spirits
that they must learn new ways to follow the stars to the Far Shores now. If
they could not, then they must live on through their children, which was not
the same as before. Sep, however, needed more punishment, and so Tall Papa
squashed the Snake with a big stick. The hunger fell out of Sep's dead mouth
and was the only thing left of the Second Serpent. While the rest of the new
world was allowed to strive back to godhood, Sep could only slink around in a
dead skin, or swim about in the sky, a hungry void that jealously tried to
eat the stars."
Cyrodilic "Shezarr's Song"
"This was a new thing that Shezarr described to the Gods, becoming mothers
and fathers, being responsible, and making great sacrifices, with no
guarantee of success, but Shezarr spoke beautifully to them, and moved them
beyond mystery and tears. Thus the Aedra gave free birth to the world, the
beasts, and the beings, making these things from parts of themselves. This
free birth was very painful, and afterwards the Aedra were no longer young,
and strong, and powerful, as they had been from the beginning of days.
"Some Aedra were disappointed and bitter in their loss, and angry with
Shezarr, and with all creation, for they felt Shezarr had lied and tricked
them. These Aedra, the Gods of the Aldmer, led by Auri-El, were disgusted by
their enfeebled selves, and by what they had created. 'Everything is spoiled,
for now, and for all time, and the most we can do is teach the Elven Races to
suffer nobly, with dignity, and chastise ourselves for our folly, and avenge
ourselves upon Shezarr and his allies.' Thus are the Gods of the Elves dark
and brooding, and thus are the Elves ever dissatisfied with mortality, and
always proud and stoic despite the harshness of this cruel and indifferent
world.
"Other Aedra looked upon creation, and were well pleased. These Aedra, the
Gods of Men and Beast Folk, led by Akatosh, praised and cherished their
wards, the Mortal Races. 'We have suffered, and are diminished, for all time,
but the mortal world we have made is glorious, filling our hearts and spirits
with hope. Let us teach the Mortal Races to live well, to cherish beauty and
honor, and to love one another as we love them.' Thus are the Gods of Men
tender and patient, and thus are Men and Beast Folk great in heart for joy or
suffering, and ambitious for greater wisdom and a better world.
"Now when the Daedra Lords heard Shezarr, they mocked him, and the other
Aedra. 'Cut parts of ourselves off? And lose them? Forever? That's stupid!
You'll be sorry! We are far smarter than you, for we will create a new world
out of ourselves, but we will not cut it off, or let it mock us, but we will
make this world within ourselves, forever ours, and under our complete
control.'
"So the Daedra Lords created the Daedric Realms, and all the ranks of Lesser
Daedra, great and small. And, for the most part, the Daedra Lords were well
pleased with this arrangement, for they always had worshippers and servants
and playthings close to hand. But, at the same time, they sometimes looked
with envy upon the Mortal Realms, for though mortals were foul and feeble and
contemptible, their passions and ambitions were also far more surprising and
entertaining than the antics of the Lesser Daedra. Thus do the Daedra Lords
court and seduce certain amusing specimens of the Mortal Races, especially
the passionate and powerful. It gives the Daedra Lords special pleasure to
steal away from Shezarr and the Aedra the greatest and most ambitious
mortals. 'Not only are you fools to mutilate yourselves,' gloat the Daedra
Lords, 'But you cannot even keep the best pieces, which prefer the glory and
power of the Daedra Lords to the feeble vulgarity of the mush-minded Aedra.'"
Altmeri "The Heart of the World"
"Anu encompassed, and encompasses, all things. So that he might know himself
he created Anuiel, his soul and the soul of all things. Anuiel, as all souls,
was given to self-reflection, and for this he needed to differentiate between
his forms, attributes, and intellects. Thus was born Sithis, who was the sum
of all the limitations Anuiel would utilize to ponder himself. Anuiel, who
was the soul of all things, therefore became many things, and this interplay
was and is the Aurbis.
"At first the Aurbis was turbulent and confusing, as Anuiel's ruminations
went on without design. Aspects of the Aurbis then asked for a schedule to
follow or procedures whereby they might enjoy themselves a little longer
outside of perfect knowledge. So that he might know himself this way, too,
Anu created Auriel, the soul of his soul. Auriel bled through the Aurbis as a
new force, called time. With time, various aspects of the Aurbis began to
understand their natures and limitations. They took names, like Magnus or
Mara or Xen. One of these, Lorkhan, was more of a limit than a nature, so he
could never last long anywhere.
"As he entered every aspect of Anuiel, Lorkhan would plant an idea that was
almost wholly based on limitation. He outlined a plan to create a soul for
the Aurbis, a place where the aspects of aspects might even be allowed to
self-reflect. He gained many followers; even Auriel, when told he would
become the king of the new world, agreed to help Lorkhan. So they created the
Mundus, where their own aspects might live, and became the et'Ada.
"But this was a trick. As Lorkhan knew, this world contained more limitations
than not and was therefore hardly a thing of Anu at all. Mundus was the House
of Sithis. As their aspects began to die off, many of the et'Ada vanished
completely. Some escaped, like Magnus, and that is why there are no
limitations to magic. Others, like Y'ffre, transformed themselves into the
Ehlnofey, the Earthbones, so that the whole world might not die. Some had to
marry and make children just to last. Each generation was weaker than the
last, and soon there were Aldmer. Darkness caved in. Lorkhan made armies out
of the weakest souls and named them Men, and they brought Sithis into every
quarter.
"Auriel pleaded with Anu to take them back, but he had already filled their
places with something else. But his soul was gentler and granted Auriel his
Bow and Shield, so that he might save the Aldmer from the hordes of Men. Some
had already fallen, like the Chimer, who listened to tainted et'Ada, and
others, like the Bosmer, had soiled Time's line by taking Mannish wives.
"Auriel could not save Altmora, the Elder Wood, and it was lost to Men. They
were chased south and east to Old Ehlnofey, and Lorkhan was close behind. He
shattered that land into many. Finally Trinimac, Auriel's greatest knight,
knocked Lorkhan down in front of his army and reached in with more than hands
to take his Heart. He was undone. The Men dragged Lorkhan's body away and
swore blood vengeance on the heirs of Auriel for all time.
"But when Trinimac and Auriel tried to destroy the Heart of Lorkhan it
laughed at them. It said, "This Heart is the heart of the world, for one was
made to satisfy the other." So Auriel fastened the thing to an arrow and let
it fly long into the sea, where no aspect of the new world may ever find it."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Old Ways
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_oldways
Weight: 2
Value: 40
Special Notes: None
The Old Ways
by Celarus the Loremaster
We who know the Old Ways are well aware of the existence of a spiritual world
invisible to the unenlightened. Just as one living in a kingdom but unaware
of the political machinations underneath may see a new tax or battle
preparation as the caprices of fortune, many observe floods, famines, and
madness with helpless incomprehension. This is deplorable. As the great
Cuilean Darnizhaan moaned, "The power of ignorance can shatter ebony like
glass."
What, after all, is the origin of these spiritual forces that move the
invisible strings of Mundus? Any neophyte of Artaeum knows that these
spirits are our ancestors -- and that, while living, they too were bewildered
by the spirits of their ancestors, and so on back to the original Acharyai.
The Daedra and gods to whom the common people turn are no more than the
spirits of superior men and women whose power and passion granted them great
influence in the afterworld.
Certainly this is our truth and our religion. But how does it help us in our
sacred duty of seliffrnsae, or providing "grave and faithful counsel" to
lesser men?
Primarily, it is easy to grasp the necessity both of endowing good men with
great power and making powerful men good. We recognize the multiple threats
that a strong tyrant represents -- breeds cruelty which feeds the Daedra
Boethiah and hatred which feeds the Daedra Vaernima; if he should die having
performed a particularly malevolent act, he may go to rule in Oblivion; and
worst of all, he inspires other villains to thirst after power and other
rulers to embrace villainy. Knowing this, we have developed patience in our
dealings with such despots. They should be crippled, humiliated,
impoverished, imprisoned. Other counsellors may advocate assassination or
warfare -- which, aside from its spiritual insignificance, is expensive and
likely to inflict at least as much pain on the innocents as the brutish
dictator. No, we are intelligence gatherers, dignified diplomats -- not
revolutionaries.
How, then, are our counsellors "faithful"? We are faithful only to the Old
Ways -- it is essential always to remember the spiritual world while keeping
our eyes open in the physical one. Performing the Rites of Moawita on the
2nd of Hearth Fire and the Vigyld on the 1st of Second Seed are essential
means of empowering salutary spirits and debilitating unclean ones. How,
then, are we at once faithful to those we counsel and to the Isle of Artaeum?
Perhaps the sage Taheritae said it best: "In Mundus, conflict and disparity
are what bring change, and change is the most sacred of the Eleven Forces.
Change is the force without focus or origin. It is the duty of the
disciplined Psijic ["Enlightened One"] to dilute change where it brings
greed, gluttony, sloth, ignorance, prejudice, cruelty... [here Taheritae
lists the rest of the 111 Prodigalities], and to encourage change where it
brings excellence, beauty, happiness, and enlightenment. As such, the
faithful counsel has but one master: His mind. If the man the Psijic
counsels acts wickedly and brings oegnithr ["bad change"] and will otherwise
not be counselled, it is the Psijic's duty to counterbalance the oegnithr by
any means necessary [emphasis mine]."
A student of the Old Ways may indeed ally himself to a lord -- but it is a
risky relationship. It cannot be stressed enough that the choice be wisely
made. Should the lord refuse wise counsel and order the Psijic (to use
Taheritae's outmoded word) to perform an act contrary to the teachings of the
Old Ways, there are few available options. The Psijic may obey, albeit
unwillingly, and fall prey to the dark forces against which he has devoted
his life. The Psijic may abandon his lord, which will bring shame on him and
the Isle of Artaeum, and so may never be allowed home again. Or the Psijic
may simply kill himself.
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The Pig Children
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Object ID: bk_PigChildren
Weight: 4
Value: 100
Special Notes: None
The Pig Children
by Tyston Bane
No one -- not the oldest Dark Elf of Mount Dagoth-Ur or the Ancient Sage of
Solitude himself -- can recall a time when the Orc did not ravage our fair
Tamriel. Whatever foul and pestilent Daedra of Oblivion conjured them up
could scarcely have created a more constant threat to the well-being of the
civilized races of Tamriel than the obnoxious Orc.
Orcs are thankfully easy to recognize from other humanoids by their size --
commonly forty pertans in height and fifteen thousand angaids in weight --
their brutal pig-like features, and their stench. They are consistently
belligerent, morally grotesque, intellectually moronic, and unclean. By all
rights, the civilized races of Tamriel should have been able to purge the
land of their blight eras ago, but their ferocity, animal cunning, and
curious tribal loyalty have made them inevitable as leeches in a stagnant
pool.
Tales of Orcish barbarity precede written record. When Jastyaga wrote of the
Order of Diagna's joining the armies of Daggerfall and Sentinel "to hold at
bay the wicked Orcs in their foul Orsinium fastness... and burn aught in
cleansing flame" in 1E950, she assumed that any reader would be aware of the
savagery of the Orcs. When the siege was completed thirty years later, after
the death of many heroes including Gaiden Shinji, and the destruction of
Orsinium scattered the Orcish survivors throughout the Wrothgarian Mountains,
she further wrote, "The free peoples rejoiced for that their ancient fell
enemy was dispersed into diverse parts." Obviously, the Orcs had been
terrorizing the region of the Iliac Bay at least since the early years of the
First Era.
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The Pilgrim's Path
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_PilgrimsPath
Weight: 3
Value: 25
Special Notes: Adds Gnisis, Vivec, Ghostgate, Koal Cave Enterance, and Fields
of Kummu as marked locations on your world map
The Pilgrim's Path
The pilgrim must visit each of the Shrines of the Seven Graces. At each site
the pilgrim must stand before the three-sided stone triolith and read the
inscription. To ease the pilgrim's task, the Temple has made this list of
shrines along with directions and advice to pilgrims. The blessings of each
shrine last at least a half day.
The Fields of Kummu: Shrine of Humility
Here Lord Vivec met a poor farmer whose guar had died. The farmer could not
harvest his muck without his guar, and he could not provide for his family or
his village. So the Lord Vivec removed his fine clothes and toiled in the
fields like a beast of burden until the crop was harvested. It is at the
Fields of Kummu we go to pray for the same humility Lord Vivec showed on that
day.
The Fields of Kummu are west of Suran on the north shore of Lake Amaya as you
head towards Pelagiad. The shrine is between two rocks, and most easily
noticed while traveling east along the road. Alof's farm nearby has a small
dock on the north bank of Lake Amaya. This is the only dock nearby which Alof
kindly allows servants of the Temple to use. It is customary to leave a
portion of muck at the shrine to represent Vivec's humility.
To Stop the Moon: The Shrine of Daring
When Sheogorath rebelled against the Tribunal, he tricked the moon Baar Dau
into forsaking its appointed path through Oblivion. The Mad Star inspired the
moon to hurl itself upon Vivec's new city, which Sheogorath claimed was built
in mockery of the heavens. When Vivec learned of Sheogorath's scheme, he
froze the rogue moon in the sky with a single gesture and the grace of his
countenance. Overwhelmed by the courage and daring of Vivec, the moon Baar
Dau swore itself to eternal service of the Tribunal and all its works. Thus
the moon now stands guard over the palace, and serves as a citadel for the
Temple's Ordinators.
The Shrine of Daring is found in the city of Vivec, in the Temple District,
along the western wall of the High Fane, the great Temple of Vvardenfell.
When you address the shrine, it is customary to leave behind a Potion of
Rising Force. Suitable potions may be purchased from the Temple. Homemade
potions are not acceptable.
The Palace: Shrine of Generosity
Long after Lord Nerevar and the Tribunal triumphed over Dagoth Ur, the people
wished to build a monument to the heroes of that war. Vivec thanked them, but
said that it would be better to dedicate a monument not only to the glorious
heroes, but to all people, great and small, who suffered and died in the war.
It became the custom to make offerings here, either in thanks of our good
fortune, or for those less fortunate.
The Shrine of Generosity is on the top steps of Vivec's Palace, the
southernmost Canton of Vivec City. The customary donation for those in good
fortune is 100 gold.
The Puzzle Canal: The Shrine of Courtesy
In a battle with Mehrunes Dagon, Vivec gave his own silver longsword to the
Daedra Lord rather than dishonor himself by fighting an unarmed foe. This so
impressed the Dremora, the most honorable and chivalrous of Mehrunes Dagon's
Daedric servants, that they now share a bond of respect and courtesy with the
followers of the Tribunal, though we must never forget that they are our
enemies.
The Shrine of Courtesy is found in the heart of the Puzzle Canal, a labyrinth
beneath Lord Vivec's Palace in the city of Vivec. The journey though the
Puzzle Canal can be confusing and it is suggested that common pilgrims carry
a scroll of ALMSIVI Intervention in case they get lost. The Dremora Krazzt is
found in the center of the Puzzle Canal, and will accept a plain silver
longsword if spoken to with courtesy. After Krazzt accepts the sword,
pilgrims must read the inscription on the triolith.
The Mask of Vivec: Shrine of Justice
Near the altar is Vivec's Ash Mask. In the Days of Fire when Dagoth Ur first
crept back into Red Mountain and awakened it, Vivec led refugees here as they
fled the ash and blight. Weary, they rested here a while. When Vivec awoke,
he found himself and all his followers encased in casts of grey ash. Frozen
like a sleeping statue and unable to free himself or help his people, Vivec
was filled with despair. Vivec's tears weakened his ash cast. He tore the ash
from his perished followers, breathed life into their lungs, and cured them
of the blight. This is Vivec's heroism -- his tender heart provides strength
when his might fails.
The Shrine of Justice is guarded within the Gnisis Temple, in the village of
Gnisis, northwest by road from the town of Ald'ruhn. When you address the
shrine, it is customary to leave a potion of Cure Common Disease as a token
of your respect for justice. Suitable potions may be purchased from Temple.
Homemade potions are not acceptable.
Koal Cave: The Shrine of Valor
Within the Koal Cave, Vivec fought a battle with Ruddy Man, the father of the
Dreugh. When he defeated Ruddy Man, Vivec spared his life, on the condition
that Ruddy Man and his children would give up their tough hides to serve as
armor for the Dunmer.
The Shrine of Valor is inside the Koal Cave, a cavern on the seacoast west of
the ancient stronghold Berandas and south of Gnisis. The cave mouth faces
south, towards the sea, and is marked by a large natural arch of stone. The
region is wilderness, and finding the cave mouth can be difficult. Dreugh
within the cave itself are fearsome enemies; only experienced and capable
adventurers should attempt to re-enact the epic battle with the dreugh in the
cave. Dreugh wax may be bought at the Temple in Gnisis. When you address the
shrine, it is customary to leave a portion of dreugh wax as a token of
Vivec's victorious struggle with Ruddy Man.
The Ghostfence: The Shrine of Pride
The Ghostfence is a lasting symbol of the indomitable will and power of
ALMSIVI, and a monument to Dunmer pride in overcoming its enemies.
The Shrine of Pride is found within the Ghostfence, just northeast of the
Ghostgate itself. The safest route to Ghostgate is along the Foyada Mamaea, a
volcanic ravine running from the top of Red Mountain southwest to its end
just below Balmora. An old Dwemer bridge crosses the foyada near Fort
Moonmoth. A pilgrim may follow the Foyada Mamaea all the way to Ghostgate.
Any journey inside the Ghostfence is dangerous, but even the most timid
pilgrim should be safe, so long as he does not stray too far from the
Ghostgate and flees from any minions of Dagoth Ur. When you address the
shrine, it is customary to leave a soul gem in remembrance of our ancestors
who were bound to the Tribunal's service.
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The Posting of the Hunt
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_PostingOfTheHunt
Weight: 4
Value: 200
Special Notes: None
[The writing in the book appears to be a hasty transcription, perhaps from
dictation, or copied from a longer work.]
The Posting of the Hunt
Let no man say before a witness that the Hunt has not been called, nor the
Rites declared, or the Ancient Offices observed.
The Ritual of the Innocent Quarry, also called the Wild Hunt, is an ancient
rite drawing magical energy from the powerful magicka stream that engulfs
this realm. The creators and times of the rituals are long forgotten. But
followed properly, the rite brings great power and prestige to the Huntsman.
The ritual pits the all-powerful Huntsmen and their Greater and Lesser Dogs
against the pitiful and doomed Innocent Quarry, called by tradition the Hare,
after the mortal creature of human hunts. At once, the Huntsman is
transported by the exquisite thrill and glory of his might and dominion over
his helpless prey, and at the same time touched by the tragic, noble, and
ultimately futile plight of the Innocent Quarry. In the highest aesthetic
realization of the ritual, the ecstatic rapture of the kill is balanced by
the Huntsman's identification with the sadness and despair of the Innocent
Quarry. As in pieces the body of the innocent Hare is torn, the Huntsman
reflects on the tragic imbalances of power and the cruel injustices of the
world.
As the Hunt begins, the Lesser Dogs assemble before the green crystal
reflections of the Chapel of the Innocent Quarry. Inside the Chapel, the
Huntsmen, the Greater Dogs, and the Master of the Hunt perform the rites that
initiate and sanctify the Huntsmen, the Hunt, and the Innocent Quarry. Then
the Huntsman emerges from the Chapel, displays the Spear of Bitter Mercy, and
recites the Offices of the Hunt. The Offices describe explains the laws and
conditions of the four stages of the Hunt: the Drag, the Chase, the Call, and
the View to the Kill.
Stage One -- The Drag, in which the Lesser Dogs drag the ground to flush out
the Hare.
Stage Two -- The Chase, in which the Greater Hounds drive the Hare before
them.
Stage Three -- The Call, in which the Greater Hounds trap the Hare and summon
the Huntsmen for the kill.
Stage Four -- The View, in which the Huntsman makes the kill with the ritual
Spear of Bitter Mercy, and calls upon the Master of the Hunt to view the kill
by ringing the town bell. The Master of the Hunt then bestows the Bounty upon
the Huntsman Bold who has wielded the Spear of Bitter Mercy in the kill. The
Master of the Hunt also calls upon the Huntsman Bold to name the next Hare
for the next Hunt (though the Huntsman Bold himself may not participate in
the next Hunt).
The Offices of the Hunt, which the Huntsmen, Master, and Hounds are solemnly
sworn to honor, detail the practices and conditions of the Hunt. These
practices and conditions, also known as the Law, strictly define all details
of the Hunt, such as how many Hounds of each sort may participate, how the
Spear of Bitter Mercy may be wielded, and so forth. In addition, the Law
states that the Hare must have a genuine chance to escape the Hunt, no matter
how slim. In practice, this condition has been defined as the availability of
six keys, which, if gathered together in the Temple of Daedric Rites, permit
the Hare to teleport away from the Hunt, and so elude the Huntsman and his
Spear. It is inconceivable, of course, that the Hare might actually discover
the keys and escape, but the forms must be observed, and tampering with the
keys or cheating the Hare of a genuine chance of finding or using the keys is
a shameful and unforgivable betrayal of the Law of the Hunt.
The Ritual of the Hunt grants the Huntsmen protection from all forms of
attack, including mortal and immortal weapons, and sorceries of all schools.
Huntsmen are cautioned, however, that the ritual does not protect the
Huntsman from the potent energies of his own Spear, and cautions against
reckless wielding of the Spear in close melee, darkness, or other dangerous
circumstances, for a single touch of the Spear of Bitter Mercy means instant
and certain death for innocent Hare or fellow Huntsman alike.
The right to name a Wild Hunt is a grand and grave right indeed, as all but
the High Daedra Lords are vulnerable to the potent sorceries of the Spear of
Bitter Mercy. The Spear itself is therefore a terrible weapon, and it is
forbidden to remove it from the Grounds of the Ritual Hunt.
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The Prayers of Baranat
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_hand to hand1
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Hand-to-Hand skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Prayers of Baranat
A Traditional Myth
When the Lady Genevrah was kidnapped from her estate and held for ransom, her
mother sent word out that whoever rescued her would be allowed to marry her
and inherit the land. Unfortunately, in those troubled days, kidnappings,
murders, and thievery were rampant, and there was a dearth of able-bodied
adventurers for such assignments. In fact, the only person who answered her
call was a skinny, little fellow named Baranat.
"You are certainly brave, but I fear you would never survive," said the old
woman. "My daughter, you see, has been kidnapped by the Coribael brothers
whose physical prowess is the stuff of legend."
"My lady," said Baranat. "When I was born, I was blessed by Vivec, Almalexia,
and Sotha Sil, and I have the ear of the saints. If I run into any trouble,
I'll call on them to aid my quest."
Doubtful, but having no other prospects, the old woman sent Baranat off,
explaining that the four brothers' camp was to the north. In the center of
the camp, the eldest and most powerful brother Airen Coribael was holding
Lady Genevrah personally. Each of his brothers guarded a different post
along the valley -- Baranat would have to defeat each to rescue the lady.
Baranat rode many miles through the northern swamps before he came to the
first of the brothers' guard posts. There he saw Vanis Coribael, the
youngest of the brothers, watching the valley for intruders. Vanis was known
to be faster than the wind, a warrior who could thrash his opponents before
they even unsheathed their weapons. Baranat look a look at his sad, cut-rate
iron blade, and prayed to the saints.
Saint Veloth the Pilgrim appeared before Baranat in shining robes, and smiled
upon him, "Baranat, put down your blade and I will make you swifter than bolt
of lightning."
Baranat dropped his blade and ran at Vanis, moving so fast he didn't rustle a
leaf with his pace. In a flash, Vanis was dead by Baranat's hands. The
adventurer continued on until he reached the second youngest Coribael
brother, Feryn, who not only was as fast as Vanis, but so strong, he could
rip a trama shrub up by the roots with two fingers. Baranat hid himself and
trembled as he looked at the giant Feryn Coribael. Again, the young
adventurer prayed to the saints.
Saint Nerevar the Captain appeared before Baranat in golden armor, and smiled
upon him, "Baranat, I will make you stronger than a hundred warriors."
Baranat rushed at Feryn, knocking the giant through a boulder which turned to
dust on impact. Feryn tried to get to his feet, but Baranat tore him apart,
scattering him across the valley floor in eighty-seven pieces. Beyond
Feryn's post was a raging river, where the second eldest Coribael brother,
Horis, stood guard. Horis, who was faster than his brother Vanis, stronger
than his brother Feryn, and so tough that he could swim in the lava of Dagoth
Ur like it was the Padomaic Ocean. Baranat thought of his own tolerance for
pain, which was minimal, and prayed to the saints for help.
Saint Roris the Martyr appeared before Baranat with flesh like sparkling
gems, and smiled on him, "Baranat, I will make you unyielding as the heart of
Oblivion."
Baranat rushed at Horis, and two plunged into the rushing river. For twelve
hours, they wrestled one another under the water, until Horis could hold his
breath no more and drowned. Baranat pulled himself out of the river and
continued down the valley, until he reached the camp. Airen Coribael himself
was there, guarding a squirming sack which Baranat assumed either contained
Lady Genevrah or several large cats. The young adventurer quailed at the
prospect of doing battle with Airen Coribael, the swiftest, strongest,
sturdiest, and most accomplished fighter of the brothers. He prayed to the
saints for help.
Saint Olms the Just appeared before Baranat in a burst of flame, and smiled
on him, "Baranat, I will make you more cunning in battle than the most
dangerous of daedra."
Baranat walked calmly into the camp and began battle with Airen Coribael.
The fight lasted seven days, and for six of them, Airen had the upper hand.
He rained kicks and punches down using the arrhythmic style the Khajiit call
Goutfang; he parried and blocked in all the fashions of the great Nordic
warriors; he maintained his balance, coordination, speed, strength, timing,
and tactics as the moons rose and fell from the sky. But on the seventh day,
as he was preparing his Killing Blow, he suddenly stopped, eyes wide open.
The blood drained from his face, and he realized the trap he had stepped
into. A trap with no escape. With three quick flashes of his hand, Baranat
completed the Cycle of Blood, the old Redguard fighting style he had begun on
day one. Airen Coribael breathed no more.
The young adventurer ran to open the sack where Lady Genevrah lay. His first
surprise. She had a face like a dreugh and as she began to berate him for
taking his time, he realized that she had a very, very, very unpleasant
personality as well. Several days later, when they were back at the old
woman's court, he discovered that the estate that he would be inheriting was
utterly dissolute by decades of blight storms and poor crops.
Saint Delyn the Wise watched the young adventurer from a cloud in the sky,
and smiled on him, "Baranat, before you fight, find out what you're fighting
for."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Ransom of Zarek
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Athletics1
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Athletics skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Ransom of Zarek
Ancient Tales of the Dwemer, Part I
By Marobar Sul
Jalemmil stood in her garden and read the letter her servant had brought to
her. The bouquet of joss roses in her hand fell to the ground. For a moment
it was as if all birds had ceased to sing and a cloud had passed over the
sky. Her carefully cultivated and structured haven seemed to flood over with
darkness.
"We have thy son," it read. "We will be in touch with thee shortly with our
ransom demands."
Zarek had never made it as far as Akgun after all. One of the brigands on
the road, Orcs probably, or accursed Dunmer, must have seen his well-
appointed carriage, and taken him hostage. Jalemmil clutched at a post for
support, wondering if her boy had been hurt. He was but a student, not the
sort to fight against well-armed men, but had they beaten him? It was more
than a mother's heart could bear to imagine.
"Don't tell me they sent the ransom note so quickly," called a family voice,
and a familiar face appeared through the hedge. It was Zarek. Jalemmil
hurried to embrace her boy, tears running down her face.
"What happened?" she cried. "I thought thou had been kidnapped."
"I was," said Zarek. "Three huge soaring Nords attacked by carriage on the
Frimvorn Pass. Brothers, as I learned, named Mathais, Ulin, and Koorg. Thou
should have seen these men, mother. Each one of them would have had trouble
fitting through the front door, I can tell thee."
"I thought about waiting for that, but I knew they'd send off a ransom note
and I know how thou does worry. So I remembered what my mentor at Akgun
always said about remaining calm, observing thy surroundings, and looking for
thy opponent's weakness," Zarek grinned. "It took a while, though, because
these fellows were truly monsters. And then, when I listened to them,
bragging to one another, I realized that vanity was their weakness."
"What did thou do?"
"They had me chained at their camp in the woods not far from Cael, on a high
knoll over-looking a wide river. I heard one of them, Koorg, telling the
others that it would take the better part of an hour to swim across the river
and back. They were nodding in agreement, when I spoke up.
"'I could swim that river and back in thirty minutes,' I said.
"'Impossible,' said Koorg. 'I can swim faster than a little whelp like thee.'
"So it was agreed that we would dive off the cliff, swim to the center
island, and return. As we went to our respective rocks, Koorg took it upon
himself to lecture me about all the fine points of swimming. The importance
of synchronized movements of the arms and legs for maximum speed. How
essential it was to breathe after only third or fourth stroke, not too often
to slow thyself down, but not too often to lose one's air. I nodded and
agreed to all his fine points. Then we dove off the cliffs. I made it to
the island and back in a little over an hour, but Koorg never returned. He
had dashed his brains at the rocks at the base of the cliff. I had noticed
the telltale undulations of underwater rocks, and had taken the diving rock
on the right."
"But thou returned?" asked Jalemmil, astounded. "Was that not then when thou
escaped?"
"It was too risky to escape then," said Zarek. "They could have easily caught
me again, and I wasn't keen to be blamed for Koorg's disappearance. I said I
did not know what happened to him, and after some searching, they decided he
had forgotten about the race and had swum ashore to hunt for food. They
could not see how I could have had anything to do with his disappearance, as
fully visible as I was throughout my swim. The two brothers began making
camp along the rocky cliff-edge, picking an ideal location so that I would
not be able to escape.
"One of the brothers, Mathais, began commenting on the quality of the soil
and the gradual incline of the rock that circled around the bay below.
Ideal, he said, for a foot race. I expressed my ignorance of the sport, and
he was keen to give me details of the proper technique for running a race.
He made absurd faces, showing how one must breathe in through the nose and
out through the mouth; how to bend one's knees to the proper angle on the
rise; the importance of sure foot placement. Most important, he explained,
was that the runner keep an aggressive but not too strenuous pace if one
intends to win. It is fine to run in second place through the race, he said,
provided one has the willpower and strength to pull out in the end.
"I was an enthusiastic student, and Mathais decided that we ought to run a
quick race around the edge of the bay before night fell. Ulin told us to
bring back some firewood when we came back. We began at once down the path,
skirting the cliff below. I followed his advice about breath, gait, and foot
placement, but I ran with all my power right from the start. Despite his
much longer legs, I was a few paces ahead as we wound the first corner.
"With his eyes on my back, Mathais did not see the gape in the rock that I
jumped over. He plummeted over the cliff before he had a chance to cry out.
I spent a few minutes gathering some twigs before I returned to Ulin at
camp."
"Now thou were just showing off," frowned Jalemmil. "Surely that would have
been a good time to escape."
"Thou might think so," agreed Zarek. "But thou had to see the topography -- a
few large trees, and then nothing but shrubs. Ulin would have noticed my
absence and caught up with me in no time, and I would have had a hard time
explaining Mathais's absence. However, the brief forage around the area
allowed me to observe some of the trees close up, and I could formulate my
final plan.
"When I got back to camp with a few twigs, I told Ulin that Mathais was slow
coming along, dragging a large dead tree behind him. Ulin scoffed at his
brother's strength, saying it would take him time to pull up a live tree by
the roots and drop it on the bonfire. I expressed reasonable doubt.
"'I'll show thee,' he said, ripping up a ten foot tall specimen effortlessly.
"'But that's scarcely a sapling,' I objected. 'I thought thou could rip up a
tree.' His eyes followed mine to a magnificent, heavy-looking one at the
edge of the clearing. Ulin grabbed it and began to shake it with a
tremendous force to loosen its roots from the dirt. With that, he loosened
the hive from the uppermost branches, dropping it down onto his head.
"That was when I made my escape, mother," said Zarek, in conclusion, showing
a little schoolboy pride. "While Mathais and Koorg were at the base of the
cliff, and Ulin was flailing about, engulfed by a swarm."
Jalemmil embraced her son once again.
Publisher's Note:
I was reluctant to publish the works of Marobar Sul, but when the University
of Gwylim Press asked me to edit this edition, I decided to use this as an
opportunity to set the record straight once and for all.
Scholars do not agree on the exact date of Marobar Sul's work, but it is
generally agreed that they were written by the playwright "Gor Felim," famous
for popular comedies and romances during the Interregnum between the fall of
the First Cyrodilic Empire and the rise of Tiber Septim. The current theory
holds that Felim heard a few genuine Dwemer tales and adapted them to the
stage in order to make money, along with rewritten versions of many of his
own plays.
Gor Felim created the persona of "Marobar Sul" who could translate the Dwemer
language in order to add some sort of validity to the work and make it even
more valuable to the gullible. Note that while "Marobar Sul" and his works
became the subject of heated controversy, there are no reliable records of
anyone actually meeting "Marobar Sul," nor was there anyone of that name
employed by the Mages Guild, the School of Julianos, or any other
intellectual institution.
In any case, the Dwemer in most of the tales of "Marobar Sul" bear little
resemblance to the fearsome, unfathomable race that frightened even the
Dunmer, Nords, and Redguards into submission and built ruins that even now
have yet to be understood.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Real Barenziah v I
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_RealBarenziah1
Weight: 4
Value: 20
Special Notes: None
The Real Barenziah, Part 1
Anonymous
Five hundred years ago in Mournhold, City of Gems, there lived a blind widow
and her only child, a tall, strapping young man. He was a miner, as was his
father before him, a common laborer in the mines of the Lord of Mournhold,
for his ability in magicka was small. The work was honorable but paid
poorly. His mother made and sold comberry cakes at the city market to help
eke out their living. They did well enough, she said, they had enough to
fill their bellies, no one could wear more than one suit of clothing at a
time, and the roof leaked only when it rained. But Symmachus would have
liked more. He hoped for a lucky strike at the mines, which would garner him
a large bonus. In his free hours he enjoyed hoisting a mug of ale in the
tavern with his friends, and gambling with them at cards. He also drew the
eyes and sighs of more than one pretty Elven lass, although none held his
interest for long. He was a typical young Dark Elf of peasant descent,
remarkable only for his size. It was rumored that he had a bit of Nordic
blood in him.
In Symmachus' thirtieth year, there was great rejoicing in Mournhold-a girl-
child had been born to the Lord and Lady. A Queen, the people sang, a Queen
is born to us! For among the people of Mournhold, the birth of an heiress is
a sure sign of future peace and prosperity.
When the time came round for the royal child's Rite of Naming, the mines were
closed and Symmachus dashed home to bathe and dress in his best. "I'll rush
straight home and tell you all about it," he promised his mother, who would
not be able to attend. She had been ailing, and besides there would be a
great crush of people as all Mournhold turned out to be part of the blessed
event; and being blind she would be unable to see anything anyway.
"My son," she said. "Afore you go, fetch me a priest or a healer, else I may
pass from the mortal plane ere you return."
Symmachus crossed to her pallet at once and noted anxiously that her forehead
was very hot and her breathing shallow. He pried loose a slat of the wooden
floor under which their small hoard of savings was kept. There wasn't nearly
enough to pay a priest for healing. He would have to give what they had and
owe the rest. Symmachus snatched up his cloak and hurried away.
The streets were full of folk hurrying to the sacred grove, but the temples
were locked and barred. "Closed for the ceremony," read all the signs.
Symmachus elbowed his way through the mob and managed to overtake a brown-
robed priest. "After the rite, brother," the priest said, "if you have gold
I shall gladly attend to your mother. Milord has bidden all clerics attend-
and I, for one, have no wish to offend him."
"My mother's desperately ill," Symmachus pled. "Surely Milord will not miss
one lowly priest."
"True, but the Archcanon will," the priest said nervously, tearing his robe
loose from Symmachus' desperate grip and vanishing into the crowd.
Symmachus tried other priests, and even a few mages, but with no better
result. Armored guards marched through the street and pushed him aside with
their lances, and Symmachus realized that the royal procession was
approaching.
As the carriage bearing the city's rulers drew abreast, Symmachus rushed out
from the crowd and shouted, "Milord, Milord! My mother's dying-!"
"I forbid her to do so on this glorious night!" the Lord shouted, laughing
and scattering coin into the throng. Symmachus was close enough to smell
wine on the royal breath. On the other side of the carriage his Lady
clutched the babe to her breast, and stared slit-eyed at Symmachus, her
nostrils flared in disdain.
"Guards!" she cried. "Remove this oaf." Rough hands seized Symmachus. He
was beaten and left dazed by the side of the road.
Symmachus, head aching, followed in the wake of the crowd and witnessed the
Rite of Naming from the top of a hill. He could see the brown-robed clerics
and blue-robed mages gathered near the highborn folk far below.
Barenziah.
The name came dimly to Symmachus' ears as the High Priest lifted the swaddled
babe and proffered her to the twin moons on either side of the horizon: Jone
rising, Jode setting.
"Behold the Lady Barenziah, born to the land of Mournhold! Grant her thy
blessings and thy counsel, ye kind gods, that she may ever rule well over
Mournhold, its ken and its weal, its kith and its ilk."
"Bless her, bless her," all the people intoned along with their Lord and
Lady, hands upraised.
Only Symmachus stood silent, head bowed, knowing in his heart that his dear
mother was gone. And in silence he swore a mighty oath-that he should be his
Lord's bane, and in vengeance for his mother's needless death, the child
Barenziah he should have for his own bride, and that his mother's
grandchildren should be born to rule over Mournhold.
***
After the ceremony, he watched impassively as the royal procession returned
to the palace. He saw the priest to whom he'd first spoken. The man came
gladly enough now in return for the gold Symmachus had, and a promise of more
afterward.
They found his mother dead.
The priest sighed and tucked the pouch of gold coins away. "I'm sorry,
brother. It's all right, you can forget the rest of the gold, there's aught
I can do here. Likely-"
"Give me back my money!" Symmachus snarled. "You've done naught to earn it!"
He lifted his right arm threateningly.
The priest backed away, about to utter a curse, but Symmachus struck him
across the face before more than three words had left his mouth. He went
down heavily, striking his head sharply on one of the stones that formed the
fire pit. He died instantly.
Symmachus snatched up the gold and fled the city. As he ran, he muttered one
word over and over, like a sorcerer's chant. "Barenziah," he said.
"Barenziah. Barenziah."
***
Barenziah stood on one of the balconies of the palace, staring down into the
courtyard where soldiers milled, dazzling in their armor. Presently they
formed into ordered ranks and cheered as her parents, the Lord and Lady,
emerged from the palace, clad from head to toe in ebony armor, long purple-
dyed fur cloaks flowing behind. Splendidly caparisoned, shining black horses
were brought for them, and they mounted and rode to the courtyard gates, and
turned to salute her.
"Barenziah!" they cried. "Barenziah our beloved, farewell!"
The little girl blinked back tears and waved one hand bravely, her favorite
stuffed animal, a gray wolfcub she called Wuffen, clutched to her breast with
the other. She had never been parted from her parents before and had no idea
what it meant, save that there was war in the west and the name Tiber Septim
was on everyone's lips, spoken in hate and dread.
"Barenziah!" the soldiers cried, lifting their lances and swords and bows.
Then her dear parents turned and rode away, knights trailing in their wake,
until the courtyard was nearly emptied.
***
Sometime after came a day when Barenziah was shaken awake by her nurse,
dressed hurriedly, and borne from the palace.
All she could remember of that dreadful time was seeing a huge shadow with
burning eyes filling the sky. She was passed from hand to hand. Foreign
soldiers appeared, disappeared, and sometimes reappeared. Her nurse vanished
and was replaced by strangers, some more strange than others. There were
days, or it may have been weeks, of travel.
One morning she awoke to step out of the coach into a cold place with a large
gray stone castle amid empty, endless gray-green hills covered patchily with
gray-white snow. She clutched Wuffen to her breast in both hands and stood
blinking and shivering in the gray dawn, feeling very small and very dark in
all this endless space, this endless gray-white space.
She and Hana, a brown-skinned, black-haired maid who had been traveling with
her for several days, went inside the keep. A large gray-white woman with
icy gray-golden hair was standing by a hearth in one of the rooms. She
stared at Barenziah with dreadful, bright blue eyes.
"She's very -- black, isn't she?" the woman remarked to Hana. "I've never
seen a Dark Elf before."
"I don't know much about them myself, Milady," Hana said. "But this one's
got red hair and a temper to match, I can tell you that. Take care. She
bites. And worse."
"I'll soon train her out of that," the other woman sniffed. "And what's that
filthy thing she's got? Ugh!" The woman snatched Wuffen away and threw him
into the blazing hearth.
Barenziah shrieked and would have flung herself after him, but was held back
despite her attempts to bite and claw at her captors. Poor Wuffen was
reduced to a tiny heap of charred ash.
***
Barenziah grew like a weed transplanted to a Skyrim garden, a ward of Count
Sven and his wife the Lady Inga. Outwardly, that is, she thrived -- but
always there was a cold and empty place within.
"I've raised her as my own daughter," Lady Inga was wont to sigh as she sat
gossiping when neighboring ladies came to visit. "But she's a Dark Elf.
What can you expect?"
Barenziah was not meant to overhear these words. At least she thought she
was not. Her hearing was keener than that of her Nordic hosts. Other, less
desirable Dark Elven traits evidently included pilfering, lying, and a little
misplaced magic, just a small fire spell here and a little levitation spell
there. And, as she grew older, a keen interest in boys and men, who could
provide very pleasant sensations -- and to her astonishment, gifts as well.
Inga disapproved of this last for reasons incomprehensible to Barenziah, so
she was careful to keep it as secret as possible.
"She's wonderful with the children," Inga added, referring to her five sons,
all younger than Barenziah. "I don't think she'd ever let them come to
harm." A tutor had been hired when Jonni was six and Barenziah eight, and
they took their lessons together. She would have liked to train in arms as
well, but the very idea scandalized Count Sven and Lady Inga. So Barenziah
was given a small bow and allowed to play at target shooting with the boys.
She watched them at arms practice when she could, sparred with them when no
grownup folk were about, and knew she was good as or better than they.
"She's very... proud, though, isn't she?" one of the ladies would whisper to
Inga; and Barenziah, pretending not to hear, would nod silently in agreement.
She could not help but feel superior to the Count and his Lady. There was
something about them that provoked contempt.
Afterward she came to learn that Sven and Inga were distant cousins of
Darkmoor Keep's last titled residents, and she finally understood. They were
poseurs, impostors, not rulers at all. At least, they were not raised to
rule. This thought made her strangely furious at them, a good clean hatred
quite detached from resentment. She came to see them as disgusting and
repellent insects who could be despised but never feared.
***
Once a month a courier came from the Emperor, bringing a small bag of gold
for Sven and Inga and a large bag of dried mushrooms from Morrowind for
Barenziah, her favorite treat. On these occasions, she was always made to
look presentable-or at least as presentable as a skinny Dark Elf could be
made to look in Inga's eyes-before being summoned into the courier's presence
for a brief interview. The same courier seldom came twice, but all of them
looked her over in much the same way a farmer would look over a hog he is
readying for market.
In the spring of her sixteenth year, Barenziah thought the courier looked as
if she were at last ready for market.
Upon reflection, she decided she did not wish to be marketed. The stable-
boy, Straw, a big, muscular blond lad, clumsy, gentle, affectionate, and
rather simple, had been urging her to run off for some weeks now. Barenziah
stole the bag of gold the courier had left, took the mushrooms from the
storeroom, disguised herself as a boy in one of Jonni's old tunics and a pair
of his cast-off breeches... and on one fine spring night she and Straw took
the two best horses from the stable and rode hard through the night toward
Whiterun, the nearest city of any importance and the place where Straw wanted
to be. But Mournhold and Morrowind also lay eastward and they drew Barenziah
as a lodestone draws iron.
In the morning they abandoned the horses at Barenziah's insistence. She knew
they would be missed and tracked down, and she hoped to throw off any
pursuers.
They continued on foot until late afternoon, keeping to side roads, and slept
for several hours in an abandoned hut. They went on at dusk and came to
Whiterun's city gates just before dawn. Barenziah had prepared a pass of
sorts for Straw, a makeshift document stating an errand to a temple in the
city for a local village lord. She herself glided over the wall with the
help of a levitation spell. She had reasoned-correctly, as it turned out-
that by now the gate guards would have been alerted to keep an eye out for a
young Dark Elven girl and a Nordic boy traveling together. On the other
hand, unaccompanied country yokels like Straw were a common enough sight.
Alone and with papers, it was unlikely that he would draw attention.
Her simple plan went smoothly. She met Straw at the temple, which was not
far from the gate; she had been to Whiterun on a few previous occasions.
Straw, however, had never been more than a few miles from Sven's estate,
which was his birthplace.
Together they made their way to a rundown inn in the poorer quarters of
Whiterun. Gloved, cloaked, and hooded against the morning chill, Barenziah's
dark skin and red eyes were not apparent and no one paid any heed to them.
They entered the inn separately. Straw paid the innkeeper for a single
cubicle, an immense meal, and two jugs of ale. Barenziah sneaked in a few
minutes later.
They ate and drank together gleefully, rejoicing in their escape, and made
love vigorously on the narrow cot. Afterward they fell into an exhausted,
dreamless sleep.
***
They stayed for a week at Whiterun. Straw earned a bit of money running
errands and Barenziah burgled a few houses at night. She continued to dress
as a boy. She cut her hair short and dyed her flame-red tresses jet black to
further the disguise, and kept out of sight as much as possible. There were
few Dark Elves in Whiterun.
One day Straw got them work as temporary guards for a merchant caravan
traveling east. The one-armed sergeant looked her over dubiously.
"Heh," he chuckled, "Dark Elf, ain'tcha? Like settin' a wolf t'guard the
sheep, that is. Still, I need arms, and we ain't goin' near 'nough Morrowind
so's ye can betray us to yer folk. Our homegrown bandits would as fain cut
yer throat as mine."
The sergeant turned to give Straw an appraising look. Then he spun back
abruptly toward Barenziah, whipping out his shortsword. But she had her
dagger out in the twinkling of an eye and was in a defensive stance. Straw
drew his own knife and circled round to the man's rear. The sergeant dropped
his blade and chuckled again.
"Not bad, kids, not bad. How are ye with yon bow, Dark Elf?" Barenziah
demonstrated her prowess briefly. "Aye, not bad, not bad 'tall. And ye'll
be keen of eye by night, boy, and of hearin' 'tall times. A trusty Dark Elf
makes as good a fightin' man as any could ask for. I know. I served under
Symmachus hisself afore I lost this arm and got invalided outter the
Emp'ror's army."
"We could betray them. I know folk who'd pay well," Straw said later as they
bedded down for their last night at the ramshackle lodge. "Or rob them
ourselves. They're very rich, those merchants are, Berry."
Barenziah laughed. "Whatever would we do with so much money? And besides,
we need their protection for traveling quite as much as they need ours."
"We could buy a little farm, you and me, Berry -- and settle down, all nice
like."
Peasant! Barenziah thought scornfully. Straw was a peasant and harbored
nothing but peasant dreams. But all she said was, "Not here, Straw, we're
too close to Darkmoor still. We'll have other chances farther east."
***
The caravan went only as far east as Sunguard. The Emperor Tiber Septim I
had done much in the way of building relatively safe and regularly patrolled
highways. But the tolls were steep, and this particular caravan kept to the
side roads as much as possible to avoid them. This exposed them to the
hazards of wayside robbers, both human and Orcish, and roving brigand bands
of various races. But such were the perils of trade and profit.
They had two such encounters before reaching Sunguard -- an ambush which
Barenziah's keen ears warned them of in plenty of time for them to circle
about and surprise the lurkers, and a night attack by a mixed band of
Khajiit, humans, and Wood Elves. The latter were a skilled band and even
Barenziah did not hear them sneaking up in time to give much warning. This
time the fighting was fierce. The attackers were driven off, but two of the
caravan's other guards were slain and Straw got a nasty cut on his thigh
before he and Barenziah managed to gash his Khajiit assailant's throat.
Barenziah rather enjoyed the life. The garrulous sergeant had taken a liking
to her, and she spent most of her evenings sitting around the campfire
listening to his tales of campaigning in Morrowind with Tiber Septim and
General Symmachus. This Symmachus had been made general after Mournhold
fell, the sergeant said. "He's a fine soldier, boy, Symmachus is. But there
was more'n soldiery involved'n that Morrowind business, if y'take my meanin'.
But, well, y'know all 'bout that, I 'spect."
"No. No, I don't remember," Barenziah said, trying to sound nonchalant.
"I've lived most of my life in Skyrim. My mother married a Skyrim man.
They're both dead, though. Tell me, what happened to the Lord and Lady of
Mournhold?"
The sergeant shrugged. "I ain't never heard. Dead, I 'spect. 'Twas alot of
fightin' afore the Armistice got signed. It's pretty quiet now. Maybe too
quiet. Like a calm afore a storm. Say, boy, you goin' back there?"
"Maybe," Barenziah said. The truth was that she was drawn irresistibly to
Morrowind, and Mournhold, like a moth to a burning house. Straw sensed it
and was unhappy about it. He was unhappy anyway since they could not bed
together, as she was supposed to be a boy. Barenziah rather missed it too,
but not as much as Straw did, seemingly.
The sergeant wanted them to sign on for the return trip, but gave them a
bonus nonetheless when they turned the offer down, and parchments of
recommendation.
Straw wanted to settle down permanently near Sunguard, but Barenziah insisted
on continuing their travels east. "I'm the Queen of Mournhold by rights,"
she said, unsure whether it was true -- or was it just a daydream she had
made up as a lost, bewildered child? "I want to go home. I need to go
home." That at least was true.
***
After a few weeks they managed to get places in another caravan heading east.
By early winter they were at Rifton, and nearing the Morrowind border. But
the weather had grown severe as the days passed and they were told no
merchant caravans would be setting forth till mid-spring.
Barenziah stood on top of the city walls and stared across the deep gorge
that separated Rifton from the snow-clad mountain wall guarding Morrowind
beyond.
"Berry," Straw said gently. "Mournhold's a long way off yet, nearly as far
as we've come already. And the lands between are wild, full of wolves and
bandits and Orcs and still worse creatures. We'll have to wait for spring."
"There's Silgrod Tower," Berry said, referring to the Dark Elven township
that had grown up around an ancient minaret guarding the border between
Skyrim and Morrowind.
"The bridge guards won't let me across, Berry. They're crack Imperial
troops. They can't be bribed. If you go, you go alone. I won't try and
stop you. But what will you do? Silgrod Tower is full of Imperial soldiers.
Will you become a washing-woman for them? Or a camp follower?"
"No," Barenziah said slowly, thoughtfully. Actually the idea was not
entirely unappealing. She was sure she could earn a modest living by
sleeping with the soldiers. She'd had a few adventures of that sort as they
crossed Skyrim, when she'd dressed as a woman and slipped away from Straw.
She'd only been looking for a bit of variety. Straw was sweet but dull.
She'd been startled, but extremely pleased, when the men she picked up
offered her money afterward. Straw had been unhappy about it, though, and
would shout for a while then sulk for days afterward if he caught her at it.
He was quite jealous. He'd even threatened to leave her. Not that he ever
did. Or could.
But the Imperial Guards were a tough and brutal lot by all accounts, and
Barenziah had heard some very ugly stories during their treks. The ugliest
of them by far had come from the lips of ex-army veterans around the caravan
campfire, and were proudly recounted. They'd been trying to shock her and
Straw, she realized-but she also comprehended that there was some truth
behind the wild tales. Straw hated that kind of dirty talk, and hated it
more that she had to hear it. But there was a part of him that was
fascinated nevertheless.
Barenziah sensed this and had encouraged Straw to seek out other women. But
he said he didn't want anyone else but her. She told him candidly she didn't
feel that way about him, but she did like him better than anyone else. "Then
why do you go with other men?" Straw had asked on one occasion.
"I don't know."
Straw sighed. "They say Dark Elven women are like that."
Barenziah smiled and shrugged. "I don't know. Or, no ... maybe I do. Yes,
I do know." She turned and kissed him affectionately. "I guess that's all
the explanation there is."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Real Barenziah v II
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_realbarenziah2
Weight: 4
Value: 20
Special Notes: None
The Real Barenziah, Part 2
Anonymous
Barenziah and Straw settled into Rifton for the winter, taking a cheap room
in the slummier section of town. Barenziah wanted to join the Thieves Guild,
knowing there would be trouble if she were caught freelancing. One day in a
barroom she caught the eye of a known member of the Guild, a bold young
Khajiit named Therris. She offered to bed him if he would sponsor her
membership. He looked her over, grinning, and agreed, but said she'd still
have to pass an initiation.
"What sort of initiation?"
"Ah," Therris said. "Pay up first, sweetness."
[This passage has been censored by order of the Temple.]
Straw was going to kill her, and maybe Therris too. What in Tamriel had
possessed her to do such a thing? She cast an apprehensive look around the
room, but the other patrons had lost interest and gone back to their own
business. She did not recognize any of them; this wasn't the inn where she
and Straw were staying. With luck it'd be a while, or never, before Straw
found out.
***
Therris was by far the most exciting and attractive man she had yet met. He
not only told her about the skills she needed to become a member of the
Thieves Guild, but also trained her in them himself or else introduced her to
people who could.
Among these was a woman who knew something about magic. Katisha was a plump
and matronly Nord. She was married to a smith, had two teenage children, and
was perfectly ordinary and respectable--except that she was very fond of cats
(and by logical inference, their humanoid counterparts the Khajiit), had a
talent for certain kinds of magic, and cultivated rather odd friends. She
taught Barenziah an invisibility spell and schooled her in other forms of
stealth and disguise. Katisha mingled magical and non-magical talents
freely, using one set to enhance the other. She was not a member of the
Thieves Guild but was fond of Therris in a motherly sort of way. Barenziah
warmed to her as she never had toward any woman, and over the next few weeks
she told Katisha all about herself.
She brought Straw there too sometimes. Straw approved of Katisha. But not
of Therris. Therris found Straw "interesting" and suggested to Barenziah
that they arrange what he called a "threesome."
"Absolutely not," Barenziah said firmly, grateful that Therris had broached
the subject in private for once. "He wouldn't like it. I wouldn't like it!"
Therris smiled his charming, triangular feline smile and sprawled lazily on
his chair, stretching his limbs and curling his tail. "You might be
surprised. Both of you. Pairing is so boring."
Barenziah answered him with a glare.
"Or maybe you wouldn't like it with that country bumpkin of yours, sweetness.
Would you mind if I brought along another friend?"
"Yes, I would. If you're bored with me, you and your friend can find someone
else." She was a member of the Thieves Guild now. She had passed their
initiation. She found Therris useful but not essential. Maybe she was a bit
bored with him too.
***
She talked to Katisha about her problems with men. Or what she thought of as
her problems with men. Katisha shook her head and told her she was looking
for love, not sex, that she'd know the right man when she found him, that
neither Straw nor Therris was the right one for her.
Barenziah cocked her head to one side quizzically. "They say Dark Elven
women are pro-- pro-- something. Prostitutes?" she said, although she was
dubious.
"You mean promiscuous. Although some do become prostitutes, I suppose,"
Katisha said as an afterthought. "Elves are promiscuous when they're young.
But you'll outgrow it. Perhaps you're beginning to already," she added
hopefully. She liked Barenziah, had grown to be quite fond of her. "You
ought to meet some nice Elven boys, though. If you go on keeping company
with Khajiits and humans and what have you, you'll find yourself pregnant in
next to no time."
Barenziah smiled involuntarily at the thought. "I'd like that. I think.
But it would be inconvenient, wouldn't it? Babies are a lot of trouble, and
I don't even have my own house yet."
"How old are you, Berry? Seventeen? Well, you've a year or two yet before
you're fertile, unless you're very unlucky. Elves don't have children
readily with other Elves after that, even, so you'll be all right if you
stick with them."
Barenziah remembered something else. "Straw wants to buy a farm and marry
me."
"Is that what you want?"
"No. Not yet. Maybe someday. Yes, someday. But not if I can't be queen.
And not just any queen. The Queen of Mournhold." She said this
determinedly, almost stubbornly, as if to drown out any doubt.
Katisha chose to ignore this last comment. She was amused at the girl's
hyperactive imagination, took it as a sign of a well-functioning mind. "I
think Straw will be a very old man before 'someday' comes, Berry. Elves live
for a very long time." Katisha's face briefly wore the envious, wistful look
humans got when contemplating the thousand-year lifespan Elves had been
granted by the gods. True, few ever actually lived that long as disease and
violence took their respective tolls. But they could. And one or two of
them actually did.
"I like old men too," Berry said.
Katisha laughed.
Barenziah fidgeted impatiently while Therris sorted through the papers on the
desk. He was being meticulous and methodical, carefully replacing everything
just as he'd found it.
They'd broken into a nobleman's household, leaving Straw to hover outside as
lookout. Therris had said it was a simple job but very hush-hush. He hadn't
even wanted to bring any other Guild members along. He said he knew he could
trust Berry and Straw, but no one else.
"Tell me what you're looking for and I'll find it," Berry whispered urgently.
Therris' night sight wasn't as good as hers and he didn't want her to magick
up even a small orb of light.
She had never been in such a luxurious place. Not even the Darkmoor castle
of Count Sven and Lady Inga where she had spent her childhood compared to it.
She'd gazed around in wonder as they made their way through the ornately
decorated and hugely echoing downstairs rooms. But Therris didn't seem
interested in anything but the desk in the small book-lined study on the
upper floor.
"Sssst," he hissed angrily.
"Someone's coming!" Berry said, a moment before the door opened and two dark
figures stepped into the room. Therris gave her a violent shove toward them
and sprang to the window. Barenziah's muscles went rigid; she couldn't move
or even speak. She watched helplessly as one of the figures, the smaller
one, leaped after Therris. There were two quick, silent stabs of blue light,
then Therris folded over into a still heap.
Outside the study the house had come alive with hastening footsteps and
voices calling out in alarm and the clank of armor hurriedly put on.
The bigger man, a Dark Elf by the looks of him, half-lifted, half-dragged
Therris to the door and thrust him into the waiting arms of another Elf. A
jerk of the first Elf's head sent his smaller blue-robed companion after
them. Then he sauntered over to inspect Barenziah, who was once again able
to move although her head throbbed maddeningly when she tried to.
"Open your shirt, Barenziah," the Elf said. Barenziah gawked at him and
clutched it closed. "You're a girl, aren't you, Berry?" he said softly.
"You should have stopped dressing as a boy months ago, you know. You were
only drawing attention to yourself. And calling yourself Berry! Is your
friend Straw too stupid to remember anything else?"
"It's a common Elven name," Barenziah defended.
The man shook his head sadly. "Not among Dark Elves it isn't, my dear. But
you wouldn't know much about Dark Elves, would you? I regret that, but it
couldn't be helped. No matter. I shall try to remedy it."
"Who are you?" Barenziah demanded.
"Ai. So much for fame," the man shrugged, smiling wryly. "I am Symmachus,
Milady Barenziah. General Symmachus of His Awesome and Terrible Majesty
Tiber Septim I's Imperial Army. And I must say it's a merry chase you've led
me throughout Tamriel. Or this part of it, anyway. Although I guessed, and
guessed correctly, that you'd head for Morrowind eventually. You had a bit
of luck. A body was found in Whiterun that was thought to be Straw's. So we
stopped looking for the pair of you. That was careless of me. Yet I'd not
have thought you'd have stayed together this long."
"Where is he? Is he all right?" she asked in genuine trepidation.
"Oh, he's fine. For now. In custody, of course." He turned away. "You ...
care for him, then?" he said, and then suddenly stared at her with fierce
curiosity. Out of red eyes that seemed strange to her, except in her own
seldom-seen reflection.
"He's my friend," Barenziah said. The words came out in a tone that sounded
dull and hopeless to her own ears. Symmachus! A general in the Imperial
Army, no less--said to have the friendship and ears of Tiber Septim himself.
"Ai. You seem to have several unsuitable friends--if you'll forgive my
saying so, Milady."
"Stop calling me that." She was irritated at the general's seeming sarcasm.
But he only smiled.
As they talked the bustle and flurry in the house died away. Although she
could still hear people, presumably the residents, whispering together not
far off. The tall Elf perched himself on a corner of the desk. He seemed
quite relaxed and prepared to stay awhile.
Then it occurred to her. Several unsuitable friends, had he said? This man
knew all about her! Or seemed to know enough, anyway. Which amounted to the
same thing. "W-what's going to happen to them? To m-me?"
"Ah. As you know, this house belongs to the commander of the Imperial troops
in this area. Which means to say that it belongs to me." Barenziah gasped
and Symmachus looked up sharply. "What, you didn't know? Tsk, tsk. Why,
you are rash, Milady, even for seventeen. You must always know what it is
you do, or get yourself into."
"B-but the G-guild w-wouldn't ... wouldn't h-have--" Barenziah was
trembling. The Thieves Guild would never have attempted a mission that
crossed Imperial policy. No one dared oppose Tiber Septim, at least no one
she knew of. Someone at the Guild had bungled. Badly. And now she was
going to pay for it.
"I daresay. It's unlikely that Therris had Guild approval for this. In
fact, I wonder--" Symmachus examined the desk carefully, pulling out
drawers. He selected one, placed it on top of the desk, and removed a false
bottom. There was a folded sheet of parchment inside. It seemed to be a map
of some sort. Barenziah edged closer. Symmachus held it away from her,
laughing. "Rash indeed!" He glanced it over, then folded and replaced it.
"You advised me a moment ago to seek after knowledge."
"So I did, so I did." Suddenly he seemed to be in high good humor. "We must
be going, my dear Lady."
He shepherded her to the door, down the stairs, and out into the night air.
No one was about. Barenziah's eyes darted toward the shadows. She wondered
if she could outrun him, or elude him somehow.
"You're not thinking of attempting to escape, are you? Ai. Don't you want
to hear first what my plans for you are?" She thought that he sounded a bit
hurt.
"Now that you mention it--yes."
"Perhaps you'd rather hear about your friends first."
"No."
He looked gratified at this. It was evidently the answer he wanted, thought
Barenziah, but it was also the truth. While she was concerned for her
friends, especially Straw, she was far more concerned for herself.
"You will take your place as the rightful Queen of Mournhold."
***
Symmachus explained that this had been his, and Tiber Septim's, plan for her
all along. That Mournhold, which had been under military rule for the dozen
or so years since she had been away, was gradually to be returned to civilian
government--under the Empire's guidance, of course, and as part of the
Imperial Province of Morrowind.
"But why was I sent to Darkmoor?" Barenziah asked, hardly believing anything
she had just been told.
"For safekeeping, naturally. Why did you run away?"
Barenziah shrugged. "I saw no reason to stay. I should have been told."
"You would have been by now. I had in fact sent for you to be removed to the
Imperial City to spend some time as part of the Emperor's household. But of
course you had, shall we say, absconded by then. As for your destiny, it
should be, and should have been, quite obvious to you. Tiber Septim does not
keep those he has no use for -- and what else could you be that would be of
use to him?"
"I know nothing of him. Nor, for that matter, of you."
"Then know this: Tiber Septim rewards friends and foes alike according to
their deserts."
Barenziah chewed on that for a few moments. "Straw has deserved well of me
and has never done anyone any harm. He is not a member of the Thieves Guild.
He came along to protect me. He earns our keep by running errands, and he
.. he ..."
Symmachus waved her impatiently to silence. "Ai. I know all about Straw,"
he said, "and about Therris." He stared at her intently. "So? What would
you?"
She took a deep breath. "Straw wants a little farm. If I'm to be rich, then
I would like for one to be given to him."
"Very well." He seemed astonished at this, and then pleased. "Done. He
shall have it. And Therris?"
"He betrayed me," Barenziah said coldly. Therris should have told her what
risks the job entailed. Besides, he'd pushed her right into their enemies'
arms in an attempt to save himself. Not a man to be rewarded. Not, in fact,
a man to be trusted.
"Yes. And?"
"Well, he should be made to suffer for it ... shouldn't he?"
"That seems reasonable. What form should said suffering take?"
Barenziah balled her hands into fists. She would've liked to beat and claw
at the Khajiit herself. But considering the turn events had taken, that
didn't seem very queenly. "A whipping. Er ... would twenty stripes be too
many, do you think? I don't want to do him any permanent injury, you
understand. Just teach him a lesson."
"Ai. Of course." Symmachus grinned at this. Then his features suddenly
set, and became serious. "It shall be done, Your Highness, Milady Queen
Barenziah of Mournhold." Then he bowed to her, a sweeping, courtly,
ridiculously wonderful bow.
Barenziah's heart leapt.
***
She spent two days at Symmachus' apartment, during which she was kept very
busy. There was a Dark Elven woman named Drelliane who saw to her needs,
although she did not exactly seem a servant since she took her meals with
them. Nor did she seem to be Symmachus' wife, or lover. Drelliane looked
amused when Barenziah asked her about it. She simply said she was in the
general's employ and did whatever was asked of her.
With Drelliane's assistance, several fine gowns and pairs of shoes were
ordered for her, plus a riding habit and boots, along with other small
necessities. Barenziah was given a room to herself.
Symmachus was out a great deal. She saw him at most mealtimes, but he said
little about himself or what he had been doing. He was cordial and polite,
quite willing to converse on most subjects, and seemed interested in anything
she had to say. Drelliane was much the same. Barenziah found them pleasant
enough, but "hard to get to know," as Katisha would have put it. She felt an
odd twinge of disappointment. These were the first Dark Elves with whom
she'd associated closely. She had expected to feel comfortable with them, to
feel at last that she belonged somewhere, with somebody, as part of
something. Instead she found herself yearning for her Nordic friends,
Katisha and Straw.
When Symmachus told her they were to set out for the Imperial City on the
morrow, she asked if she could say good-bye to them.
"Katisha?" he asked. "Ai. But then ... I suppose I owe her something. She
it was who led me to you by telling me of a lonely Dark Elven girl named
Berry who needed Elven friends -- and who sometimes dressed as a boy. She
has no association with the Thieves Guild, apparently. And no one associated
with the Thieves Guild seems to know your true identity, save Therris. That
is well. I prefer that your former Guild membership not be made public
knowledge. Please speak of it to no one, Your Highness. Such a past does
not ... become an Imperial Queen."
"No one knows but Straw and Therris. And they won't tell anyone."
"No." He smiled a curious little smile. "No, they won't."
He didn't know that Katisha knew, then. But still, there was something about
the way he said it ...
Straw came to their apartment on the morning of their departure. They were
left alone in the salon, although Barenziah knew that other Elves were within
earshot. He looked drawn and pale. They hugged one another silently for a
few minutes. Straw's shoulders were shaking and tears were rolling down his
cheeks, but he said nothing.
Barenziah tried a smile. "So we both get what we want, eh? I'm to be Queen
of Mournhold and you'll be lord of your own farmstead." She took his hand,
smiled at him warmly, genuinely. "I'll write you, Straw. I promise. You
must find a scribe so you can write me too."
Straw shook his head sadly. When Barenziah persisted, he opened his mouth
and pointed at it, making inarticulate noises. Then she realized what it
was. His tongue was gone, had been cut off.
Barenziah collapsed onto a chair and wept noisily.
***
"But why?" she demanded of Symmachus when Straw had been ushered away.
"Why?"
Symmachus shrugged. "He knows too much. He could be dangerous. At least
he's alive, and he won't need his tongue to ... raise pigs or whatever."
"I hate you!" Barenziah screamed at him, then abruptly doubled over and
vomited on the floor. She continued to revile him between intermittent bouts
of nausea. He listened stolidly for some time while Drelliane cleaned up
after her. Finally, he told her to cease or he would gag her for her journey
to the Emperor.
They stopped at Katisha's house on their way out of the city. Symmachus and
Drelliane didn't dismount. All seemed normal but Barenziah was frightened as
she knocked on the door. Katisha answered the knock. Barenziah thanked the
gods silently that at least she was all right. But she'd also obviously been
weeping. In any case, she embraced Barenziah warmly.
"Why are you crying?" Barenziah asked.
"For Therris, of course. You haven't heard? Oh dear. Poor Therris. He's
dead." Barenziah felt icy fingers creeping round her heart. "He was caught
stealing from the Commandant's house. Poor fellow, but that was so foolish
of him. Oh, Berry, he was drawn and quartered this very dawn by the
Commandant's order!" She started to sob. "I went. He asked for me. It was
terrible. He suffered so before he died. I'll never forget it. I looked
for you and Straw, but no one knew where you'd both gone to." She glanced
behind Barenziah. "That's the Commandant, isn't it? Symmachus." Then
Katisha did a strange thing. She stopped crying and grinned. "You know, the
moment I saw him, I thought, This is the one for Barenziah!" Katisha took a
fold of her apron and wiped it across her eyes. "I told him about you, you
know."
"Yes," Barenziah said, "I know." She took Katisha's hands in each of hers
and looked at her earnestly. "Katisha, I love you. I'm going to miss you.
But please don't ever tell anyone else anything about me. Ever. Swear you
won't. Especially not to Symmachus. And look after Straw for me. Promise
me that."
Katisha promised, puzzled though willing. "Berry, it wasn't somehow because
of me that Therris was caught, was it? I never said anything about Therris
to ... to ... him." She glanced over at the general.
Barenziah assured her that it wasn't, that an informant had told the Imperial
Guard of Therris' plans. Which was probably a lie, but she could see that
Katisha plainly needed some kind of comfort.
"Oh, I'm glad of that, if I can be glad of anything just now. I'd hate to
think-- But how could I have known?" She leaned over and whispered in
Barenziah's ear, "Symmachus is very handsome, don't you think? And so
charming."
"I wouldn't know about that," Barenziah said dryly. "I haven't really
thought about it. There've been other things to think about." She explained
hurriedly about being Queen of Mournhold and going to live in the Imperial
City for a while. "He was looking for me, that's all. On orders from the
Emperor. I was the object of a quest, nothing more than some sort of... of
a... goal. I don't think he thinks of me as a woman at all. He said I
didn't look like a boy, though," she added in the face of Katisha's
incredulity. Katisha knew that Barenziah evaluated every male she met in
terms of sexual desirability, and availability. "I suppose it's the shock of
finding out that I really am a queen," she added, and Katisha agreed that
yes, that's true, that must've been something of a shock, although one there
was no likelihood of her experiencing firsthand. She smiled. Barenziah
smiled with her. Then they hugged again, tearfully, for the last time. She
never saw Katisha again. Or Straw.
The royal party left Rifton by the great southern gate. Once through,
Symmachus tapped her shoulder and pointed back at the portals. "I thought
you might want to say good-bye to Therris too, Your Highness," he said.
Barenziah stared briefly but steadily at the head impaled on a spike above
the gate. The birds had been at it, but the face was still recognizable. "I
don't think he'll hear me, although I'm quite sure he'll be pleased to know
I'm fine," she said, seeming to sound light. "Let's be on our way, General,
shall we?"
Symmachus was clearly disappointed by her lack of reaction. "Ai. You heard
of this from your friend Katisha, I suppose?"
"You suppose correctly. She attended the execution," Barenziah said
casually. If he didn't know already, he'd find out soon enough, she was sure
of that.
"Did she know Therris belonged to the Guild?"
She shrugged. "Everyone knew that. It's only lower-ranking members like me
who are supposed to keep their membership secret. The ones higher up are
well known." She turned to smile archly at him. "But you must know all
that, shouldn't you, General?" she said sweetly.
He seemed unaffected by this. "So you told her who you were and whence you
came, but not about the Guild."
"The Guild membership was not my secret to tell. The other was. There's a
difference. Besides, Katisha is a very honest woman. Had I told her, it
would have lessened me in her eyes. She was always after Therris to take up
a more honest line of work. I value her good opinion." She afforded him a
glacial stare. "Not that it's any concern of yours, but do you know what
else she thought? She also thought I'd be happier if I settled down with
just one man. One of my own race. One of my own race with all the right
qualities. One of my own race with all the right qualities, who knows to say
all the right things. You, in fact." She grabbed the reins preparatory to
assuming a brisker pace--but not without sinking one final irresistible barb.
"Isn't it odd how wishes come true sometimes--but not in the way you want
them to? Or maybe I should say, not in the way you would ever want them to?"
His answer so took her by surprise that she quite forgot about cantering off.
"Yes. Very odd," he replied, and his tone matched his words exactly. Then
he excused himself and fell behind.
She held her head high and urged her mount onward, trying to look
unimpressed. Now what was it about his response that bothered her? Not what
he said. No, that wasn't it. But something about the way he said it.
Something about it made her think that she, Barenziah, was one of his wishes
that had come true. Unlikely as this seemed, she gave it due deliberation.
He had found her at last, after months of searching, it seemed, under
pressure from the Emperor, no doubt. So his wish had come true. Yes, that
must be it.
But in a way, apparently, not altogether to his liking.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Real Barenziah v III
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_realbarenziah3
Weight: 4
Value: 20
Special Notes: None
The Real Barenziah, Part 3
Anonymous
For several days, Barenziah felt a weight of sorrow at her separation from
her friends. But by the second week out her spirits began to rise a little.
She found that she enjoyed being on the road again, although she missed
Straw's companionship more than she would have thought. They were escorted
by a troop of Redguard knights with whom she felt comfortable, although these
were much more disciplined, and decorous, than the guards of the merchant
caravans she had spent time with. They were genial but respectful toward her
despite her attempts at flirtation.
Symmachus scolded her privately, saying a queen must maintain royal dignity
at all times.
"You mean I'm never to have any fun?" she inquired petulantly.
"Ai. Not with such as these. They are beneath you. Graciousness is to be
desired from those in authority, Milady. Familiarity is not. You will
remain chaste and modest while you are at the Imperial City."
Barenziah made a face. "I might as well be back at Darkmoor Keep. Elves are
promiscuous by nature, you know. Everyone says so."
"'Everyone' is wrong, then. Some are, some aren't. The Emperor -- and I --
expect you to display both discrimination and good taste. Let me remind you,
Your Highness, that you hold the throne of Mournhold not by right of blood
but solely at the pleasure of Tiber Septim. If he judges you unsuitable,
your reign will end ere it begins. He requires intelligence, obedience,
discretion, and total loyalty of all his appointees, and he favors chastity
and modesty in women. I strongly suggest you model your deportment after our
good Drelliane. Milady."
"I'd as lief be back in Darkmoor!" Barenziah snapped resentfully, offended at
the thought of emulating the frigid, prudish Drelliane in any way.
"That is not an option. Your Highness. If you are of no use to Tiber
Septim, he will see to it that you are of no use to his enemies either," the
general said portentously. "If you would keep your head on your shoulders,
take heed. Let me add that power offers pleasures other than those of
carnality and cavorting with base company."
He began to speak of art, literature, drama, music, and the grand balls
thrown at the Imperial Court. Barenziah listened with growing interest,
spurred on not entirely by his threats. But afterward she asked timidly if
she might continue her study of magic while at the Imperial City. Symmachus
seemed pleased at this and promised to arrange it. Encouraged, she then said
that she noted three of their knights escort were women, and asked if she
might train a little with them, just for the sake of exercise. The general
looked less delighted at this, but gave his consent, though stressing it
would only be with the women.
The late winter weather held fair, though slightly frosty, for the rest of
their journey so that they traveled quickly over firm roads. On the last day
of their trip, spring seemed to have arrived at last for there were hints of
a thaw. The road grew muddy underfoot, and everywhere one could hear water
trickling and dripping faintly but steadily. It was a welcome sound.
***
They came to the great bridge that crossed into the Imperial City at sunset.
The rosy glow turned the stark white marble edifices of the metropolis a
delicate pink. It all looked very new and grand and immaculate. A broad
avenue led north toward the Palace. A crowd of people of all sorts and races
filled the wide concourse. Lights winked out in the shops and on in the inns
as dusk fell and stars came out singly then by twos and threes. Even the
side streets were broad and brightly illuminated. Near the Palace the towers
of an immense Mages Guildhall reared toward the east, while westward the
stained glass windows of a huge tabernacle glittered in the dying light.
Symmachus had apartments in a magnificent house two blocks from the palace,
past the temple. ("The Temple of the One," he identified as they passed it,
an ancient Nordic cult which Tiber Septim had revived. He said that
Barenziah would be expected to become a member should she prove acceptable to
the Emperor.) The place was quite splendid--although little to Barenziah's
taste. The walls and furnishings were done in utter pristine white, relieved
only by touches of dull gold, and the floors in dully gleaming black marble.
Barenziah's eyes ached for color and the interplay of subtle shadings.
In the morning Symmachus and Drelliane escorted her to the Imperial Palace.
Barenziah noted that everyone they met greeted Symmachus with a deferential
respect in some cases bordering on obsequiousness. The general seemed to
take it for granted.
They were ushered directly into the imperial presence. Morning sun flooded a
small room through a large window with tiny panes, washing over a sumptuously
laden breakfast table and the single man who sat there, dark against the
light. He leapt to his feet as they entered and hurried toward them. "Ah,
Symmachus our most loyal friend, we welcome your return most gladly." His
hands held Symmachus' shoulders briefly, fondly, halting the deep
genuflection the Dark Elf had been in the process of effecting.
Barenziah curtseyed as Tiber Septim turned to her.
"Barenziah, our naughty little runaway. How do you do, child? Here, let us
have a look at you. Why, Symmachus, she's charming, absolutely charming.
Why have you hidden her from us all these years? Is the light too much,
child? Shall we draw the hangings? Yes, of course." He waved aside
Symmachus' protests and drew the curtains himself, not troubling to summon a
servant. "You will pardon us for this discourtesy toward yourselves, our
dear guests. We've much to think of, though that's scant excuse for
hospitality's neglect. But ah! pray join us. There's some excellent
nectarines from Black Marsh."
They settled themselves at the table. Barenziah was dumbfounded. Tiber
Septim was nothing like the grim, grey, giant warrior she'd pictured. He was
of average height, fully half a head shorter than tall Symmachus, although he
was well-knit of figure and lithe of movement. He had a winning smile,
bright -- indeed piercing -- blue eyes, and a full head of stark white hair
above a lined and weathered face. He might have been any age from forty to
sixty. He pressed food and drink upon them, then repeated the question the
general had asked her days ago: Why had she left home? Had her guardians
been unkind to her?
"No, Excellency," Barenziah replied, "in truth, no -- although I fancied so
at times." Symmachus had fabricated a story for her, and Barenziah told it
now, although with a certain misgiving. The stable-boy, Straw, had convinced
her that her guardians, unable to find a suitable husband for her, meant to
sell her off as a concubine in Rihad; and when a Redguard had indeed come,
she had panicked and fled with Straw.
Tiber Septim seemed fascinated and listened raptly as she provided details of
her life as a merchant caravan escort. "Why, 'tis like a ballad!" he said.
"By the One, we'll have the Court Bard set it to music. What a charming boy
you must have made."
"General Symmachus said--" Barenziah stopped in some confusion, then
proceeded. "He said -- well, that I no longer look much like a boy. I
have... grown in the past few months." She lowered her gaze in what she
hoped approximated maidenly modesty.
"He's a very discerning fellow, is our loyal friend Symmachus."
"I know I've been a very foolish girl, Excellency. I must crave your pardon,
and that of my kind guardians. I... I realized that some time ago, but I was
too ashamed to go back home. But I don't want to return to Darkmoor now.
Excellency, I long for Mournhold. My soul pines for my own country."
"Our dear child. You shall go home, we promise you. But we pray you remain
with us a little longer, that you may prepare yourself for the grave and
solemn task with which we shall charge you."
Barenziah gazed at him earnestly, heart beating fast. It was all working
just as Symmachus had said it would. She felt a warm flush of gratitude
toward him, but was careful to keep her attention focused on the Emperor. "I
am honored, Excellency, and wish most earnestly to serve you and this great
Empire you have built in any way I can." It was the politic thing to say, to
be sure -- but Barenziah really meant it. She was awed at the magnificence
of the city and the discipline and order evident everywhere, and moreover was
excited at the prospect of being a part of it all. And she felt quite taken
by the gentle Tiber Septim.
***
After a few days Symmachus left for Mournhold to take up the duties of a
governor until Barenziah was ready to assume the throne, after which he would
become her Prime Minister. Barenziah, with Drelliane as chaperone, took up
residence in a suite of rooms at the Imperial Palace. Several tutors were
provided her, in all the fields deemed seemly for a queenly education.
During this time she became deeply interested in the magical arts, but she
found the study of history and politics not at all to her preference.
On occasion she met with Tiber Septim in the Palace gardens and he would
unfailingly and politely inquire as to her progress -- and chide her,
although with a smile, for her disinterest at matters of state. However, he
was always happy to instruct her on the finer points of magic, and he could
make even history and politics seem interesting. "They're people, child, not
dry facts in a dusty volume," he said.
As her understanding broadened, their discussions grew longer, deeper, more
frequent. He spoke to her of his vision of a united Tamriel, each race
separate and distinct but with shared ideals and goals, all contributing to
the common weal. "Some things are universal, shared by all sentient folk of
good will," he said. "So the One teaches us. We must unite against the
malicious and the brutish, the miscreated -- the Orcs, trolls, goblins, and
other worse creatures -- and not strive against one another." His blue eyes
would light up as he stared into his dream, and Barenziah was delighted just
to sit and listen to him. If he drew close to her, the side of her body next
to him would glow as if he were a smoldering blaze. If their hands met she
would tingle all over as if his body were charged with a shock spell.
One day, quite unexpectedly, he took her face in his hands and kissed her
gently on the mouth. She drew back after a few moments, astonished by the
violence of her feelings, and he apologized instantly. "I... we... we didn't
mean to do that. It's just -- you are so beautiful, dear. So very
beautiful." He was looking at her with hopeless yearning in his generous
eyes.
She turned away, tears streaming down her face.
"Are you angry with us? Speak to us. Please."
Barenziah shook her head. "I could never be angry with you, Excellency.
I... I love you. I know it's wrong, but I can't help it."
"We have a consort," he said. "She is a good and virtuous woman, the mother
of our children and future heirs. We could never put her aside -- yet there
is nothing between us and her, no sharing of the spirit. She would have us
be other than what we are. We are the most powerful person in all of
Tamriel, and... Barenziah, we... I... I think I am the most lonely as well."
He stood up suddenly. "Power!" he said with sublime contempt. "I'd trade a
goodly share of it for youth and love if the gods would only sanction it."
"But you are strong and vigorous and vital, more than any man I've ever
known."
He shook his head vehemently. "Today, perhaps. Yet I am less than I was
yesterday, last year, ten years ago. I feel the sting of my mortality, and
it is painful."
"If I can ease your pain, let me." Barenziah moved toward him, hands
outstretched.
"No. I would not take your innocence from you."
"I'm not that innocent."
"How so?" The Emperor's voice suddenly grated harshly, his brows knitted.
Barenziah's mouth went dry. What had she just said? But she couldn't turn
back know. He would know. "There was Straw," she faltered. "I... I was
lonely too. Am lonely. And not so strong as you." She cast her eyes down
in abashment. "I... I guess I'm not worthy, Excellency--"
"No, no. Not so. Barenziah. My Barenziah. It cannot last for long. You
have a duty toward Mournhold, and a duty toward the Empire. I must tend
toward mine as well. But while we may -- shall we share what we have, what
we can, and pray the One forgives us our frailty?"
Tiber Septim held out his arms -- and wordlessly, willingly, Barenziah
stepped into his embrace.
***
"You caper on the edge of a volcano, child," Drelliane admonished as
Barenziah admired the splendid star sapphire ring her imperial lover had
given her to celebrate their one-month anniversary.
"How so? We make one another happy. We harm no one. Symmachus bade me be
discriminating and discreet. Who better could I choose? And we've been most
discreet. He treats me like a daughter in public." Tiber Septim's nightly
visits were made through a secret passage that only few in the Palace were
privy to -- himself and a handful of trusted bodyguards.
"He slavers over you like a cur his supper. Have you not noticed the
coolness of the Empress and her son toward you?"
Barenziah shrugged. Even before she and Septim had become lovers, she'd
received no more from his family than bare civility. Threadbare civility.
"What matter? It is Tiber who holds the power."
"But it is his son who holds the future. Do not put his mother up to public
scorn, I beg you."
"Can I help it if that dry stick of a woman cannot hold her husband's
interest even in conversation at dinner?"
"Have less to say in public. That is all I ask. She matters little, it is
true -- but her children love her, and you do not want them as enemies.
Tiber Septim has not long to live. I mean," Drelliane amended quickly at
Barenziah's scowl, "humans are all short-lived. Ephemeral, as we of the
Elder Races say. They come and go as the seasons -- but the families of the
powerful ones live on for a time. You must be a friend to this family if you
would see lasting profit from your relationship. Ah, but how can I make you
see truly, you who are so young and human-bred as well! If you take heed,
and wisely, you and Mournhold are like to live to see the fall of Septim's
dynasty, if indeed he has founded one, just as you have witnessed its rise.
It is the way of human history. They ebb and flow like the inconstant tides.
Their cities and dominions bloom like spring flowers, only to wither and die
in the summer sun. But the Elves endure. We are as a year to their hour, a
decade to their day."
Barenziah just laughed. She knew that rumors abounded about her and Tiber
Septim. She enjoyed the attention, for all save the Empress and her son
seemed captivated by her. Minstrels sang of her dark beauty and her charming
ways. She was in fashion, and in love -- and if it was temporary, well, what
was not? She was happy for the first time she could remember, each of her
days filled with joy and pleasure. And the nights were even better.
***
"What is wrong with me?" Barenziah lamented. "Look, not one of my skirts
fit. What's become of my waistline? Am I getting fat?" Barenziah regarded
her thin arms and legs and her undeniably thickened waist in the mirror with
displeasure.
Drelliane shrugged. "You appear to be with child, young as you are.
Constant pairing with a human has brought you to early fertility. I see no
choice but for you to speak with the Emperor about it. You are in his power.
It would be best, I think, for you to go directly to Mournhold if he would
agree to it, and bear the child there."
"Alone?" Barenziah placed her hands on her swollen belly, tears forming in
her eyes. Everything in her yearned to share the fruit of her love with her
lover. "He'll never agree to that. He won't be parted from me now. You'll
see."
Drelliane shook her head. Although she said no more, a look of sympathy and
sorrow had replaced her usual cool scorn.
That night Barenziah told Tiber Septim when he came to her for their usual
assignation.
"With child?" He looked shocked. No, stunned. "You're sure of it? But I
was told Elves do not bear at so young an age..."
Barenziah forced a smile. "How can I be sure? I've never--"
"I shall have my healer fetched."
The healer, a High Elf of middle years, confirmed that Barenziah was indeed
pregnant, and that such a thing had never before been known to happen. It
was a testimony to His Excellency's potency, the healer said in sycophantic
tones. Tiber Septim roared at him.
"This must not be!" he said. "Undo it. We command you."
"Sire," the healer gaped at him. "I cannot... I may not--"
"Of course you can, you incompetent dullard," the Emperor snapped. "It is
our express wish that you do so."
Barenziah, till then silent and wide-eyed with terror, suddenly sat up in
bed. "No!" she screamed. "No! What are you saying?"
"Child," Tiber Septim sat down beside her, his face wearing one of his
winning smiles. "I'm so sorry. Truly. But this cannot be. Your issue
would be a threat to my son and his sons. I shall no more put it plainly
than that."
"The child I bear is yours!" she wailed.
"No. It is now but a possibility, a might-be, not yet gifted with a soul or
quickened into life. I will not have it so. I forbid it." He gave the
healer another hard stare and the Elf began to tremble.
"Sire. It is her child. Children are few among the Elves. No Elven woman
conceives more than four times, and that is very rare. Two is the usual
number. Some bear none, even, and some only one. If I take this one from
her, Sire, she may not conceive again."
"You promised us she would not bear to us. We've little faith in your
prognostications."
Barenziah scrambled naked from the bed and ran for the door, not knowing
where she was going, only that she could not stay. She never reached it.
Darkness overtook her.
***
She awoke to pain, and a feeling of emptiness. A void where something used
to be, something that used to be alive, but now was dead and gone forever.
Drelliane was there to soothe the pain and clean up the blood that still
pooled at times between her legs. But there was nothing to fill the emp-
tiness. There was nothing to take the place of the void.
The Emperor sent magnificent gifts and vast arrangements of flowers, and came
on short visits, always well-attended. Barenziah received these visits with
pleasure at first. But Tiber Septim came no more at night -- and after some
time nor did she wish him to.
Some weeks passed, and when she was completely physically recovered,
Drelliane informed her that Symmachus had written to request she come to
Mournhold earlier than planned. It was announced that she would leave
forthwith.
She was given a grand retinue, an extensive trousseau befitting a queen, and
an elaborate and impressive ceremonial departure from the gates of the
Imperial City. Some people were sorry to see her leave, and expressed their
sadness in tears and expostulations. But some others were not, and did not.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Real Barenziah v IV
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_realbarenziah4
Weight: 4
Value: 20
Special Notes: None
The Real Barenziah, Part 4
Anonymous
"Everything I have ever loved, I have lost," Barenziah thought despondently,
looking at the mounted knights behind and ahead, her tirewomen near her in a
carriage. "Yet I have gained a measure of wealth and power, and the promise
of more to come. Dearly have I bought it. Now I do understand better Tiber
Septim's love of it, if he has often paid such prices. For surely worth is
measured by the price we pay." By her wish, she rode on a shiny roan mare,
clad as a warrior in resplendent chain mail of Dark Elven make.
As the days slowly slipped by and her train rode the winding road eastward
into the setting sun, around her gradually rose the steep-sided mountain
slopes of Morrowind. The air was thin, and a chill late autumn wind blew
constantly. But it was also rich with the sweet spicy smell of the late-
blooming black rose, which was native to Morrowind and grew in every shadowy
nook and crevice of its highlands, finding nourishment even in the stoniest
banks and ridges. In small villages and towns, ragged Dark Elven folk
gathered along the road to cry her name or simply gape. Most of her knightly
escort were Redguards, with a few High Elves, Nords, and Bretons. As they
wove their way into the heart of Morrowind, they grew increasingly
uncomfortable and clung together in protective clusters. Even the Elven
knights seemed wary.
But Barenziah felt at home, at last. She felt the welcome extended to her by
the land. Her land.
***
Symmachus met her at the Mournhold border with an escort of knights, about
half of whom were Dark Elven. In Imperial battle dress, she noted.
There was a grand parade of entry into the city and speeches of welcome from
stately dignitaries.
"I've had the queen's suite refurbished for you," the general told her later
when they reached the palace, "but you may change anything not to your taste,
of course." He went on about the details of the coronation, which was to be
held in a week. He was his old commanding self -- but she sensed something
else as well. He was eager for her approval of the arrangements, was in fact
fishing for it. That was new. He had never required her commendation
before.
He asked her nothing about her stay in the Imperial City, or of her affair
with Tiber Septim -- although Barenziah was certain Drelliane had told him,
or earlier written him, everything in detail.
The ceremony itself, like so much else, was a mixture of old and new -- parts
of it from the ancient Dark Elven tradition of Mournhold, the others dictated
by Imperial decree. She was sworn to the service of the Empire and Tiber
Septim as well as to the land of Mournhold and its people. She accepted
oaths of fealty and allegiance from the people, the nobility, and the
council. This last was composed of a blend of Imperial emissaries
("advisors" they were called) and native representatives of the Mournhold
people, who were mostly elders in accordance with Elven custom.
Barenziah later found that much of her time was occupied in attempting to
reconcile these two factions and their cronies. The elders were expected to
do most of the conciliating, in light of reforms introduced by the Empire
pertaining to land ownership and surface farming. But most of these went
clean against Dark Elven observances. Tiber Septim, "in the name of the
One," had ordained a new tradition -- and apparently even the gods and
goddesses themselves were expected to obey.
The new Queen threw herself into her work and her studies. She was through
with love and men for a long, long time -- if not forever. There were other
pleasures, she discovered, as Symmachus had promised her long ago: those of
the mind, and those of power. She developed (surprisingly, for she had
always rebelled against her tutors at the Imperial City) a deep love for Dark
Elven history and mythology, a hunger to know more fully the people from whom
she had sprung. She was gratified to learn that they had been proud warriors
and skilled craftsmen and cunning mages since time immemorial.
Tiber Septim lived for another half-century, during which she saw him on
several occasions as she was bidden to the Imperial City on one reason of
state or another. He greeted her with warmth during these visits, and they
even had long talks together about events in the Empire when opportunity
would permit. He seemed to have quite forgotten that there had ever been
anything between them more than easy friendship and a profound political
alliance. He changed little as the years passed. Rumor had it that his
mages had developed spells to extend his vitality, and that even the One had
granted him immortality. Then one day a messenger came with the news that
Tiber Septim was dead, and his grandson Pelagius was now Emperor in his
place.
They had heard the news in private, she and Symmachus. The sometime Imperial
General and now her trusted Prime Minister took it stoically, as he took most
everything.
"Somehow it doesn't seem possible," Barenziah said.
"I told you. Ai. It's the way of humans. They are a short-lived people.
It doesn't really matter. His power lives on, and his son now wields it."
"You called him your friend once. Do you feel nothing? No grief?"
He shrugged. "There was a time when you called him somewhat more. What do
you feel, Barenziah?" They had long ago ceased to address each other in
private by their formal titles.
"Emptiness. Loneliness," she said, then she too shrugged. "But that's not
new."
"Ai. I know," he said softly, taking her hand. "Barenziah..." He turned
her face up and kissed her.
The act filled her with astonishment. She couldn't remember his ever
touching her before. She'd never thought of him in that way -- and yet,
undeniably, an old familiar warmth spread through her. She'd forgotten how
good it felt, that warmth. Not the scorching heat she'd felt with Tiber
Septim, but the comforting, robust ardor she somehow associated with... with
Straw! Straw. Poor Straw. She hadn't thought of him in so long. He'd be
middle-aged now if he were still alive. Probably with a dozen children, she
thought affectionately... and a hearty wife who hopefully could talk for two.
"Marry me, Barenziah," Symmachus was saying, he seemed to have picked up her
thoughts on marriage, children... wives, "I've worked and toiled and waited
long enough, haven't I?"
Marriage. A peasant with peasant dreams. The thought appeared in her mind,
clear and unbidden. Hadn't she used those very same words to describe Straw,
so very long ago? And yet, why not? If not Symmachus, who else?
Many of the great noble families of Morrowind had been wiped out in Tiber
Septim's great war of unification, before the treaty. Dark Elven rule had
been restored, it was true -- but not the old, not the true nobility. Most
of them were upstarts like Symmachus, and not even half as good or deserving
as he was. He had fought to keep Mournhold whole and hale when their so-
called counselors would have picked at its bones, sucked them dry as
Ebonheart had been sucked dry. He'd fought for Mournhold, fought for her,
while she and the kingdom grew and thrived. She felt a sudden rush of
gratitude -- and, undeniably, affection. He was steady and reliable. And
he'd served her well. And loved her well.
"Why not?" she said, smiling. And took his hand. And kissed him.
***
The union was a good one, in its political as well as personal aspects.
While Tiber Septim's grandson, the Emperor Pelagius I, viewed her with a
jaundiced eye, his trust in his father's old friend was absolute.
Symmachus, however, was still viewed with suspicion by Morrowind's stiff-
necked folk, chary at his peasant ancestry and his close ties to the Empire.
But the Queen was quite unshakably popular. "The Lady Barenziah's one of our
own," it was whispered, "held captive as we."
Barenziah felt content. There was work and there was pleasure -- and what
more could one ask of life?
The years passed swiftly, with crises to be dealt with, and storms and
famines and failures to be weathered, and plots to be foiled, and
conspirators to be executed. Mournhold prospered steadily. Her people were
secure and fed, her mines and farms productive. All was well -- save that
the royal marriage had produced no children. No heirs.
Elven children are slow to come, and most demanding of their welcome -- and
noble children more so than others. Thus many decades had come to pass
before they grew concerned.
"The fault lies with me, Symmachus. I'm damaged goods," Barenziah said
bitterly. "If you want to take another..."
"I want no other," Symmachus said gently, "nor do I know for certain that the
fault is yours. Perhaps it is mine. Ai. Whichever. We will seek a cure.
If there is damage, surely it may be repaired."
"How so? When we dare not entrust anyone with the true story? Healer's
oaths do not always hold."
"It won't matter if we change the time and circumstances a bit. Whatever we
say or fail to say, Jephre the Storyteller never rests. The god's inventive
mind and quick tongue are ever busy spreading gossip and rumor."
Priests and healers and mages came and went, but all their prayers, potions,
and philtres produced not even a promise of bloom, let alone a single fruit.
Eventually they thrust it from their minds and left it in the gods' hands.
They were yet young, as Elves went, with centuries ahead of them. There was
time. With Elves there was always time.
Barenziah sat at dinner in the Great Hall, pushing food about on a plate,
feeling bored and restless. Symmachus was away, having been summoned to the
Imperial City by Tiber Septim's great-great-grandson, Uriel Septim. Or was
it his great-great-great-grandson? She'd lost count, she realized. Their
faces seemed to blur one into the next. Perhaps she should have gone with
him, but there'd been the delegation from Tear on a tiresome matter that
nevertheless required delicate handling.
A bard was singing in an alcove off the hall, but Barenziah wasn't listening.
Lately all the songs seemed the same to her, whether new or old. Then a turn
of phrase caught her attention. He was singing of freedom, of adventure, of
freeing Morrowind from its chains. How dare he! Barenziah sat up straight
and turned to glare at him. Worse, she realized he was singing of some
ancient, and now immaterial, war with the Skyrim Nords, praising the heroism
of Kings Edward and Moraelyn and their brave Companions. The tale was old
enough, certainly, yet the song was new ... and its meaning ... Barenziah
couldn't be sure.
A bold fellow, this bard, but with a strong, passionate voice and a good ear
for music. Rather handsome too, in a raffish sort of way. He didn't look to
be well-off exactly, nor was he all that young. Certainly he couldn't be
under a century of age. Why hadn't she heard him before, or at least heard
of him?
"Who is he?" she inquired of a lady-in-waiting.
The woman shrugged and said, "Calls himself the Nightingale, Milady. No one
seems to know anything about him."
"Bid him speak with me when he has done."
The man called the Nightingale came to her, thanked her for the honor of the
Queen's audience and the fat purse she handed him. His manner wasn't bold at
all, she decided, rather quiet and unassuming. He was quick enough with
gossip about others, but she learned nothing about him -- he turned all
questions away with a joking riposte or a ribald tale. Yet these were
recounted so charmingly it was impossible to take offence.
"My true name? Milady, I am no one. No, no, my parents named me Know Wan --
or was it No Buddy? What matters it? It matters not. How may parents give
name to that which they know not? Ah! I believe that was the name, Know Not.
I have been the Nightingale for so long I do not remember, since, oh, last
month at the very least -- or was it last week? All my memory goes into song
and tale, you see, Milady. I've none left for myself. I'm really quite
dull. Where was I born? Why, Knoweyr. I plan to settle in Dunroamin when I
get there ... but I'm in no hurry."
"I see. And will you then marry Atallshur?"
"Very perceptive of you, Milady. Perhaps, perhaps. Although I find Innhayst
quite charming too, at whiles."
"Ah. You are fickle, then?"
"Like the wind, Milady. I blow hither and yon, hot and cold, as chance
suits. Chance is my suit. Naught else wears well on me."
Barenziah smiled. "Stay with us awhile, then ... if you will, Milord
Erhatick."
"As you wish, Milady Bryte."
***
After that brief exchange, Barenziah found her interest in life somehow
rekindled. All that had seemed stale became fresh and new again. She
greeted each day with zest, looking forward to conversation with the
Nightingale and the gift of his song. Unlike other bards, he never sang her
praises, nor other women's, but only of high adventure and bold deeds.
When she asked him about this, he said, "What greater praise of your beauty
could you ask, Milady, than that which your own mirror gives you? And if
words you would have, you have those of the greatest, of those greater than
my callow self. How should I vie with them, I who was born but a week gone
by?"
For once they were speaking privately. The Queen, unable to sleep, had
summoned him to her chamber that his music might soothe her. "You are lazy
and a coward, sera, else I hold no charm for you."
"Milady, to praise you I must know you. I can never know you. You are
wrapped in enigma, in clouds of enchantment."
"Nay, not so. Your words are what weave enchantment. Your words... and your
eyes. And your body. Know me if you will. Know me if you dare."
He came to her then. They lay close, they kissed, they embraced. "Not even
Barenziah truly knows Barenziah," he whispered softly, "so how may I?
Milady, you seek and know it not, nor yet for what. What would you have,
that you have not?"
"Passion," she answered back. "Passion. And children born of it."
"And for your children, what? What birthright might be theirs?"
"Freedom," she said, "the freedom to be what they would be. Tell me, you who
seem wisest to these eyes and ears, and the soul that knits them. Where may
I find these things?"
"One lies beside you, the other beneath you. But would you dare stretch out
your hand, that you might take what could be yours, and your children's?"
"Symmachus..."
"In my person lies the answer to part of what you seek. The other lies
hidden below us in these your very kingdom's mines, that which will grant us
the power to fulfill and achieve our dreams. That which Edward and Moraelyn
between them used to free High Rock and their spirits from the hateful
domination of the Nords. If it be properly used, Milady, none may stand
against it, not even the power the Emperor controls. Freedom, you say?
Barenziah, freedom it gives from the chains that bind you. Think on it,
Milady." He kissed her again, softly, and withdrew.
"You're not leaving... ?" she cried out. Her body yearned for him.
"For now," he said. "Pleasures of the flesh are nothing beside what we might
have together. I would have you think on what I have just said."
"I don't need to think. What must we do? What preparations must be made?"
"Why -- none. The mines may not be entered freely, it is true. But with the
Queen at my side, who will stand athwart? Once below I can guide you to
where this thing lies, and lift it from its resting place."
Then the memory of her endless studies slid into place. "The Horn of
Summoning," she whispered in awe. "Is it true? Could it be? How do you
know? I've read that it's buried beneath the measureless caves of
Daggerfall."
"Nay, long have I studied this matter. Ere his death King Edward gave the
Horn for safekeeping into the hand of his old friend King Moraelyn. He in
turn secreted it here in Mournhold under the guardianship of the god Ephen,
whose birthplace and bailiwick this is. Now you know what it has cost me
many a long year and weary mile to discover."
"But the god? What of Ephen?"
"Trust me, Milady heart. All will be well." Laughing softly, he blew her a
last kiss and was gone.
***
On the morrow they passed the guards at the great portals that led into the
mines, and further below. Under pretence of her customary tour of
inspection, Barenziah, unattended but for the Nightingale, ventured into
cavern after subterranean cavern. Eventually they reached what looked like a
forgotten sealed doorway, and upon entering found that it led to an ancient
part of the workings, long abandoned. The going was treacherous for some of
the old shafts had collapsed, and they had to clear a passage through the
rubble or find a way around the more impassable piles. Vicious rats and huge
spiders scurried here and there, sometimes even attacking them. But they
proved no match for Barenziah's firebolt spells or the Nightingale's quick
dagger.
"We've been gone too long," Barenziah said at length. "They'll be looking
for us. What will I tell them?"
"Whatever you please," the Nightingale laughed. "You are the Queen, aren't
you?"
"The Lord Symmachus--"
"That peasant obeys whoever holds power. Always has, always will. We shall
hold the power, Milady love." His lips were sweetest wine, his touch both
fire and ice.
"Now," she said, "take me now. I'm ready." Her body seemed to hum, every
nerve and muscle taut.
"Not yet. Not here, not like this." He waved around, indicating the aged
dusty debris and grim walls of rock. "Just a little while longer."
Reluctantly, Barenziah nodded her assent. They resumed walking.
"Here," he said at last, pausing before a blank barrier. "Here it lies." He
scratched a rune in the dust, his other hand weaving a spell as he did so.
The wall dissolved. It revealed an entrance to some ancient shrine. In the
midst stood a statue of a god, hammer in hand, poised above an admantium
anvil.
"By my blood, Ephen," the Nightingale cried, "I bid thee waken! Moraelyn's
heir of Ebonheart am I, last of the royal line, sharer of thy blood. At
Morrowind's last need, with all of Elvendom in dread peril of their selves
and souls, release to me that guerdon which thou guardst! Now I do bid thee,
strike!"
At his final words the statue glowed and quickened, the blank stone eyes
shone a bright red. The massive head nodded, the hammer smote the anvil, and
it split asunder with a thunderous crash, the stone god itself crumbling.
Barenziah clapped her hands over her ears and crouched down, shaking terribly
and moaning out loud.
The Nightingale strode forward boldly and clasped the thing that lay among
the ruins with a roar of ecstasy. He lifted it high.
"Someone's coming!" Barenziah cried in alarm, then noticed for the first time
what it was he was holding aloft. "Wait, that's not the Horn, it -- it's a
staff!"
"Indeed, Milady. You see truly, at last!" The Nightingale laughed aloud.
"I am sorry, Milady sweet, but I must leave you now. Perhaps we shall meet
again one day. Until then... Ah, until then, Symmachus," he said to the
mail-clad figure who had appeared behind them, "she is all yours. You may
claim her back."
"No!" Barenziah screamed. She sprang up and ran toward him, but he was gone.
Winked out of existence -- just as Symmachus, claymore drawn, reached him.
His blade cleaved a single stroke through empty air. Then he stood still, as
if taking the stone god's place.
Barenziah said nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing... felt nothing...
***
Symmachus told the half dozen or so Elves who had accompanied him that the
Nightingale and Queen Barenziah had lost their way, and had been set upon by
giant spiders. That the Nightingale had lost his footing and fallen into a
deep crevice, which closed over him. That his body could not be recovered.
That the Queen had been badly shaken by the encounter and deeply mourned the
loss of her friend, who had fallen in her defense. Such was Symmachus'
presence and power of command that the slack-jawed knights, none of whom had
caught more than a glimpse of what happened, were convinced that it was all
exactly as he said.
The Queen was escorted back to the palace and taken to her chamber, whereupon
she dismissed her servants-in-waiting. She sat still before her mirror for a
long time, stunned, too distraught even to weep. Symmachus stood watching
over her.
"Do you have any idea at all what you have just done?" he said finally --
flatly, coldly.
"You should have told me," Barenziah whispered. "The Staff of Chaos! I
never dreamed it lay here. He said-- he said-- " A mewling escaped her lips
and she doubled over in despair. "Oh, what have I done? What have I done?
What happens now? What's to become of me? Of us?"
"Did you love him?"
"Yes. Yes, yes, yes! Oh my Symmachus, the gods have mercy on me, but I did
love him. Did. But now... now... I don't know... I'm not sure... I..."
Symmachus' hard-lined face softened slightly, and his eyes glittered with new
light, and he sighed. "Ai. That's something then. You will become a mother
yet if it's within my power. As for the rest -- Barenziah, my dearest
Barenziah, I expect you have loosed a storm upon the land. It'll be a while
yet in the brewing. But when it comes, we'll weather it together. As we
always have."
He came over to her then, and stripped her of her clothing, and carried her
to the bed. Out of grief and longing, her enfeebled body responded to his
brawny one as it never had before, pouring forth all that the Nightingale had
wakened to life in her. And in so doing calming the restless ghosts of all
he had destroyed.
***
She was empty, and emptied. And then she was filled, for a child was planted
and grew within her. As her son flourished in the womb, so did her feeling
toward patient, faithful, devoted Symmachus, which had been rooted in long
friendship and unbroken affection -- and which now, at last, ripened into the
fullness of true love. Eight years later they were again blessed, this time
with a daughter.
***
Directly after the Nightingale's theft of the Staff of Chaos, Symmachus had
sent urgent secret communiques to Uriel Septim. He had not gone himself, as
he would normally have, choosing instead to stay with Barenziah during her
fertile period to father a son upon her. For this, and for the theft, he
suffered Uriel Septim's temporary disfavor and unjust suspicion. Spies were
sent in search of the thief, but the Nightingale seemed to have vanished
whence he had come -- wherever that was.
"Dark Elf in part, perhaps," said Barenziah, "but part human too, I think, in
disguise. Else would I not have come so quickly to fertility."
"Part Dark Elf, for sure, and of ancient Ra'athim lineage at that, else he
would not have been able to free the Staff," Symmachus reasoned. He turned
to peer at her fixedly. "I don't think he would have lain with you. As an
Elf he did not dare, for then he would not have been able to part from you."
He smiled. Then he turned serious once more. "Ai! He knew the Staff lay
there, not the Horn, and that he must teleport to safety. The Staff is not a
weapon that would have seen him clear, unlike the Horn. Praise the gods at
least that he does not have that! It seems all was as he expected -- but how
did he know? I placed the Staff there myself, with the aid of the rag-tail
end of the Ra'athim Clan who now sits king in Castle Ebonheart as a reward.
Tiber Septim claimed the Horn, but left the Staff for safekeeping. Ai! Now
the Nightingale can use the Staff to sow seeds of strife and dissension
wherever he goes, if he wishes. Yet that alone will not gain him power.
That lies with the Horn and the ability to use it."
"I'm not so sure it's power the Nightingale seeks," Barenziah said.
"All seek power," Symmachus said, "each in our own way."
"Not I," she answered. "I, Milord, have found that for which I sought."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Real Barenziah v V
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_Realbarenziah5
Weight: 4
Value: 20
Special Notes: None
The Real Barenziah, Part 5
Anonymous
As Symmachus had predicted, the theft of the Staff of Chaos had few short-
term consequences. The current Emperor, Uriel Septim, sent some rather stiff
messages expressing shock and displeasure at the Staff's disappearance, and
urging Symmachus to make every effort to locate its whereabouts and
communicate developments to the newly appointed Imperial Battlemage, Jagar
Tharn, in whose hands the matter had been placed.
"Tharn!" Symmachus thundered in disgust and frustration as he paced about the
small chamber where Barenziah, now some months pregnant, was sitting serenely
embroidering a baby blanket. "Jagar Tharn, indeed. Ai! I wouldn't give him
directions for crossing the street, not if he were a doddering old blind
sot."
"What have you against him, love?"
"I just don't trust that mongrel Elf. Part Dark Elf, part High Elf, and part
the gods only know what. All the worst qualities of all his combined bloods,
I'll warrant." He snorted. "No one knows much about him. Claims he was
born in southern Valenwood, of a Wood Elven mother. Seems to have been
everywhere since -- "
Barenziah, sunk in the contentment and lassitude of pregnancy, had only been
humoring Symmachus thus far. But now she suddenly dropped her needlework and
looked at him. Something had piqued her interest. "Symmachus. Could this
Jagar Tharn have been the Nightingale, disguised?"
Symmachus thought this over before replying. "Nay, my love. Human blood
seems to be the one missing component in Tharn's ancestry." To Symmachus,
Barenziah knew, that was a flaw. Her husband despised Wood Elves as lazy
thieves and High Elves as effete intellectuals. But he admired humans,
especially Bretons, for their combination of pragmatism, intelligence, and
energy. "The Nightingale's of Ebonheart, of the Ra'athim Clan - House
Hlaalu, the House of Mora in particular, I'll be bound. That house has had
human blood in it since her time. Ebonheart was jealous that the Staff was
laid here when Tiber Septim took the Horn of Summoning from us."
Barenziah sighed a little. The rivalry between Ebonheart and Mournhold
reached back almost to the dawn of Morrowind's history. Once the two nations
had been one, all the lucrative mines held in fief by the Ra'athims, whose
nobility retained the High Kingship of Morrowind. Ebonheart had split into
two separate city-states, Ebonheart and Mournhold, when Queen Lian's twin
sons -- grandsons of the legendary King Moraelyn -- were left as joint heirs.
At about the same time the office of High King was vacated in favor of a
temporary War Leader to be named by a council in times of provincial
emergency.
Still, Ebonheart remained jealous of her prerogatives as the eldest city-
state of Morrowind ("first among equals" was the phrase its rulers often
quoted) and claimed that rightful guardianship of the Staff of Chaos should
have been entrusted to its ruling house. Mournhold responded that King
Moraelyn himself had placed the Staff in the keeping of the god Ephen -- and
Mournhold was unarguably the god's birthplace.
"Why not tell Jagar Tharn of your suspicions, then? Let him recover the
thing. As long as it's safe, what does it matter who recovers it, or where
it lies?"
Symmachus stared at her without comprehension. "It matters," he said softly
after a while, "but I suppose not that much. Ai." He added, "Certainly not
enough for you to concern yourself further with it. You just sit there and
tend to your," and here he smiled at her wickedly, "embroidery."
Barenziah flung the sampler at him. It hit Symmachus square in the face --
needle, thimble, and all.
***
In a few more months Barenziah gave birth to a fine son, whom they named
Helseth. Nothing more was heard of the Staff of Chaos, or the Nightingale.
If Ebonheart had the Staff in its possession, they certainly did not boast of
it.
The years passed swiftly and happily. Helseth grew tall and strong. He was
much like his father, whom he worshipped. When Helseth was eight years old
Barenziah bore a second child, a daughter, to Symmachus' lasting delight.
Helseth was his pride, but little Morgiah -- named for Symmachus' mother --
held his heart.
Sadly, the birth of Morgiah was not the harbinger of better times ahead.
Relations with the Empire slowly deteriorated, for no apparent reason. Taxes
were raised and quotas increased with each passing year. Symmachus felt that
the Emperor suspected him of having had a hand in the Staff's disappearance
and sought to prove his loyalty by making every effort to comply with the
escalating demands. He lengthened working hours and raised tariffs, and even
made up some of the difference from both the royal exchequer and their own
private holdings. But the levies multiplied, and commoners and nobles alike
began to complain. It was an ominous rumble.
"I want you to take the children and journey to the Imperial City," Symmachus
said at last in desperation one evening after dinner. "You must make the
Emperor listen, else all Mournhold will be up in revolt come spring." He
grinned forcibly. "You have a way with men, love. You always did."
Barenziah forced a smile of her own. "Even with you, I take it."
"Yes. Especially with me," he acknowledged amiably.
"Both children?" Barenziah looked over toward a corner window, where Helseth
was strumming a lute and crooning a duet with his little sister. Helseth was
fifteen by then, Morgiah eight.
"They might soften his heart. Besides, it's high time Helseth was presented
before the Imperial Court."
"Perhaps. But that's not your true reason." Barenziah took a deep breath
and grasped the nettle. "You don't think you can keep them safe here. If
that's the case, then you're not safe here either. Come with us," she urged.
He took her hands in his. "Barenziah. My love. Heart of my heart. If I
leave now, there'll be nothing for us to return to. Don't worry about me.
I'll be all right. Ai! I can take care of myself -- and I can do it better
if I'm not worrying about you or the children."
Barenziah laid her head against his chest. "Just remember that we need you.
I need you. We can do without the rest of it if we have each other. Empty
hands and empty bellies are easier to bear than an empty heart." She started
to cry, thinking of the Nightingale and that sordid business with the Staff.
"My foolishness has brought us to this pass."
He smiled at her tenderly. "If so, 'tis not so bad a place to be." His eyes
rested indulgently on their children. "None of us shall ever go without, or
want for anything. Ever. Ever, my love, I promise you. I cost you
everything once, Barenziah, I and Tiber Septim. Ai. Without my aid the
Empire would never have begun. I helped its rise." His voice hardened. "I
can bring about its fall. You may tell Uriel Septim that. That, and that my
patience is not infinite."
Barenziah gasped. Symmachus was not given to empty threats. She'd no more
imagined that he would ever turn against the Empire than that the old house
wolf lying by the grate would turn on her. "How?" she demanded breathlessly.
But he shook his head.
"Better that you not know," he said. "Just tell him what I told you should
he prove recalcitrant, and do not fear. He's Septim enough that he will not
take it out on the messenger." He smiled grimly. "For if he does, if he
ever harms the least hair on you, my love, or the children -- so help me all
the gods of Tamriel, he'll pray that he hadn't been born. Ai. I'll hunt him
down, him and his entire family. And I won't rest until the last Septim is
dead." The red Dark Elven eyes of Symmachus gleamed brightly in the ebbing
firelight. "I plight you that oath, my love. My Queen ... my Barenziah."
Barenziah held him, held him as tight as she could. But in spite of the
warmth in his embrace, she couldn't help shivering.
***
Barenziah stood before the Emperor's throne, trying to explain Mournhold's
straits. She'd waited weeks for an audience with Uriel Septim, having been
fobbed off on this pretext or that. "His Majesty is indisposed." "An urgent
matter demands His Excellency's attention." "I am sorry, Your Highness,
there must be some mistake. Your appointment is for next week. No, see..."
And now it wasn't even going well. The Emperor did not even make the
slightest pretence at listening to her. He hadn't invited her to sit, nor
had he dismissed the children. Helseth stood still as a carven image, but
little Morgiah had begun to fuss.
The state of her own mind didn't help her any. Shortly upon arrival at her
lodgings, the Mournholdian ambassador to the Imperial City had demanded
entry, bringing with him a sheaf of dispatches from Symmachus. Bad news, and
plenty of it. The revolt had finally begun. The peasants had organized
around a few disgruntled members of Mournhold's minor nobility, and were
demanding Symmachus step down and hand over the reins of government. Only
the Imperial Guard and a handful of troops whose families had been retainers
of Barenziah's house for generations stood between Symmachus and the rabble.
Hostilities had already broken out, but apparently Symmachus was safe and
still in control. Not for long, he wrote. He entreated Barenziah to try her
best with the Emperor -- but in any case she was to stay in the Imperial City
until he wrote to tell her it was safe to go back home with the children.
She had tried to barge her way through the Imperial bureaucracy -- with
little success. And to add to her growing panic, all news from Mournhold had
come to a sudden stop. Tottering between rage at the Emperor's numerous
major-domos and fear of the fate awaiting her and her family, the weeks had
passed by tensely, agonizingly, remorselessly. Then one day the Mournholdian
ambassador came calling to tell her she should expect news from Symmachus the
following night at the latest, not through the regular channels but by
nighthawk. Seemingly by the same stroke of luck, she was informed that same
day by a clerk from the Imperial Court that Uriel Septim had finally
consented to grant her an audience early on the morrow.
The Emperor had greeted the three of them when they came into the audience
chamber with a too-bright smile of welcome that nonetheless didn't reach his
eyes. Then, as she presented her children, he had gazed at them with a fixed
attention that was real yet somehow inappropriate. Barenziah had been
dealing with humans for nearly five hundred years now, and had developed the
skill of reading their expressions and movements that was far beyond what any
human could ever perceive. Try as the Emperor might to conceal it, there was
hunger in his eyes -- and something else. Regret? Yes. Regret. But why?
He had several fine children of his own. Why covet hers? And why look at
her with such a vicious -- however brief -- yearning? Perhaps he had tired
of his consort. Humans were notoriously, though predictably, inconstant.
After that one long, burning glance, his gaze had shifted away as she began
to speak of her mission and the violence that had erupted in Mournhold. He
sat still as stone throughout her entire account.
Puzzled at his inertia, and vexed no end, Barenziah stared into the pale, set
face, looking for some trace of the Septims she'd known in the past. She
didn't know Uriel Septim well, having met him once when he was still a child,
and then again at his coronation twenty years before. Twice, that was all.
He'd been a stern and dignified presence at the ceremony, even as a young
adult -- yet not icily remote as this more mature man was. In fact, despite
the physical resemblance, he didn't seem to be the same man at all. Not the
same, yet something about him was familiar to her, more familiar than it
should be, some trick of posture or gesture...
Suddenly she felt very hot, as if lava had been poured over her. Illusion!
She had studied the arts of illusion well since the Nightingale had deceived
her so badly. She had learned to detect it -- and she felt it now, as
certainly as a blind man could feel the sun on his face. Illusion! But why?
Her mind worked furiously even as her mouth went on reciting details about
Mournhold's troubles. Vanity? Humans were oft as ashamed at the signs of
ageing as Elves were proud to exhibit them. Yet the face Uriel Septim wore
seemed consistent with his age.
Barenziah dared use none of her own magic. Even petty nobles had means of
detecting magicka, if not actually shielding themselves from its effects,
within their own halls. The use of sorcery here would bring down the
Emperor's wrath as surely as drawing a dagger would.
Magic.
Illusion.
Suddenly she was brought to mind of the Nightingale. And then he was sitting
before her. Then the vision changed, and it was Uriel Septim. He looked
sad. Trapped. And then the vision faded once more, and another man sat in
his place, like the Nightingale, and yet unlike. Pale skin, bloodshot eyes,
Elven ears -- and about him a fierce glow of concentrated malice, an aura of
eldritch energy -- a horrible, destructive shimmer. This man was capable of
anything!
And then once again she was looking into the face of Uriel Septim.
How could she be sure she wasn't imagining things? Perhaps her mind was
playing tricks on her. She felt a sudden vast weariness, as if she'd been
carrying a heavy burden too long and too far. She decided to abandon her
earnest narrative of Mournhold's ills -- as it was quite plainly getting her
nowhere -- and switch back to pleasantry. Pleasantry, however, with a hidden
agenda.
"Do you remember, Sire, Symmachus and I had dinner with your family shortly
after your father's coronation? You were no older than tiny Morgiah here.
We were greatly honored to be the only guests that evening -- except for your
best friend Justin, of course."
"Ah yes," the Emperor said, smiling cautiously. Very cautiously. "I do
believe I recall that."
"You and Justin were such friends, Your Majesty. I was told he died not long
after. A great pity."
"Indeed. I still do not like to speak of him." His eyes turned blank -- or
blanker, if it had been possible. "As for your request, Milady, we shall
take it under advisement and let you know."
Barenziah bowed, as did the children. A nod from the Emperor dismissed them,
and they backed away from the imperial presence.
She took a deep breath when they emerged from the throne room. "Justin" had
been an imaginary playmate, although young Uriel had insisted a place be set
for Justin at every meal. Not only that, Justin, despite the boyish name,
had been a girl! Symmachus had kept up the joke long after she had gone the
way of imaginary childhood friends -- inquiring after Justin's health
whenever he and Uriel Septim met, and being responded to in as mock-serious a
fashion. The last Barenziah had heard of Justin, several years ago, the
Emperor had evidently joked elaborately to Symmachus that she had met an
adventurous though incorrigible Khajiit youth, married him, and settled down
in Lilandril to raise fire ferns and mugworts.
The man sitting on the Emperor's divan was not Uriel Septim! The
Nightingale? Could it be...? Yes. Yes! A chord of recognition rang
through her and Barenziah knew she was right. It was him. It was! The
Nightingale! Masquerading as the Emperor! Symmachus had been wrong, so
wrong...
What now? she wondered frantically. What had become of Uriel Septim -- and
more to the point, what did it mean for her and Symmachus, and all of
Mournhold? Thinking back, Barenziah guessed that their troubles were due to
this false Emperor, this Nightingale-spawned glamour -- or whatever he really
was. He must have taken Uriel Septim's place shortly before the unreasonable
demands on Mournhold had begun. That would explain why relations had
deteriorated for so long (as humans reckoned time), long after her
disapproved liaison with Tiber Septim. The Nightingale knew of Symmachus'
famed loyalty to, and knowledge of, the Septim House, and was effecting a
pre-emptive strike. If that were the case, they were all in terrible danger.
She and the children were in his power here in the Imperial City, and
Symmachus was left alone to deal with troubles of the Nightingale's brewing
in Mournhold.
What must she do? Barenziah impelled the children ahead of her, a hand on
each shoulder, trying to stay cool, collected, her ladies-in-waiting and
personal knights escort trailing behind. Finally they reached their waiting
carriage. Even though their suite of rooms was only a few blocks from the
Palace, royal dignity forbade travel on foot for even short distances -- and
for once, Barenziah was glad of it. The carriage seemed a kind of refuge
now, false as she knew the feeling must be.
A boy dashed up to one of the guards and handed him a scroll, then pointed
toward the carriage. The guard brought it to her. The boy waited, eyes wide
and shining. The epistle was brief and complimentary, and simply inquired if
King Eadwyre of Wayrest, of the Province of High Rock, might be granted an
audience with the famed Queen Barenziah of Mournhold, as he had heard much of
her and would be pleased to make her acquaintance.
Barenziah's first impulse was to refuse. She wanted only to leave this city!
Certainly she had no inclination toward any dalliance with a dazzled human.
She looked up, frowning, and one of the guards said, "Milady, the boy says
his master awaits your reply yonder." She looked in the direction indicated
and saw a handsome elderly man on horseback, surrounded by a half dozen
courtiers and cavaliers. He caught her eye and bowed respectfully, taking
off a plumed hat.
"Very well," Barenziah said to the boy on impulse. "Tell your master he may
call on me tonight, after the dinner hour." King Eadwyre looked polite and
grave, and rather worried -- but not in the least lovestruck. At least that
was something, she thought pensively.
Barenziah stood at the tower window, waiting. She could sense the familiar's
nearness. But though the night sky was clear as day to her eyes, she could
not yet see him. Then suddenly he was there, a swift moving dot beneath the
wispy night clouds. A few more minutes and the great nighthawk finished its
descent, wings folding, talons reaching for her thick leather armband.
She carried the bird to its perch, where it waited, panting, as her impatient
fingers felt for the message secured in a capsule on one leg. The hawk drank
mightily from the water till when she had done, then ruffled its feathers and
preened, secure in her presence. A tiny part of her consciousness shared its
satisfaction at a job well done, mission accomplished, and rest earned ...
yet beneath it all was unease. Things were not right, even to its humble
avian mind.
Her fingers shook as she unfolded the thin parchment and pored over the
cramped writing. Not Symmachus' bold hand! Barenziah sat slowly, fingers
smoothing the document while she prepared her mind and body to accept
disaster calmly, if disaster it would be.
Disaster it was.
The Imperial Guard had deserted Symmachus and joined the rebels. Symmachus
was dead. The remaining loyal troops had suffered a decisive defeat.
Symmachus was dead. The rebel leader had been recognized as King of
Mournhold by Imperial envoys. Symmachus was dead. Barenziah and the
children had been declared traitors to the Empire and a price set on their
heads.
Symmachus was dead.
So the audience with the Emperor earlier that morning had been nothing but a
blind, a ruse. A charade. The Emperor must have already known. She was
just being strung along, told to stay put, take things easy, Milady Queen,
enjoy the Imperial City and the delights it has to offer, do make your stay
as long as you want. Her stay? Her detention. Her captivity. And in all
probability, her impending arrest. She had no delusions about her situation.
She knew the Emperor and his minions would never let her leave the Imperial
City, ever again. At least, not alive.
Symmachus was dead.
"Milady?"
Barenziah jumped, startled by the servant's approach. "What is it?"
"The Breton is here, Milady. King Eadwyre," the woman added helpfully,
noting Barenziah's incomprehension. She hesitated. "Is there news, Milady?"
she said, nodding toward the nighthawk.
"Nothing that will not wait," Barenziah said quickly, and her voice seemed to
echo in the emptiness that suddenly yawned like a gaping abyss inside her.
"See to the bird." She stood up, smoothed her gown, and prepared to attend
on her royal visitor.
She felt numb. Numb as the stone walls around her, numb as the quiescence of
the night air... numb as a lifeless corpse.
Symmachus was dead!
***
King Eadwyre greeted her gravely and courteously, if a bit fulsomely. He
claimed to be a fervent admirer of Symmachus, who figured prominently in his
family's legends. Gradually he turned the conversation to her business with
the Emperor. He inquired after details, and asked if the outcome had been
favorable to Mournhold. Finding her noncommittal, he suddenly blurted out,
"Milady Queen, you must believe me. The man who claims himself the Emperor
is an impostor! I know it sounds mad, but I -- "
"No," Barenziah said, with sudden decisiveness. "You are entirely correct,
Milord King. I know."
Eadwyre relaxed into his seat for the first time, eyes suddenly shrewd. "You
know? You're not just humoring someone you might think a madman?"
"I assure you, Milord, I am not." She took a deep breath. "And who do you
surmise is dissembling as the Emperor?"
"The Imperial Battlemage, Jagar Tharn."
"Ah. Milord King, have you, perchance, heard of someone called the
Nightingale?"
"Yes, Milady, as a matter of fact I have. My allies and I believe him to be
one and the same man as the renegade Tharn."
"I knew it!" Barenziah stood up and tried to mask her upheaval. The
Nightingale -- Jagar Tharn! Oh, but the man was a demon! Diabolical and
insidious. And so very clever. He had contrived their downfall seamlessly,
perfectly! Symmachus, my Symmachus...!
Eadwyre coughed diffidently. "Milady, I... we... we need your aid."
Barenziah smiled grimly at the irony. "I do believe I should be the one
saying those words. But go on, please. Of what assistance might I be,
Milord King?"
Quickly the monarch outlined a plot. The mage Ria Silmane, of late
apprenticed to the vile Jagar Tharn, had been killed and declared a traitor
by the false Emperor. Yet she had retained a bit of her powers and could
still contact a few of those she had known well on the mortal plane. She had
chosen a Champion who would undertake to find the Staff of Chaos, which had
been hidden by the traitorous sorcerer in an unknown site. This Champion was
to wield the Staff's power to destroy Jagar Tharn, who was otherwise
invulnerable, and rescue the true Emperor being held prisoner in another
dimension. However, the Champion, while thankfully still alive, now
languished in the Imperial Dungeons. Tharn's attention must be diverted
while the chosen one gained freedom with Ria's spirit's help. Barenziah had
the false Emperor's ears -- and seemingly his eyes. Would she provide the
necessary distraction?
"I suppose I could obtain another audience with him," Barenziah said
carefully. "But would that be sufficient? I must tell you that my children
and I have just recently been declared traitors to the Empire."
"In Mournhold, perhaps, Milady, and Morrowind. Things are different in the
Imperial City and the Imperial Province. The same administrative morass that
makes it near impossible to obtain an audience with the Emperor and his
ministers also quite assures that you would never be unlawfully imprisoned or
otherwise punished without benefit of due legal process. In your case,
Milady, and your children's, the situation is further exacerbated by your
royal rank. As Queen and heirs apparent, your persons are considered
inviolable -- sacrosanct, in fact." The King grinned. "The Imperial
bureaucracy, Milady, is a double-edged claymore."
So. At least she and the children were safe for the time being. Then a
thought struck her. "Milord King, what did you mean earlier when you said I
had the false Emperor's eyes? And seemingly, at that?"
Eadwyre looked uncomfortable. "It was whispered among the servants that
Jagar Tharn kept your likeness in a sort of shrine in his chambers."
"I see." Her thoughts wandered momentarily to that insane romance of hers
with the Nightingale. She had been madly in love with him. Foolish woman.
And the man she had once loved had caused to be killed the man she truly did
love. Did love. Loved. He's gone now, he's... he... She still couldn't
bring herself to accept the fact that Symmachus was dead. But even if he is,
she told herself firmly, my love is alive, and remains. He would always be
with her. As would the pain. The pain of living the rest of her life
without him. The pain of trying to survive each day, each night, without his
presence, his comfort, his love. The pain of knowing he would never see his
children grow into a fine pair of adults, who would never know their father,
how brave he was, how strong, how wonderful, how loving... especially little
Morgiah.
And for that, for all that, for all you have done to my family, Nightingale -
- you must die.
"Does that surprise you?"
Eadwyre's words broke into her thoughts. "What? Does what surprise me?"
"Your likeness. In Tharn's room."
"Oh." Her features set imperturbably. "Yes. And no."
Eadwyre could see from her expression that she wished to change the subject.
He turned once again to their plans. "Our chosen one may need a few days to
escape, Milady. Can you gain him a bit more time?"
"You trust me in this, Milord King? Why?"
"We are desperate, Milady. We have no choice. But even if we did -- why,
yes. Yes, I would trust you. I do trust you. Your husband has been good to
my family over the years. The Lord Symmachus--"
"Is dead."
"What?"
Barenziah related the recent events quickly and coolly.
"Milady... Queen... but how dreadful! I... I'm so sorry..."
For the first time Barenziah's glacial poise was shaken. In the face of
sympathy, she felt her outward calm start to crumble. She gathered her
composure, and willed herself to stillness.
"Under the circumstances, Milady, we can hardly ask--"
"Nay, good Milord. Under the circumstances I must do what I may to avenge
myself upon the murderer of my children's father." A single tear escaped the
fortress of her eyes. She brushed it away impatiently. "In return I ask
only that you protect my orphaned children as you may."
Eadwyre drew himself up. His eyes shone. "Willingly do I so pledge, most
brave and noble Queen. The gods of our beloved land, indeed Tamriel itself,
be my witnesses."
His words touched her absurdly, yet profoundly. "I thank you from my heart
and my soul, good Milord King Eadwyre. You have mine and m-my children's e-
everlasting g-gra -- grati -- "
She broke down.
***
She did not sleep that night, but sat in a chair beside her bed, hands folded
in her lap, thinking deep and long into the waxing and waning of the
darkness. She would not tell the children -- not yet, not until she must.
She had no need to seek another audience with the Emperor. A summons arrived
at first light.
She told the children she expected to be gone a few days, bade them give the
servants no trouble, and kissed them good-bye. Morgiah whimpered a bit; she
was bored and lonely in the Imperial City. Helseth looked dour but said
nothing. He was very like his father. His father...
At the Imperial Palace, Barenziah was escorted not into the great audience
hall but to a small parlour where the Emperor sat at a solitary breakfast.
He nodded a greeting and waved his hand toward the window. "Magnificent
view, isn't it?"
Barenziah stared out over the towers of the great city. It dawned on her
that this was the very chamber where she'd first met Tiber Septim all those
years ago. Centuries ago. Tiber Septim. Another man she had loved. Who
else had she loved? Symmachus, Tiber Septim... and Straw. She remembered
the big blond stable-boy with sudden and intense affection. She never
realized it till now, but she had loved Straw. Only she had never let him
know. She had been so young then, those had been carefree days, halcyon
days... before everything, before all this... before... him. Not Symmachus.
The Nightingale. She was shocked in spite of herself. The man could still
affect her. Even now. Even after all that had happened. A strong wave of
inchoate emotion swept over her.
When she turned back at last, Uriel Septim had vanished -- and the
Nightingale sat in his place.
"You knew," he said quietly, scanning her face. "You knew. Instantly. I
wanted to surprise you. You might at least have pretended."
Barenziah spread her arms, trying to pacify the maelstrom churning deep
inside her. "I'm afraid my skill at pretence is no match for yours, my
liege."
He sighed. "You're angry."
"Just a little, I must admit," she said icily. "I don't know about you, but
I find betrayal a trifle offensive."
"How human of you."
She took a deep breath. "What do you want of me?"
"Now you are pretending." He stood up to face her directly. "You know what
I want of you."
"You want to torment me. Go ahead. I'm in your power. But leave my
children alone."
"No, no, no. I don't want that at all, Barenziah." He came near, speaking
low in the old caressing voice that had sent shivers cascading through her
body. The same voice that was doing the same thing to her, here and now.
"Don't you see? This was the only way." His hands closed on her arms.
She felt her resolve fading, her disgust at him weakening. "You could have
taken me with you." Unbidden tears gathered in her eyes.
He shook his head. "I didn't have the power. Ah, but now, now...! I have
it all. Mine to have, mine to share, mine to give -- to you." He once more
waved his hand toward the window and the city beyond. "All Tamriel is mine
to lay at your feet -- and that is only the beginning."
"It's too late. Too late. You left me to him."
"He's dead. The peasant's dead. A scant few years -- what do they matter?"
"The children--"
"Can be adopted by me. And we'll have others together, Barenziah. Oh, and
what children they'll be! What things we shall pass on to them! Your
beauty, and my magic. I have powers you haven't even dreamt of, not in your
most untamed imaginings!" He moved to kiss her.
She slipped his grasp and turned away. "I don't believe you."
"You do, you know. You're still angry, that's all." He smiled. But it
didn't reach his eyes. "Tell me what you want, Barenziah. Barenziah my
beloved. Tell me. It shall be yours."
Her whole life flashed in front of her. The past, the present, and the
future still to come. Different times, different lives, different
Barenziahs. Which one was the real one? Which one was the real Barenziah?
For by that choice she would determine the shape of her fate.
She made it. She knew. She knew who the real Barenziah was, and what she
wanted.
"A walk in the garden, my liege," she said. "A song or two, perhaps."
The Nightingale laughed. "You want to be courted."
"And why not? You do it so well. It's been long, besides, since I've had
the pleasure."
He smiled. "As you wish, Milady Queen Barenziah. Your wish is my command."
He took her hand and kissed it. "Now, and forever."
***
And so they spent their days in courtship -- walking, talking, singing and
laughing together, while the Empire's business was left to subordinates.
"I'd like to see the Staff," Barenziah said idly one day. "I only had a
glimpse of it, you'll recall."
He frowned. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure, heart's delight -- but
that would be impossible."
"You don't trust me," Barenziah pouted, but softened her lips when he leaned
over for a kiss.
"Nonsense, love. Of course I do. But it isn't here." He chuckled. "In
fact, it isn't anywhere." He kissed her again, more passionately this time.
"You're talking in riddles again. I want to see it. You couldn't have
destroyed it."
"Ah. You've gained in wisdom since last we met."
"You inspired my hunger for knowledge somewhat." She stood up. "The Staff
of Chaos can't be destroyed. And it can't be removed from Tamriel, not
without the direst consequences to the land itself."
"Ahhh. You impress me, my love. All true. It is not destroyed, and it is
not removed from Tamriel. And yet, as I said, it isn't anywhere. Can you
solve the puzzle?" He pulled her to him and she leaned into his embrace.
"Here's a greater riddle still," he whispered. "How does one make one of
two? That I can, and will, show you." Their bodies merged, limbs tangled
together.
Later, when they had drawn a bit apart and he lay dozing, she thought
sleepily, "One of two, two of one, three of two, two of three... what cannot
be destroyed or banished might be split apart, perhaps..."
She stood up, eyes blazing. She started to smile.
***
The Nightingale kept a journal. He scribbled entries onto it every night
after quick reports from underlings. It was locked in a bureau. But the
lock was a simple one. She had, after all, been a member of the Thieves
Guild in a past life... in another life... another Barenziah...
One morning Barenziah managed to sneak a quick look at it while he was
occupied at his toilet. She discovered that the first piece of the Staff of
Chaos was hidden in an ancient Dwarvish mine called Fang Lair -- although its
location was given only in the vaguest of terms. The diary was crammed with
jotted events in an odd shorthand, and was very hard to decipher.
All Tamriel, she thought, in his hands and mine, and more perhaps -- and
yet...
For all his exterior charm there was a cold emptiness where his heart should
have been, a vacuum of which he was quite unaware, she thought. One could
glimpse it now and then, when his eyes would go blank and hard. And yet,
though he had a different concept of it, he yearned for happiness too, and
contentment. Peasant dreams, Barenziah thought, and Straw flashed before her
eyes again, looking lost and sad. And then Therris, with a feline Khajiit
smile. Tiber Septim, powerful and lonely. Symmachus, solid, stolid
Symmachus, who did what ought to be done, quietly and efficiently. The
Nightingale. The Nightingale, a riddle and a certainty, both the darkness
and the light. The Nightingale, who would rule all, and more -- and spread
chaos in the name of order.
Barenziah got reluctant leave from him to visit her children, who had yet to
be told of their father's death -- and of the Emperor's offer of protection.
She finally did, and it wasn't easy. Morgiah clung to her for what seemed an
era, sobbing wretchedly, while Helseth ran off into the garden to be alone,
afterward refusing all her attempts to speak to him on the subject of his
father, or even to let her hold him to her breast.
Eadwyre called on her while she was there. She told him what she had
discovered so far, explaining that she must remain awhile yet and learn more
as she could.
The Nightingale teased her about her elderly admirer. He was quite aware of
Eadwyre's suspicion -- but he wasn't the least bit perturbed, for no one took
the old fool seriously. Barenziah even managed to arrange a reconciliation
of sorts between them. Eadwyre publicly recanted his misgivings, and his
"old friend" the Emperor forgave him. He was afterward invited to dine with
them at least once a week.
The children liked Eadwyre, even Helseth, who disapproved of his mother's
liaison with the Emperor and consequently detested him. He had become surly
and temperamental as the days passed, and frequently quarreled with both his
mother and her lover. Eadwyre was not happy with the affair either, and the
Nightingale took great delight at times in openly displaying his affection
for Barenziah just to nettle the old man.
They could not marry, of course, for Uriel Septim was already married. At
least, not yet. The Nightingale had exiled the Empress shortly after taking
the Emperor's place, but had not dared harm her. She was given sanctuary by
the Temple of the One. It had been given out that she was suffering from ill
health, and rumors had been circulated by the Nightingale's agents that she
had mental problems. The Emperor's children had likewise been dispatched to
various prisons all across Tamriel disguised as "schools."
"She'll grow worse in time," Nightingale said carelessly, referring to the
Empress and eyeing Barenziah's swollen breasts and swelling belly with
satisfaction. "As for their children... Well, life is full of hazards,
isn't it? We'll be married. Your child will be my true heir."
He did want the child. Barenziah was sure of that. She was far less sure,
however, of his feelings for her. They argued continually now, often
violently, usually about Helseth, whom he wanted to send away to school in
Summurset Isle, the province farthest from the Imperial City. Barenziah made
no effort to avoid these altercations. The Nightingale, after all, had no
interest in a smooth, unruffled life; and besides, he thoroughly enjoyed
making up afterward...
Occasionally Barenziah would take the children and retreat to their old
apartment, declaring she wanted no more to do with him. But he would always
come to fetch her back, and she would always let herself be fetched back. It
was ineffable, like the rising and setting of Tamriel's twin moons.
***
She was six months pregnant before she finally deciphered the location of the
last Staff piece -- an easy one, since every Dark Elf knew where the Mount of
Dagoth-Ur was.
When she next quarreled with the Nightingale, she simply left the city with
Eadwyre and rode hard for High Rock, and Wayrest. The Nightingale was
furious, but there was little he could do. His assassins were rather inept,
and he dared not leave his seat of power to pursue them in person. Nor could
he openly declare war on Wayrest. He had no legitimate claim on her or her
unborn child. True to form, the Imperial City's nobility had disapproved of
his liaison with Barenziah -- as they had so many years ago of Tiber Septim's
-- and were glad to see her go.
Wayrest was equally distrustful of her, but Eadwyre was fanatically loved by
his prosperous little city-state, and allowances were readily made for his...
eccentricities. Barenziah and Eadwyre were married a year after the birth of
her son by the Nightingale. In spite of this unfortunate fact, Eadwyre doted
on her and her children. She in her turn did not love him -- but she was
fond of him, and that was something. It was nice to have someone, and
Wayrest was a very good place, a good place for children to grow up, while
they waited, and bided their time, and prayed for the Champion's success in
his mission.
Barenziah could only hope that he wouldn't take very long, whoever this
unnamed Champion was. She was a Dark Elf, and she had all the time in the
world. All the time. But no more love left to give, and no more hatred left
to burn. She had nothing left, nothing but pain, and memories... and her
children. She only wanted to raise her family, and provide them a good life,
and be left to live out what remained of hers. She had no doubt it was going
to be a long life yet. And during it she wanted peace, and quiet, and
serenity, of her soul as well as of her heart. Peasant dreams. That was
what she wanted. That was what the real Barenziah wanted. That was what the
real Barenziah was. Peasant dreams.
Pleasant dreams.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Real Nerevar
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_RealNerevar
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
The Real Nerevar
[This Telvanni retainer's informal history of Nerevar lists no sources.]
When the Dunmer followed Veloth to Morrowind, they were many warring clans,
with no law or leader in common. One Dunmer warlord, Nerevar, had the
ambition to rule all the Dunmer.
In that time, House Dwemer were great enchanters, so Nerevar went in secret
to a Dwemer smith and asked for an enchanted ring that would help him. The
ring gave its wearer great powers of persuasion; for safety, it was enchanted
to instantly kill anyone who wore it except Nerevar. The ring was called
Moon-and-Star, and it helped Nerevar unite the various clans into the First
Council.
Later, however, disputes over religion divided the Council, with House Dwemer
and House Dagoth on one side and all the other Houses on the other. Dwemer
and Dagoth invited Orc and Nord clans as allies, and held northwest
Morrowind, while Nerevar mustered the other Houses and nomad tribes and
marched to meet the Dwemer-Dagoth-Westerner forces.
The armies met at Red Mountain, a Dwemer stronghold. The Dwemer were
defeated, with great slaughter, and terrible sorceries were used, resulting
in the utter extermination of House Dwemer, House Dagoth, and their allies.
Nerevar was killed in the battle, and his ring lost, but Nerevar's alliance
survives in Morrowind's ruling political institution, the Grand Council.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Rear Guard
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Light Armor1
Weight: 4
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Light Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Rear-Guard
by Tenace Mourl
The castle would hold. No matter the forces, the walls of Cascabel Hall
would never fail, but that was small consolation for Menegur. He was hungry.
In fact, he had never been so hungry. The well in the atrium of the fortress
supplied him with enough water to hold there until the Fourth Era, but his
stomach reminded Menegur minute to minute that he needed food.
The wagonload of supplies mocked him. When his army, the forces of the King
of Solitude, had left Cascabel Hall, and he had manned the battlements as the
rear-guard to protect their retreat, they had left a wagon behind to supply
him with enough food for months. It was not until the night after they left
that he inspected the larder and found that nothing edible was in the wagon.
Trunk after trunk was filled with netch armor from the army's incursion into
Morrowind. Apparently his Nord confederates had assumed that the lightly
opaque material was hard tack in aspic. If the Dunmer whose caravan had been
raided knew about this, they would never be able to stop laughing.
Menegur thought that his fellow mercenary and kinswoman Aerin would have
found this amusing as well. She had spoken with great authority about netch
leather, being an expert of sorts on light armor, but she had made a point to
mention that it could not be eaten like other leather in occasions of
hardship. It was a pity she couldn't be there to enjoy the irony, Menegur
thought savagely. She had returned to Morrowind even before the king's army
had left, preferring a life as a wanted fugitive to a free existence in the
cold of Skyrim.
All the weeds in the courtyard had been devoured by the rear-guard's
sixteenth day manning Cascabel Hall. The entire castle had been scoured:
rotten tubers in the mulch pile found and consumed, a dusty bouquet in the
countess's bedchamber eaten, almost every rat and insect but the most cunning
infesting the castle walls had been tracked down and gobbled up. The
castellan's chambers, filled with acrid, inedible law books, had yielded up a
couple crumbs of bread. Menegur had even scraped moss from the stones. There
was no denying it: he would be dead from starvation before his army returned
to break the ranks of the enemies who surrounded the fortress.
"The worst part," said Menegur, who had taken to talking to himself on only
the second day alone in the castle. "Is how close sustenance is."
A vast arbor of golden apples stretched acre after acre near the castle
walls. The sunlight cast a seductive gleam on the fruit, and the cruel wind
carried sweet smells into Cascabel to torture him.
Like most Bosmer, Menegur was an archer. He was a master of long and medium
distance fighting, but in close quarters, as he would be if he dared to leave
the castle and enter the enemy camp in the arbor, he knew he would not last
long. At some point, he knew he would have to try, but he had been dreading
the day. It was upon him now.
Menegur put on the netch armor for the first time, feeling the powdery,
almost velvet texture of the rendered leather against his skin. There was
also a barely perceptible throb, which he recognized as the remnant
nematocysts of the netch's venomous flesh, still tingling months after its
death with domesticated poison. The combination made him feel energized.
Aerin had described the sensation perfectly, just as she had explained how to
defend himself while wearing netch leather armor.
Under cover of night, Menegur crept out of the back gate of the castle,
locking it behind him with a rather cumbersome key. He made for the arbor as
quietly as he could, but a passing sentry, coming behind a tree, saw him.
Remaining calm, Menegur did as he remembered Aerin had instructed, only
moving after the attack had been launched. The sentry's blade glided against
the armor and knocked to the left, throwing the young man off balance. That
was the trick, as he understood it: you had to be prepared to be hit, and
merely move with the blow, allowing the membranous armor to divert the injury
away.
Use your enemy's momentum against him, as Aerin used to say.
There were several more close encounters in the arbor, but each swing of an
ax and each thrust of a sword found purchase elsewhere. With handfuls of
apples, Menegur ran the gauntlet back to the castle. He locked the back gate
door behind him and fell into an orgy of eating.
For week after week, the Bosmer stole out to gather his food. The guards
began anticipating his raids, but he kept his schedule irregular and always
remembered when attacked to wait for the blow, accept it, and then turn. In
such a way, he lived and survived his lonely vigil in Cascabel Hall.
Four months later, as he was preparing for another seizure of apples, Menegur
heard a loud clamor at the front gate. Surveying the group from a safe
distance on the battlements, he saw the shields of the King of Solitude, his
ally the Count of Cascabel, and their enemy the King of Farrun. Evidently, a
truce had been called.
Menegur opened the gates and the combined armies flooded the courtyard. Many
of the knights of Farrun sought to shake the hand of the man they had named
the Shadow of the Arbor, expressing their admiration at his defensive skills
and apologizing good-naturedly for their attempts to slay him. Only doing
their job, you know.
"There's hardly a apple left on the vines," said the King of Solitude.
"Well, I started on the edges and worked my way in," explained Menegur. "I
brought back extra fruit to tempt the rats of out of walls so I could have a
little meat as well."
"We've spent the last several months working out the details of the truce,"
said the King. "Really quite exhausting. In any rate, the Count will be
taking back possession of his castle now, but there is a small detail we need
to work out. You're a mercenary, and as such responsible for your own
expenses. If you had been a subject of mine, things might be different, but
there are certain old rules of law that must be respected."
Menegur anticipated the strike.
"The problem is," the King continued. "You've taken a good deal of the
Count's crops while here. By any reasonable computation, you've eaten an
amount equal to and likely exceeding your mercenary's wages. Obviously, I
would not want to penalize you for the excellent job you've done defending
the castle in uncomfortable circumstances, but you agree that it's important
that we observe the old rules of law, don't you?"
"Of course," replied Menegur, accepting the blow.
"I'm delighted to hear that," said the King. "Our estimation is that you owe
the Count of Cascabel thirty-seven Imperial gold."
"Which I will gladly pay to myself, with interest, after the autumntide
harvest," said Menegur. "There is more left on the vine than you suggest."
The Kings of Solitude and Farrun, and the Count of Cascabel stared at the
Bosmer.
"We agreed to abide to the strictest old rules of law, and I've had time to
read a great many books over the time you were making your truce. In 3E 246,
during the reign of Uriel IV, the Imperial Council, in an attempt to clear up
some questions of property rights in Skyrim during those chaotic days,
decreed that any man without a liege who occupied a castle for more than
three months would be granted the rights and titles of that estate. It's a
good law, of course, meant to discourage absent and foreign landlords."
Menegur smiled, feeling the now familiar sensation of a glancing strike
diverting. "By the rule of law, I am the Count of Cascabel."
The rear-guard's son still hold the title of Count of Cascabel. And he grows
the finest, most delectable apples in the Empire.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Red Book of Riddles
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_redbookofriddles
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
The Red Book of Riddles
This handye booke doth containe alle diverse manner of riddles and follyes,
and, by means of carefulle studye, the prudente scholarlye gentlemane maye
finde himselfe noe longer discomfited by the sharpe wite of his fellowes.
[The posing and puzzling of riddles is a convention of polite aristocratic
Western society. Nobles and social aspirants collect books of riddles and
study them, hoping thereby to increase the chances of their appearing sly and
witty in conversation.]
The question:
It has a tail, a side and a head
I call it what I call a snake
It has no body and it is dead
The answer:
It must be a drake
The question:
Poets know the hearts of Men and Mer
But beasts can't know my heart, you see
This book was written by a bear
The answer:
It is not a book of poetry.
The question:
I gave you a sock, not unlike a box
With hammers and nails all around it
Two lids open when it knocks
The answer:
It must have been a great hit.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Ruins of Kemel-Ze
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_tamrielicreligions
Weight: 2
Value: 40
Special Notes: None
The Ruins of Kemel-Ze
By Rolard Nordssen
With the acclamations of the Fellows of the Imperial Society still ringing in
my ears, I decided to return to Morrowind immediately. It was not without
some regret that I bade farewell to the fleshpots of the Imperial City, but I
knew that the wonders I had brought back from Raled-Makai had only scratched
the surface of the Dwemer ruins in Morrowind. Even more spectacular
treasures were out there, I felt, just waiting to be found, and I was eager
to be off. I also had before me the salutary example of poor Bannerman, who
was still dining out on his single expedition to Black Marsh twenty years
ago. That would never be me, I vowed.
With my letter from the Empress in hand, this time I would have the full
cooperation of the Imperial authorities. No more need to worry about attacks
from superstitious locals. But where should I look next? The ruins at
Kemel-Ze were the obvious choice. Unlike Raled-Makai, getting to the ruins
would not be a problem. Also known as the "Cliff City", Kemel-Ze lies on the
mainland side of the Vvardenfel Rift, sprawling down the sheer coastal cliff.
Travelers from the east coast of Vvardenfel often visit the site by boat, and
it can also be reached overland from the nearby villages without undue
hardship.
Once my expedition had assembled in Seyda Neen, with the usual tedious
complications involved in operating in this half-civilized land, we set out
for the village of Marog near the ruins, where we hoped to hire a party of
diggers. My interpreter, Tuen Panai, an unusually jolly fellow for a Dark
Elf who I had hired in Seyda Neen at the recommendation of the local garrison
commander, assured me that the local villagers would be very familiar with
Kemel-Ze, having looted the site for generations. Incidentally, Ten Penny
(as we soon came to call him, to his constant amusement) proved invaluable
and I would recommend him without hesitation to any of my colleagues who were
planning similar expeditions to the wilds of Morrowind.
At Marog, we ran into our first trouble. The hetman of the village, a
reserved, elegant old fellow, seemed willing to cooperate, but the local
priest (a representative of the absurd religion they have here, worshiping
something called the Tribunal who they claim actually live in palaces in
Morrowind) was fervently against us excavating the ruins. He looked likely
to sway the villagers to his side with his talk of "religious taboos", but I
waved the Empress's letter under his nose and mentioned something about my
friend the garrison commander at Seyda Neen and he quieted right down. No
doubt this was just a standard negotiating tactic arranged among the
villagers to increase their pay. In any event, once the priest had stalked
off muttering to himself, no doubt calling down curses upon the heads of the
foreign devils, we soon had a line of villagers eager to sign on to the
expedition.
While my assistant was working out the mundane details of contracts,
supplies, etc., Master Arum and I rode on to the ruins. By land, they can
only be reached using narrow paths that wind down the face of the cliff from
above, where any misstep threatens to send one tumbling into the sea foaming
about the jagged rocks below. The city's original entrance to the surface
must have been in the part of the city to the northeast - the part that fell
into the sea long ago when the eruption of Red Mountain created this mind-
bogglingly vast crater. After successfully navigating the treacherous path,
we found ourselves in a large chamber, open to the sky on one side,
disappearing into the darkness on the other. As we stepped forward, our
boots crunched on piles of broken metal, as common in Dwarven ruins as
potsherds in other ancient sites. This was obviously where the looters
brought their finds from deeper levels, stripping off the valuable outer
casings of the Dwarven mechanisms and leaving their innards here - easier
than lugging the intact mechanisms back up to the top of the cliff. I
laughed to myself, thinking of the many warriors unwittingly walking around
Tamriel with pieces of Dwarven mechanisms on their backs. For that, of
course, is what most "Dwarven armor" really is - just the armored shells of
ancient mechanical men. I sobered when I thought of how exceedingly valuable
an intact mechanism would be. This place was obviously full of Dwarven
devices, judging from the litter covering the floor of this vast chamber - or
had been, I reminded myself. Looters had been working over this site for
centuries. Just the casing alone would be worth a small fortune, sold as
armor. Most Dwarven armor is made of mismatched pieces from various devices,
hence its reputation for being bulky and unwieldy. But a matched set from an
intact mechanism is worth more than its weight in gold, for the pieces all
fit together smoothly and the wearer hardly notices the bulk. Of course, I
had no intention of destroying my finds for armor, no matter how valuable. I
would bring it back to the Society for scientific study. I imagined the
astonished cries of my colleagues as I unveiled it at my next lecture, and
smiled again.
I picked up a discarded gear from the piles at my feet. It still gleamed
brightly, as if new-made, the Dwarven alloys resisting the corrosion of time.
I wondered what secrets remained hidden in the maze of chambers that lay
before me, defying the efforts of looters, waiting to gleam again in the
light they had not seen in long eons. Waiting for me. It remained only to
find them! With an impatient gesture to Master Arum to follow, I strode
forward into the gloom.
Master Arum, Ten Penny and I spent several days exploring the ruins while my
assistants set up camp at the top of the cliff and hauled supplies and
equipment from the village. I was looking for a promising area to begin
excavation -- a blocked passage or corridor untouched by looters that might
lead to completely untouched areas of the ruins.
We found two such areas early on, but soon discovered that the many winding
passages bypassed the blockage and gave access to the rooms behind.
Nevertheless, even these outer areas, for the most part stripped clean of
artifacts by generations of looters, were full of interest to the
professional archaeologist. Behind a massive bronze door, burst from its
hinges by some ancient turmoil of the earth, we discovered a large chamber
filled with exquisite wall-carvings, which impressed even the jaded Ten
Penny, who claimed to have explored every Dwarven ruin in Morrowind. They
seemed to depict an ancient ritual of some kind, with a long line of
classically-bearded Dwarven elders processing down the side walls, all
seemingly bowing to the giant form of a god carved into the front wall of the
chamber, which was caught in the act of stepping forth from the crater of a
mountain in a cloud of smoke or steam. According to Master Arum, there are
no known depictions of Dwarven religious rituals, so this was an exciting
find indeed. I set a team to work prying the carved panels from the wall,
but they were unable to even crack the surface. On closer examination the
chamber appeared to be faced with a metallic substance with the texture and
feel of stone, impervious to any of our tools. I considered having Master
Arum try his blasting magic on the walls, but decided that the risk of
destroying the carvings was too great. Much as I would have preferred to
bring them back to the Imperial City, I had to settle for taking rubbings of
the carvings. If my colleagues in the Society showed enough interest, I was
sure a specialist could be found, perhaps a master alchemist, who could find
a way to safely remove the panels.
I found another curious room at the top of a long winding stair, barely
passable due to the fall of rubble from the roof. At the top of the stair
was a domed chamber with a large ruined mechanism at its center. Painted
constellations were still visible in some places on the surface of the dome.
Master Arum and I agreed that this must have been some kind of observatory,
and the mechanism was therefore the remains of a Dwarven telescope. To
remove it from ruins down the narrow stairway would require its complete
disassembly (which fact no doubt had preserved it from the attention of
looters), so I decided to leave it in place for the time being. The
existence of this observatory suggested, however, that this room had once
been above the surface. Closer examination of the structure revealed that
this was indeed a building, not an excavated chamber. The only other
doorways from the room were completely blocked, and careful measurements from
the top of the cliff to the entry room and then to the observatory revealed
that we were still more than 250 feet below the present ground level. A
sobering reminder of the forgotten fury of Red Mountain.
This discovery led us to focus our attentions downward. Since we now knew
approximately where the ancient surface lay, we could rule out many of the
higher blocked passages. One wide passage, impressively flanked with carven
pillars, particularly drew my interest. It ended in a massive rockfall, but
we could see where looters had begun and then abandoned a tunnel through this
debris. With my team of diggers and Master Arum's magery to assist, I
believed we could succeed where our predecessors had failed. I therefore set
my team of Dark Elves to work on clearing the passage, relieved finally to be
beginning the real exploration of Kemel-Ze. Soon, I hoped, my boots would be
stirring up dust that had lain undisturbed since the dawn of time.
With this exciting prospect before me, I may have driven my diggers a bit too
hard. Ten Penny reported that they were beginning to grumble about the long
days, and that some were talking of quitting. Knowing from experience that
nothing puts heart back into these Dark Elves like a taste of the lash, I had
the ringleaders whipped and the rest confined to the ruins until they had
finished clearing the passageway. Thank Stendarr for my foresight in
requisitioning a few legionnaires from Seyda Neen! They were sullen at
first, but with the promise of an extra day's wages when they broke through,
they soon set to work with a will. While these measures may sound harsh to
my readers back in the comforts of civilization, let me assure you that there
is no other way to get these people to stick to a task.
The blockage was much worse than I had first thought, and in the end it took
almost two weeks to clear the passage. The diggers were as excited as I was
when their picks finally broke through the far end into emptiness, and we
shared a round of the local liquor together (a foul concoction, in truth) to
show that all was forgiven. I could hardly restrain my eagerness as they
enlarged the hole to allow entry into the chamber beyond. Would the passage
lead to entire new levels of the ancient city, filled with artifacts left by
the vanished Dwarves? Or would it be only a dead end, some side passage
leading nowhere? My excitement grew as I slid through the hole and crouched
for a moment in the darkness beyond. From the echoing sounds of the stones
rattling beneath my feet, I was in a large room. Perhaps very large. I
stood up carefully, and unhooded my lantern. As the light flooded the
chamber, I looked around in astonishment. Here were wonders beyond even my
wildest dreams!
As the light from my lamp filled the chamber beyond the rock fall, I looked
around in astonishment. Everywhere was the warm glitter of Dwarven alloys.
I had found an untouched section of the ancient city! My heart pounding with
excitement, I looked around me. The room was vast, the roof soaring up into
darkness beyond the reach of my lamp, the far end lost in shadows with only a
tantalizing glimmer hinting at treasures not yet revealed. Along each wall
stood rows of mechanical men, intact except for one oddity: their heads had
been ritually removed and placed on the floor at their feet. This could mean
only one thing -- I had discovered the tomb of a great Dwarven noble, maybe
even a king! Burials of this type had been discovered before, most famously
by Ransom's expedition to Hammerfell, but no completely intact tomb had ever
been found. Until now.
But if this was truly a royal burial, where was the tomb? I stepped forward
gingerly, the rows of headless bodies standing silently as they had for eons,
their disembodied eyes seeming to watch me as I passed. I had heard wild
tales of the Curse of the Dwarves, but had always laughed it off as
superstition. But now, breathing the same air as the mysterious builders of
this city, which had lain undisturbed since the cataclysm that spelled their
doom, I felt a twinge of fear. There was some power here, I felt, something
malevolent that resented my presence. I stopped for a moment and listened.
All was silent.
Except... it seemed I heard a faint hiss, regular as breathing. I fought
down a sudden surge of panic. I was unarmed, not thinking of danger in my
haste to explore past the blocked passage. Sweat dripped down my face as I
scanned the gloom for any movement. The room was warm, I suddenly noticed,
much warmer than the rest of the labyrinth thus far. My excitement returned.
Could I have found a section of the city still connected to a functioning
steam grid? Pipes ran along the walls, as in all sections of the city. I
walked over and placed my hand on one. It was hot, almost too hot to touch!
Now I saw that in places where the ancient piping had corroded, small jets of
steam were escaping -- the sound I had heard. I laughed at my own credulity.
I now advanced quickly to the far end of the room, giving a cheerful salute
to the ranks of mechanical soldiers who had appeared so menacing only moments
before. I smiled with triumph as the light swept back the darkness of
centuries to reveal the giant effigy of a Dwarven king standing on a raised
dais, his metal hand clutching his rod of office. This was the prize indeed!
I circled the dais slowly, admiring the craftsmanship of the ancient Dwarves.
The golden king stood twenty feet tall under a freestanding domed cupola, his
long upswept beard jutting forward proudly as his glittering metal eyes
seemed to follow me. But my superstitious mood had passed, and I gazed
benevolently on the old Dwarven king. My king, as I had already begun to
think of him. I stepped onto the dais to get a better look at the sculpted
armor. Suddenly the eyes of the figure opened and it raised a mailed fist to
strike!
I leaped to one side as the golden arm came crashing down, striking sparks
from the steps where I had stood a moment before. With a hiss of steam and
the whir of gears, the giant figure stepped ponderously out from under its
canopy and strode towards me with frightening speed, its eyes tracking me as
I scrambled backwards. I dodged behind a pillar as the fist whistled down
again. I had dropped my lantern in the confusion, and now I crept into the
darkness outside the pool of light, hoping to slip between the headless
mechanisms and thus escape back to the safety of the passageway. Where had
the monster gone? You would think that a twenty-foot golden kind would be
hard to miss, but he was nowhere to be seen. The guttering lamp only
illuminated a small part of the room. He could be hiding anywhere in the
gloom. I crawled faster. Without warning, the dim ranks of Dwarven soldiers
in front of me went flying as the monstrous guardian loomed before me. He
had cut off my escape! As I dodged backwards, blow after blow whistled down
as the implacable machine followed me relentlessly, driving me into the far
corner of the room. At last there was nowhere left for me to go. My back
was to the wall. I glared up at my foe, determined to die on my feet. The
huge fists lifted for one final blow.
The room blazed with sudden light. Bolts of purple energy crackled across
the metal carapace of the Dwarven monster, and it halted, half-turning to
meet this new threat. Master Arum had come! I was about to raise a cheer
when the giant figure turned back to me, unharmed by the lightning bolt
hurled by Master Arum, determined to destroy this first intruder. I shouted
out "Steam! Steam!" as the giant raised his fist to crush me into the floor.
There was a hiss and a gust of bitter cold and I looked up. The monster was
now covered with a shell of ice, frozen in the very moment of dispatching me.
Master Arum had understood. I leaned against the wall with relief.
The ice cracked above me. The giant golden king stood before me, the shell
of ice falling away, his head swiveling towards me in triumph. Was there no
stopping this Dwarven monstrosity?! But then the light faded from his eyes,
and his arms dropped to his sides. The magical frost had worked, cooling its
steam-driven energy.
As Master Arum and the diggers crowded around me, congratulating me on my
narrow escape, my thoughts drifted. I imagined my return to the Imperial
City, and I knew that this would be my greatest triumph yet. How could I
possibly top this find? Perhaps it was time to move on. Recovering the
fabled Eye of Argonia... now that would be a coup! I smiled to myself,
reveling in the glory of the moment but already planning my next adventure.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Seed
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Axe3
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Axe skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Seed
Ancient Tales of the Dwemer, Part II
By Marobar Sul
The hamlet village of Lorikh was a quiet, peaceful Dwemer community nestled
in the monochrome grey and tan dunes and boulders of the Dejasyte. No
vegetation of any kind grew in Lorikh, though there were blackened vestiges
of long dead trees scattered throughout the town. Kamdida arriving by
caravan looked at her new home with despair. She was used to the forestland
of the north where her father's family had haled. Here there was no shade,
little water, and a great open sky. It looked like a dead land.
Her mother's family took Kamdida and her younger brother Nevith in, and was
very kind to the orphans, but she felt lonely in the alien village. It was
not until she met an old Argonian woman who worked at the water factory that
Kamdida found a friend. Her name was Sigerthe, and she said that her family
had lived in Lorikh centuries before the Dwemer arrived, when it was a great
and beauteous forest.
"Why did the trees die?" asked Kamdida.
"When there were Argonians only in this land, we never cut trees for we had
no need for fuel or wooden structures such as you use. When the Dwemer came,
we allowed them to use the plants as they needed them, provided they never
touched the Hist, which are sacred to us and to the land. For many years, we
lived peaceably. No one wanted for anything."
"What happened?"
"Some of your scientists discovered that distilling a certain tree sap,
molding it and drying it, they could create a resilient kind of armor called
resin," said Sigerthe. "Most of the trees that grew here had very thin ichor
in their branches, but not the Hist. Many of them fairly glistened with sap,
which made the Dwemer merchants greedy. They hired a woodsman named Juhnin
to start clearing the sacred arbors for profit."
The old Argonian woman looked to the dusty ground and sighed, "Of course, we
Argonians cried out against it. It was our home, and the Hist, once gone,
would never return. The merchants reconsidered, but Juhnin took it on his
own to break our spirit. He proved one terrible, bloody day that his
prodigious skill with the axe could be used against people as well as trees.
Any Argonian who stood in his way was hewn asunder, children as well. The
Dwemer people of Lorikh closed their doors and their ears to the cries of
murder."
"Horrible," gasped Kamdida.
"It is difficult to explain," said Sigerthe. "But the deaths of our living
ones was not nearly as horrible to us as the death of our trees. You must
understand that to my people, the Hist are where we come from and where we
are going. To destroy our bodies is nothing; to destroy our trees is to
annihilate us utterly. When Juhnin then turned his axe on the Hist, he
killed the land. The water disappeared, the animals died, and all the other
life that the trees nourished crumbled and dried to dust."
"But you are still here?" asked Kamdida. "Why didn't you leave?"
"For us, we are trapped. I am one of the last of a dying people. Few of us
are strong enough to live away from our ancestral groves, and sometimes, even
now, there is a perfume in the air of Lorikh that gives us life. It will not
be long until we are all gone."
Kamdida felt tears welling up in her eyes. "Then I will be alone in this
horrible place with no trees and no friends."
'We Argonians have an expression," said Sigerthe with a sad smile, taking
Kamdida's hand. "That the best soil for a seed is found in your heart."
Kamdida looked into the palm of her hand and saw that Sigerthe had given her
a small black pellet. It was a seed. "It looks dead."
"It can only grow in one place in all Lorikh," said the old Argonian.
"Outside an old cottage in the hills outside town. I cannot go there, for
the owner would kill me on sight and like all my people, I am too frail to
defend myself now. But you can go there and plant the seed."
"What will happen?" asked Kamdida. "Will the Hist return?"
"No. But some part of their power will."
That night, Kamdida stole from her house and into the hills. She knew the
cottage Sigerthe had spoken of. Her aunt and uncle had told her never to go
there. As she approached it, the door opened and an old but powerfully built
man appeared, a mighty axe slung over his shoulder.
"What are you doing here, child?" he demanded. "In the dark, I almost took
you to be a lizard man."
"I've lost my way in the dark," she said quickly. "I'm trying to get back to
my home in Lorikh."
"Be on your way then."
"Do you have a candle I might have?" she asked piteously. "I've been walking
in circles and I'm afraid I'll only return back here without any light."
The old man grumbled and walked into his house. Quickly, Kamdida dug a hole
in the dry dirt and buried the seed as deeply as she could. He returned with
a lit candle.
"See to it you don't come back here," he growled. "Or I'll chop you in half."
He returned to his house and fire. The next morning when he awoke and opened
the door, he found that his cottage was entirely sealed within an enormous
tree. He picked up his axe and delivered blow and after blow to the wood,
but he could never break through. He tried side chops, but the wood healed
itself. He tried an upper chop followed by an under chop to form a wedge,
but the wood sealed.
Much time went by before someone discovered old Juhnin's emaciated body lying
in front of his open door, still holding his blunted, broken axe. It was a
mystery to all what he had been chopping with it, but the legend began
circulating through Lorikh that Hist sap was found on the blade.
Shortly thereafter, small desert flowers began pushing through the dry dirt
in the town. Trees and plants newly sown began to live tolerably well, if
not luxuriantly. The Hist did not return, but Kamdida and the people of
Lorikh noticed that at a certain time around twilight, long, wide shadows of
great, bygone trees would fill the streets and hills.
Publisher's Note:
"The Seed" is one of Marobar Sul's tales whose origins are well known. This
tale originated from the Argonian slaves of southern Morrowind. "Marobar Sul"
merely replaced the Dunmer with Dwemer and claimed he found it in a Dwemer
ruin. Furthermore, he later claimed that the Argonian version of the tale was
merely a retelling of his "original!"
Lorikh, while clearly not a Dwemer name, simply does not exist, and in fact
"Lorikh" was a name commonly used, incorrectly, for Dunmer men in Gor Felim's
plays. The Argonian versions of the story usually take place on Vvardenfell,
usually in the Telvanni city of Sadrith Mora. Of course the so-called
"scholars" of Temple Zero will probably claim this story has something to do
with "Lorkhan" simply because the town starts with the letter L.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Third Door
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Axe1
Weight: 4
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Axe skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Third Door
by Annanar Orme
I.
I sing of Ellabeth, the Queen of the Axe,
Who could fell a full elm with two hatchet hacks.
She could rip apart Valenwood just for her fun.
She studied under Alfhedil in Tel Aruhn.
He taught her the jabs, the strokes, and the stance
To make an ax-swing into an elegant dance.
He taught her the barbed axes of the Orcs bold,
The six-foot-long axes favored in Winterhold,
The hollow-bladed axes of the Elves of the West,
Which whistle when they swing through flesh.
With a single-headed axe, she could behead two men.
With a double-headed axe, she could fell more than ten.
Yet where she lives in legend has most to do
With the man who hacked her own heart in two.
II.
Nienolas Ulwarth the Mighty, who hailed from Blackrose,
The only man who could best Ellabeth with ax blows,
In a minute, she chopped fifty trees; he, fifty-three.
She felt at once that he was the only man for she.
When she professed her love, Nienolas just laughed.
He said he loved more his ax handle and shaft.
And if they weren't enough to slake all his desire
There was another woman named Lorinthyrae.
Fury gripped the Queen of the Axe, the maid Ellabeth,
And her thoughts turned to pondering musings of death.
Mephala and Sheogorath gave her a revengeful scheme
And for weeks, she worked on it in a state like a dream.
In the still of the night, she kidnapped her rival
And then told her choices between doom and survival.
III.
Lorinthyrae awoke in a house in the moors
In a room lightly furnished except for three doors.
Ellabeth explained that behind one of the doors the lass
Would find Ellabeth's and her love, the great Nienolas.
Behind the second lived a ravenous demon.
And behind the third, an exit to freedom.
She must choose a door, and to aid her decision
If she pondered too long, the axe'd make a division.
Lorinthyrae wept, and Ellabeth felt contrite,
And opened the door to her immediate right.
It led to the moors, and as she slipped through the gloom,
She advised Lorinthyrae to likewise abandon the room.
Lorinthyrae ignored her and did not feel her will bend.
Nienolas was largely behind the first door she opened.
IV.
Ellabeth had lied; there was no demon of lore.
The top third of Nienolas was behind the third door.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The True Nature of Orcs
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_truenatureoforcs
Weight: 3
Value: 30
Special Notes: None
The True Nature of Orcs
Orcs were born during the latter days of the Dawn Era. History has mislabeled
them beastfolk, related to the goblin races, but the Orcs are actually the
children of Trinimac, strongest of the Altmeri ancestor spirits. When
Trinimac was eaten by the Daedroth Prince Boethiah, and transformed in that
foul god's insides, the Orcs were transformed as well. The ancient name for
the Orcs is 'Orsimer,' which means 'The Pariah Folk.' They now follow
Malauch, the remains of Trinimac.
Who is Malauch?
He is more commonly know as the Daedroth Prince Malacath, 'whose sphere is
the patronage of the spurned and ostracized, the sworn oath, and the bloody
curse.' He is not technically a Daedra Lord, nor do the other Daedra
recognize him as such, but this is fitting for his sphere. Of old he was
Trinimac, the champion of the High Elven pantheon, in some places more
popular than Auri-El, who protected them against enemies without and within.
When Trinimac and his followers attempted to halt the Velothi dissident
movement, Boethiah ate him. Trinimac's body and spirit were corrupted, and he
emerged as Malacath. His followers were likewise changed for the worse.
Despised by everyone, especially the inviolate Auri-El, they quickly fled to
the northern wastes, near Saarthal. They fought Nords and Chimer for a place
in the world, but did not get much. In Skyrim, Malacath is called Orkey, or
Old Knocker, and his battles with Ysmir are legendary.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The True Noble's Code
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_truenoblescode
Weight: 3
Value: 40
Special Notes: None
The True Noble's Code
by Serjo Athyn Sarethi
The honorable warriors of the Great House Redoran are the hereditary
defenders of the Morrowind. To be a noble of House Redoran is more than being
a great warrior. One must follow the triune virtues of duty, gravity, and
piety.
A Redoran's duty is first to the Tribunal Temple, second to the Great House
Redoran, and third to one's family and clan. In the Battle of Red Mountain,
warriors of House Redoran died bravely for their duty to the Tribunal. By
defending House Redoran from the schemes of Telvanni wizards and the lies of
untrustworthy Hlaalu, the true noble shows duty to House Redoran. Following
the Temple's guidelines of mercy and generosity show duty to one's family and
clan.
A Redoran noble must know the virtue of gravity. It is not the Redoran way to
laugh at serious matters, for it shows disrespect. It is not the Redoran way
to spread rumors, for they fester and breed dissention.
A Redoran must show piety to the Aedra and Daedra, our creators and
ancestors. For without the divine, we would not have the chance to serve. And
without divine law, we would not know right from wrong. And without giving
thanks for these things, we would forget out place and our purpose.
Great House Redoran praises all the skills of war. Not because we believe war
is good or honorable in its own right, but because this knowledge is
necessary to perform one's duty. House Redoran's warrior fight with a long
blade and a shield or with a spear. A noble of House Redoran must also learn
to use a bow and must be athletic enough for the long marches to battle. A
Redoran wears heavy or medium armor depending on rank and strategy. A noble
of House Redoran is expected to know how to repair and maintain his own
armor.
Those who are born to House Redoran have been taught their skill and virtues
by kin and clan. Those who seek to enter House Redoran as retainers must
satisfy an examiner in the Redoran Council Hall that their skills are
suitable for service to House Redoran.
Whether born to the blood of House Redoran, or adopted into service of House
Redoran by oath, those who seek to advance in the ranks of House Redoran must
demonstrate their virtues by service and obedience. And only when one has
mastered all the skills and virtues can one truly call himself a noble of the
Great House Redoran.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Vagaries of Magicka
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_VagariesOfMagica
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: None
[a passage from the text of THE VAGARIES OF MAGICKA]
"...but take care, lest power enfeeble the fundaments, and curtail the flow
through the Congeries, except when functions be warranted. And safeguard that
the Congeries shall not be abused by prideful wizards, confident in their
skill and blinded by their ambitions. In this, hold the ordering of the
Congeries among the oldest and most trusted of mages, and make secure this
ordering through arcane codes and keys to confound even the most clever
students.
"The Restorals must be most carefully guarded, for how often have even the
wise lusted to overreach their bodies and souls with vitality and mana. And
also must the Magicka Fountains be damped and banked, sanctioning their
engendering only to the reconsecration of essential arcane engines and
templates, and then only by common assent of the Council."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The War of the First Council
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_WaroftheFirstCouncil
Weight: 3
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
The War of the First Council
[This account by the Imperial scholar Agrippa Fundilius is based on various
Imperial and Dunmer sources, and written for Western readers.]
The War of the First Council was a First Age religious conflict between the
secular Dunmer Houses Dwemer and Dagoth and the orthodox Dunmer Houses
Indoril, Redoran, Dres, Hlaalu, and Telvanni. The First Council was the first
pan-Dunmer governing body, which collapsed over disputes about sorceries and
enchantments practiced by the Dwemer and declared profane by the other
Houses.
The Secular Houses, less numerous, but politically and magically more
advanced, and aided by Nord and Orc clans drawn by promise of land and booty,
initially campaigned with great success in the north of Morrowind, and
occupied much of the land now comprising Redoran, Vvardenfell, and Telvanni
District. The Orthodox Houses, widely dispersed and poorly organized,
suffered defeat after defeat until Nerevar was made general of all House
troops and levies.
Nerevar secured the aid of nomad barbarian tribesmen, and contrived to force
a major battle at the Secular stronghold of Red Mountain on Vvardenfell. The
Secular forces were outmaneuvered and defeated with the help of Ashlander
scouts, and the survivors forced to take refuge in the Dwemer stronghold at
Red Mountain.
After a brief siege, treason permitted Nerevar and his troops to enter the
stronghold, where the Secular leaders were slain, and Nerevar mortally
wounded. General slaughter followed, and Houses Dwemer and Dagoth were
exterminated. Nerevar died shortly thereafter of his wounds.
Three of Nerevar's associates among the Orthodox Houses, Vivec, Almalexia,
and Sotha Sil, succeeded to control of the re-created First Council, re-named
the Grand Council of Morrowind, and went on to be come the god-kings and
immortal rulers of Morrowind known as the Tribunal, or Almsivi.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Warrior's Charge
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_conjuration5
Weight: 3
Value: 325
Special Notes: Raises Conjuration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Warrior's Charge
An old poem of the Redguards
And the star sung far-flung tales
Wreathed in the silver of Yokuda fair,
Of a Warrior who, arrayed in hue sails
His charges through the serpent's snare
And the Lord of runes, so bored so soon,
Leaves the ship for an evening's dare,
Perchance to wake, the coiled snake,
To take its shirt of scales to wear
And the Lady East, who e'ery beast,
Asleep or a'prowl can rouse a scare,
Screams as her eye, alight in the sky
A worm no goodly sight can bear
And the mailed Steed, ajoins the deed
Not to be undone from his worthy share,
Rides the night, towards scale bright,
Leaving the seasoned Warrior's care
Then the serpent rose, and made stead to close,
The targets lay plain and there,
But the Warrior's blade the Snake unmade,
And the charges wander no more, they swear
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Waters of Oblivion
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_WatersOfOblivion
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: None
Waters of Oblivion
A hundred and twenty numbered ages in the void that fated folk had grown
deep-schooled in evil. Then the Bright Gods resolved to punish those
faithless spirits, and shatter the unruly caitiffs, those huge, unholy
scathers, loathsome to the Light. They repented exceedingly that they had
gazed upon Oblivion, and seen there the first of dark kin, and welcomed them
as brothers and sisters.
The Principalities of Victory beheld how great was the wickedness of the
wayward spirits, and saw that they were bold in sin and full of wiles. They
resolved then to chasten the tribes of daedra, and smite darkkind with hammer
and hand.
But ever shall Darkness contest the Light, and great were the Powers that
breathed the void and laid waste upon one another, and no oath might bind
them, so deep were they in envy and perfidy. For once the portals are opened,
who shall shut them upon the rising tide?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Wild Elves
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_wildelves
Weight: 4
Value: 35
Special Notes: None
On Wild Elves
by Kier-jo Chorvak
In the wilds of most every province of Tamriel, descended philosophically if
not directly from the original inhabitants of the land, are the Ayleids,
commonly called the Wild Elves. While three races of Elven stock -- the
Altmer (or High Elves), the Bosmer (or Wood Elves), and the Dunmer (or Dark
Elves) -- have assimilated well into the new cultures of Tamriel, the Ayleids
and their brethren have remained aloof toward our civilization, preferring to
practice the old ways far from the eyes of the world.
The Wild Elves speak a variation of Old Cyrodilic, opting to shun Tamrielic
and separating themselves from the mainstream of Tamriel even further than
the least urbanized of their Elven cousins. In temperament they are dark-
spirited and taciturn -- though this is from the point of view of outsiders
(or "Pellani" in their tongue), and doubtless they act differently within
their own tribes.
Indeed, one of the finest sages of the University of Gwilym was a civilized
Ayleid Elf, Tjurhane Fyrre (1E2790-2E227), whose published work on Wild Elves
suggests a lively, vibrant culture. Fyrre is one of the very few Ayleids to
speak freely on his people and religion, and he himself said "the nature of
the Ayleid tribes is multihued, their personalities often wildly different
from their neighbor[ing] tribes" (Fyrre, T., Nature of Ayleidic Poesy, p. 8,
University of Gwilym Press, 2E12).
Like any alien culture, Wild Elves are often feared by the simple people of
Tamriel. The Ayleids continue to be one of the greatest enigmas of the
continent of Tamriel. They seldom appear in the pages of written history in
any role, and then only as a strange sight a chronicler stumbles upon before
they vanish into the wood. When probable fiction is filtered from common
legend, we are left with almost nothing. The mysterious ways of the Ayleids
have remained shrouded since before the First Era, and may well remain so for
thousands of years to come.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Wolf Queen, Book I
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_security2
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Security skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Wolf Queen, Book One
by Waughin Jarth
From the pen of the first century third era sage Montocai:
3E 63:
In the autumntide of the year, Prince Pelagius, son of Prince Uriel, who is
son of the Empress Kintyra, who is niece of the great Emperor Tiber Septim,
came to the High Rock city-state of Camlorn to pay court to the daughter of
King Vulstaed. Her name was Quintilla, the most beauteous princess in
Tamriel, skilled at all the maidenly skills and an accomplished sorceress.
Eleven years a widower with a young son named Antiochus, Pelagius arrived at
court to find that the city-state was being terrorized by a great demon
werewolf. Instead of wooing, Pelagius and Quintilla together went out to
save the kingdom. With his sword and her sorcery, the beast was slain and by
the powers of mysticism, Quintilla chained the beast's soul to a gem.
Pelagius had the gem made into a ring and married her.
But it was said that the soul of the wolf stayed with the couple until the
birth of their first child.
3E 80
"The ambassador from Solitude has arrived, your majesty," whispered the
steward Balvus.
"Right in the middle of dinner?" muttered the Emperor weakly. "Tell him to
wait."
"No, father, it's important that you see him," said Pelagius, rising. "You
can't make him wait and then give him bad news. It's undiplomatic."
"Don't go then, you're much better at diplomacy than I am. We should have
all the family here," Emperor Uriel II added, suddenly aware how few people
were present at his dinner table. "Where's your mother?"
"Sleeping with the archpriest of Kynareth," Pelagius would have said, but he
was, as his father said, diplomatic. Instead he said, "At prayer."
"And your brother and sister?"
"Amiel is in Firsthold, meeting with the Archmagister of the Mages Guild.
And Galana, though we won't be telling this to the ambassador, of course, is
preparing for her wedding to the Duke of Narsis. Since the ambassador
expects her to be marrying his patron the King of Solitude instead, we'll
tell him that she's at the spa, having a cluster of pestilent boils removed.
Tell him that, and he won't press too hard for the marriage, politically
expedient though it may be," Pelagius smiled. "You know how queasy Nords are
about warty women."
"But dash it, I feel like I should have some family around, so I don't look
like some old fool despised by his nearest and dearest," growled the Emperor,
correctly suspecting this to be the case. "What about your wife? Where's
she and the grandchildren?"
"Quintilla's in the nursery with Cephorus and Magnus. Antiochus is probably
whoring around the City. I don't know where Potema is, probably at her
studies. I thought you didn't like children around."
"I do during meetings with ambassadors in damp staterooms," sighed the
Emperor. "They lend an air of, I don't know, innocence and civility. Ah,
show the blasted ambassador in," he said to Balvus.
Potema was bored. It was the rainy season in the Imperial Province,
wintertide, and the streets and the gardens of the City were all flooded.
She could not remember a time when it was not raining. Had it been only
days, or had it been weeks or months since the sun shone? There was no
judging of time any more in the constant flickering torch-light of the
palace, and as Potema walked through marble and stone hallways, listening to
the pelting of the rain, she could think nothing but that she was bored.
Asthephe, her tutor, would be looking for her now. Ordinarily, she did not
mind studying. Rote memorization came easily to her. She quizzed herself as
she walked down through the empty ballroom. When did Orsinium fall? 1E 980.
Who wrote Tamrilean Tractates? Khosey. When was Tiber Septim born? 2E 288.
Who is the current King of Daggerfall? Mortyn, son of Gothlyr. Who is the
current Silvenar? Varbarenth, son of Varbaril. Who is the Warlord of
Lilmoth? Trick question: it's a lady, Ioa.
What will I get if I'm a good girl, and don't get into any trouble, and my
tutor says I'm an excellent student? Mother and father will renege on their
promise to buy me a daedric katana of my own, saying they never remembered
that promise, and it's far too expensive and dangerous for a girl my age.
There were voices coming from the Emperor's stateroom. Her father, her
grandfather, and a man with a strange accent, a Nord. Potema moved a stone
she had loosened behind a tapestry and listened in.
"Let us be frank, your imperial majesty," came the Nord's voice. "My sire,
the King of Solitude, doesn't care if Princess Galana looked like an orc. He
wants an alliance with the Imperial family, and you agreed to give him Galana
or give back the millions of gold he gave to you to quell the Khajiiti
rebellion in Torval. This was the agreement you swore to honor."
"I remember no such agreement," came her father's voice, "Can you, my liege?"
There was a mumbling noise that Potema took to be her grandfather, the
ancient Emperor.
"Perhaps we should take a walk to the Hall of Records, my mind may be going,"
the Nord's voice sounded sarcastic. "I distinctly remember your seal being
placed on the agreement before it was locked away. Of course, I may verily
be mistaken."
"We will send a page to the Hall to get the document you refer to," replied
her father's voice, with the cruel, soothing quality he used whenever he was
about to break a promise. Potema knew it well. She replaced the loose stone
and hurried out of the ballroom. She knew well how slowly the pages walked,
used to running errands for a doddering emperor. She could make it to the
Hall of Records in no time at all.
The massive ebony door was locked, of course, but she knew what to do. A
year ago, she caught her mother's Bosmer maid pilfering some jewelry, and in
exchange for her silence, forced the young woman to teach her how to pick
locks. Potema pulled two pins off her red diamond broach and slid the first
into the first lock, holding her hand steady, and memorizing the pattern of
tumblers and grooves within the mechanism.
Each lock had a geography of its own.
The lock to the kitchen larder: six free tumblers, a frozen seventh, and a
counter bolt. She had broken into that just for fun, but if she had been a
poisoner, the whole Imperial household would be dead by now, she thought,
smiling.
The lock to her brother Antiochus' secret stash of Khajiiti pornography: just
two free tumblers and a pathetic poisoned quill trap easily dismantled with
pressure on the counterweight. That had been a profitable score. It was
strange that Antiochus, who seemed to have no shame, proved so easy to
blackmail. She was, after all, only twelve, and the differences between the
perversions of the cat people and the perversions of the Cyrodiils seemed
pretty academic. Still, Antiochus had to give her the diamond broach, which
she treasured.
She had never been caught. Not when she broke into the archmage's study and
stole his oldest spellbook. Not when she broke into the guest room of the
King of Gilane, and stole his crown the morning before Magnus's official
Welcoming ceremony. It had become too easy to torment her family with these
little crimes. But here was a document the Emperor wanted, for a very
important meeting. She would get it first.
But this, this was the hardest lock she ever opened. Over and over, she
massaged the tumblers, gently pushing aside the forked clamp that snatched at
her pins, drumming the counterweights. It nearly took her a half a minute to
break through the door to the Hall of Records, where the Elder Scrolls were
housed.
The documents were well organized by year, province, and kingdom, and it took
Potema only a short while to find the Promise of Marriage between Uriel
Septim II, by the Grace of the Gods, Emperor of the Holy Cyrodiilic Empire of
Tamriel and his daughter the Princess Galana, and His Majesty King Mantiarco
of Solitude. She grabbed her prize and was out of the Hall with the door
well-locked before the page was even in sight.
Back in the ball room, she loosened the stone and listened eagerly to the
conversation within. For a few minutes, the three men, the Nord, the
Emperor, and her father just spoke of the weather and some boring diplomatic
details. Then there was the sound of footsteps and a young voice, the page.
"Your Imperial Majesty, I have searched the Hall of Records and cannot find
the document you asked for."
"There, you see," came Potema's father's voice. "I told you it didn't exist."
"But I saw it!" The Nord's voice was furious. "I was there when my liege and
the emperor signed it! I was there!"
"I hope you aren't doubting the word of my father, the sovereign Emperor of
all Tamriel, not when there's now proof that you must have been ...
mistaken," Pelagius's voice was low, dangerous.
"Of course not," said the Nord, conceding quickly. "But what will I tell my
king? He is to have no connection with the Imperial family, and no gold
returned to him, as the agreement -- as he and I believed the agreement to
be?"
"We don't want any bad feelings between the kingdom of Solitude and us," came
the Emperor's voice, rather feeble, but clear enough. "What if we offered
King Mantiarco our granddaughter instead?"
Potema felt the chill of the room descend on her.
"The Princess Potema? Is she not too young?" asked the Nord.
"She is thirteen years old," said her father. "That's old enough to wed."
"She would an ideal mate for your king," said the Emperor. "She is,
admittedly, from what I see of her, very shy and innocent, but I'm certain
she would quickly grasp the ways of court -- she is, after all, a Septim. I
think she would be an excellent Queen of Solitude. Not too exciting, but
noble."
"The granddaughter of the Emperor is not as close as his daughter," said the
Nord, rather miserably. "But I don't see how we can refuse the offer. I will
send word to my king."
"You have our leave," said the Emperor, and Potema heard the sound of the
Nord leaving the stateroom.
Tears streamed down Potema's eyes. She knew who the King of Solitude was
from her studies. Mantiarco. Sixty-two years old, and quite fat. And she
knew how far Solitude was, and how cold, in the northernmost clime. Her
father and grandfather were abandoning her to the barbaric Nords. The voices
in the room continued talking.
"Well-acted, my boy. Now, make sure you burn that document," said her
father.
"My Prince?" asked the page's querulous voice.
"The agreement between the Emperor and the King of Solitude, you fool. We
don't want its existence known."
"My Prince, I told the truth. I couldn't find the document in the Hall of
Records. It seems to be missing."
"By Lorkhan!" roared her father. "Why is everything in this palace always
misplaced? Go back to the Hall and keep searching until you find it!"
Potema looked at the document. Millions of gold pieces promised to the
kingdom of Solitude in the event of Princess Galana not marrying the king.
She could bring it into her father, and perhaps as a reward he would not
marry her to Mantiarco. Or perhaps not. She could blackmail her father and
the Emperor with it, and make a tidy sum of money. Or she could produce it
when she became Queen of Solitude to fill her coffers, and buy anything she
wanted. More than a daedric katana, that was for certain.
So many possibilities, Potema thought. And she found herself not bored
anymore.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Wolf Queen, Book II
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_hand to hand2
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Hand-to-Hand skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Wolf Queen, Book Two
by Waughin Jarth
From the pen of the first century third era sage Montocai:
3E 82:
A year after the wedding of his 14-year-old granddaughter the Princess Potema
to King Mantiarco of the Nordic kingdom of Solitude, the Emperor Uriel Septim
II passed on. His son Pelagius Septim II was made emperor, and he faced a
greatly depleted treasury, thanks to his father's poor management.
As the new Queen of Solitude, Potema faced opposition from the old Nordic
houses, who viewed her as an outsider. Mantiarco had been widowed, and his
former queen was loved. She had left him a son, Prince Bathorgh, who was two
years older than his stepmother, and loved her not. But the king loved his
queen, and suffered with her through miscarriage after miscarriage, until her
29th year, when she bore him a son.
3E 97
"You must do something to help the pain!" Potema cried, baring her teeth.
The healer Kelmeth immediately thought of a she-wolf in labor, but he put the
image from his mind. Her enemies called her the Wolf Queen for certes, but
not because of any physical resemblance.
"Your Majesty, there is no injury for me to heal. The pain you feel is
natural and helpful for the birth," he was going to add more words of
consolation, but he had to break off to duck the mirror she flung at him.
"I'm not a pignosed peasant girl!" She snarled, "I am the Queen of Solitude,
daughter of the Emperor! Summon the daedra! I'll trade the soul of every
last subject of mine for a little comfort!"
"My Lady," said the healer nervously, drawing the curtains and blotting out
the cold morning sun. "It is not wise to make such offers even in jest. The
eyes of Oblivion are forever watching for just such a rash interjection."
"What would you know of Oblivion, healer?" she growled, but her voice was
calmer, quieter. The pain had relaxed. "Would you fetch me that mirror I
hurled at you?"
"Are you going to throw it again, your Majesty?" said the healer with a taut
smile, obeying her.
"Very likely," she said, looking at her reflection. "And next time I won't
miss. But I do look a fright. Is Lord Vhokken still waiting for me in the
hall?"
"Yes, your Majesty."
"Well, tell him I just need to fix my hair and I'll be with him. And leave
us. I'll howl for you when the pain returns."
"Yes, your Majesty."
A few minutes later, Lord Vhokken was shown into the chamber. He was an
enormous bald man whose friends and enemies called Mount Vhokken, and when he
spoke it was with the low grumble of thunder. The Queen was one of the very
few people Vhokken knew who was not the least bit intimidated by him, and he
offered her a smile.
"My queen, how are you feeling?" he asked.
"Damned. But you're looking like Springtide has come to Mount Vhokken. I
take it from your merry disposition that you've been made warchief."
"Only temporarily, while your husband the King investigates whether there is
evidence behind the rumors of treason on the part of my predecessor Lord
Thone."
"If you've planted it as I've instructed, he'll find it," Potema smiled,
propping herself up in the bed. "Tell me, is Prince Bathorgh still in the
city?"
"What a question, your highness," laughed the mountain. "It's the Tournament
of Stamina today, you know the prince would never miss that. The fellow
invents new strategies of self-defense every year to show off during the
games. Don't you recall last year, where he entered the ring unarmored and
after twenty minutes of fending off six bladesmen, left the games without a
scratch? He dedicated that bout to his late mother, Queen Amodetha."
"Yes, I recall."
"He's no friend to me or you, your highness, but you must give the man his
due respect. He moves like lightning. You wouldn't think it of him, but he
always seems to use his awkwardness to his advantage, to throw his opponents
off. Some say he learned the style from the orcs to the south. They say he
learned from them how to anticipate a foe's attack by some sort of
supernatural power."
"There's nothing supernatural about it," said the Queen, quietly. "He gets it
from his father."
"Mantiarco never moved like that," Vhokken chuckled.
"I never said he did," said Potema. Her eyes closed and her teeth gritted
together. "The pain's returning. You must fetch the healer, but first, I
must ask you one other thing -- has the new summer palace construction
begun?"
"I think so, your Highness."
"Do not think!" she cried, gripping the sheets, biting her lips so a stream
of blood dripped down her chin. "Do! Make certain that the construction
begins at once, today! Your future, my future, and the future of this child
depend on it! Go!"
Four hours later, King Mantiarco entered the room to see his son. His queen
smiled weakly as he gave her a kiss on the forehead. When she handed him the
child, a tear ran down his face. Another one quickly followed, and then
another.
"My Lord," she said fondly. "I know you're sentimental, but really!"
"It's not only the child, though he is beautiful, with all the fair features
of his mother," Mantiarco turned to his wife, sadly, his aged features
twisted in agony. "My dear wife, there is trouble at the palace. In truth,
this birth is the only thing that keeps this day from being the darkest in my
reign."
"What is it? Something at the tournament?" Potema pulled herself up in bed.
"Something with Bathorgh?"
"No, it's isn't the tournament, but it does relate to Bathorgh. I shouldn't
worry you at a time like this. You need your rest."
"My husband, tell me!"
"I wanted to surprise you with a gift after the birth of our child, so I had
the old summer palace completely renovated. It's a beautiful place, or at
least it was. I thought you might like it. Truth to tell, it was Lord
Vhokken idea. It used to be Amodetha's favorite place." Bitterness crept
into the king's voice. "Now I've learned why."
"What have you learned?" asked Potema quietly.
"Amodetha deceived me there, with my trusted warchief, Lord Thone. There
were letters between them, the most perverse things you've ever read. And
that's not the worst of it."
"No?"
"The dates on the letters correspond with the time of Bathorgh's birth. The
boy I raised and loved as a son," Mantiarco's voice choked up with emotion.
"He was Thone's child, not mine."
"My darling," said Potema, almost feeling sorry for the old man. She wrapped
her arms around his neck, as he heaved his sobs down on her and their child.
"Henceforth," he said quietly. "Bathorgh is no longer my heir. He will be
banished from the kingdom. This child you have borne me today will grow to
rule Solitude."
"And perhaps more," said Potema. "He is the Emperor's grandson as well."
"We will name him Mantiarco the Second."
"My darling, I would love that," said Potema, kissing the king's tear-
streaked face. "But may I suggest Uriel, after my grandfather the Emperor,
who brought us together in marriage?"
King Mantiarco smiled at his wife and nodded his head. There was a knock at
the door.
"My liege," said Mount Vhokken. "His highness Prince Bathorgh has finished
the tournament and awaits you to present his award. He has successfully
withstood attacks by nine archers and the giant scorpion we brought in from
Hammerfell. The crowd is roaring his name. They are calling him The Man Who
Cannot Be Hit."
"I will see him," said King Mantiarco sadly, and left the chamber.
"Oh he can be hit, all right," said Potema wearily. "But it does take some
doing."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Wolf Queen, Book III
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_illusion1
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Illusion skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Wolf Queen, Book Three
by Waughin Jarth
From the pen of the first century third era sage Montocai:
3E 98
The Emperor Pelagius Septim II died a few weeks before the end of the year,
on the 15th of Evening Star during the festival of North Wind's Prayer, which
was considered a bad omen for the Empire. He had ruled over a difficult
seventeen years. In order to fill the bankrupt treasury, Pelagius had
dismissed the Elder Council, forcing them to buy back their positions.
Several good but poor councilors had been lost. Many say the Emperor had
died as a result of being poisoned by a vengeful former Council member.
His children came to attend his funeral and the coronation of the next
Emperor. His youngest son Prince Magnus, 19 years of age, arrived from
Almalexia, where he had been a councilor to the royal court. 21-year-old
Prince Cephorus arrived from Gilane with his Redguard bride, Queen Bianki.
Prince Antiochus at 43 years of age, the eldest child and heir presumptive,
had been with his father in the Imperial City. The last to appear was his
only daughter, Potema, the so-called Wolf Queen of Solitude. Thirty years
old and radiantly beautiful, she arrived with a magnificent entourage,
accompanied by her husband, the elderly King Mantiarco and her year-old son,
Uriel.
All expected Antiochus to assume the throne of the Empire, but no one knew
what to expect from the Wolf Queen.
3E 99
"Lord Vhokken has been bringing several men to your sister's chambers late at
night every night this week," offered the Spymaster. "Perhaps if her husband
were made aware --"
"My sister is a devotee of the conqueror gods Reman and Talos, not the love
goddess Dibella. She is plotting with those men, not having orgies with
them. I'd wager I've slept with more men than she has," laughed Antiochus,
and then grew serious. "She's behind the delay of the council offering me the
crown, I know it. Six weeks now. They say they need to update records and
prepare for the coronation. I'm the Emperor! Crown me, and to Oblivion with
the formalities!"
"Your sister is surely no friend of yours, your majesty, but there are other
factors at play. Do not forget how your father treated the Council. It is
they who need following, and if need be, strong convincing," The Spymaster
added, with a suggestive stab of his dagger.
"Do so, but keep your eye on the damnable Wolf Queen as well. You know where
to find me."
"At which brothel, your highness?" inquired the Spymaster.
"Today being Fredas, I'll be at the Cat and Goblin."
The Spymaster noted in his report that night that Queen Potema had no
visitors, for she was dining across the Imperial Garden at the Blue Palace
with her mother, the Dowager Empress Quintilla. It was a warm night for
wintertide and surprisingly cloudless though the day had been stormy. The
saturated ground could not take any more, so the formal, structured gardens
looked as if they had been glazed with water. The two women took their wine
to the wide balcony to look over the grounds.
"I believe you are trying to sabotage your half-brother's coronation," said
Quintilla, not looking at her daughter. Potema saw how the years had not so
much wrinkled her mother as faded her, like the sun on a stone.
"It's not true," said Potema. "But would it bother you very much if it were
true?"
"Antiochus is not my son. He was eleven years old when I married your
father, and we've never been close. I think that being heir presumptive has
stunted his growth. He is old enough to have a family with grown children,
and yet he spends all his time at debauchery and fornication. He will not
make a very good Emperor," Quintilla sighed and then turned to Potema. "But
it is bad for the family for seeds of discontent to be sown. It is easy to
divide up into factions, but very difficult to unite again. I fear for the
future of the Empire."
"Those sound like the words -- are you, by any chance, dying, mother?"
"I've read the omens," said Quintilla with a faint, ironic smile. "Don't
forget -- I was a renowned sorceress in Camlorn. I will dead in a few months
time, and then, not a year later, your husband will die. I only regret that
I will not live to see your child Uriel assume the throne of Solitude."
"Have you seen whether --" Potema stopped, not wanting to reveal too many of
her plans, even to a dying woman.
"Whether he will be Emperor? Aye, I know the answer to that too, daughter.
Don't fear: you'll live to see the answer, one way or the other. I have a
gift for him when he is of age," The Dowager Empress removed a necklace with
a single great yellow gem from around her neck. "It's a soul gem, infused
with the spirit of a great werewolf your father and I defeated in battle
thirty-six years ago. I've enchanted it with spells from the School of
Illusion so its wearer may charm whoever he choses. An important skill for a
king."
"And an emperor," said Potema, taking the necklace. "Thank you, mother."
An hour later, passing the black branches of the sculpted douad shrubs,
Potema noticed a dark figure, which vanished into the shadows under the eaves
at her approach. She had noticed people following her before: it was one of
the hazards of life in the Imperial court. But this man was too close to her
chambers. She slipped the necklace around her neck.
"Come out where I can see you," she commanded.
The man emerged from the shadows. A dark little fellow of middle-age dressed
in black-dyed goatskin. His eyes were fixed, frozen, under her spell.
"Who do you work for?"
"Prince Antiochus is my master," he said in a dead voice. "I am his spy."
A plan formed. "Is the Prince in his study?"
"No, milady."
"And you have access?"
"Yes, milady."
Potema smiled widely. She had him. "Lead the way."
The next morning, the storm reappeared in all its fury. The pelting on the
walls and ceiling was agony to Antiochus, who was discovering that he no
longer had his youthful immunity to a late night of hard drinking. He shoved
hard against the Argonian wench sharing his bed.
"Make yourself useful and close the window," he moaned.
No sooner had the window been bolted then there was a knock at the door. It
was the Spymaster. He smiled at the Prince and handed him a sheet of paper.
"What is this?" said Antiochus, squinting his eyes. "I must still be drunk.
It looks like orcish."
"I think you will find it useful, your majesty. Your sister is here to see
you."
Antiochus considered getting dressed or sending his bedmate out, but thought
better of it. "Show her in. Let her be scandalized."
If Potema was scandalized, she did not show it. Swathed in orange and silver
silk, she entered the room with a triumphant smile, followed by the man-
mountain Lord Vhokken.
"Dear brother, I spoke to my mother last night, and she advised me very
wisely. She said I should not battle with you in public, for the good of our
family and the Empire. Therefore," she said, producing from the folds of her
robe a piece of paper. "I am offering you a choice."
"A choice?" said Antiochus, returning her smile. "That does sound friendly."
"Abdicate your rights to the Imperial throne voluntarily, and there is no
need for me to show the Council this," Potema said, handing her brother the
letter. "It is a letter with your seal on it, saying that you knew that your
father was not Pelagius Septim II, but the royal steward Fondoukth. Now,
before you deny writing the letter, you cannot deny the rumors, nor that the
Imperial Council will believe that your father, the old fool, was quite
capable of being cuckolded. Whether it's true or not, or whether the letter
is a forgery or not, the scandal of it would ruin your chances of being the
Emperor."
Antiochus's face had gone white with fury.
"Don't fear, brother," said Potema, taking back the letter from his shaking
hands. "I will see to it that you have a very comfortable life, and all the
whores your heart, or any other organ, desires."
Suddenly Antiochus laughed. He looked over at his Spymaster and winked. "I
remember when you broke into my stash of Khajiiti erotica and blackmailed me.
That was close to twenty years ago. We've got better locks now, you must
have noticed. It must have killed you that you couldn't use your own skills
to get what you wanted."
Potema merely smiled. It didn't matter. She had him.
"You must have charmed my servant here into getting you into my study to use
my seal," Antiochus smirked. "A spell, perhaps, from your mother, the witch?"
Potema continued to smile. Her brother was cleverer than she thought.
"Did you know that Charm spells, even powerful ones, only last so long? Of
course, you didn't. You never were one for magic. Let me tell you, a
generous salary is a stronger motivation for keeping a servant in the long
run, sister," Antiochus took out his own sheet of paper. "Now I have a choice
for you."
"What is that?" said Potema, her smile faltering.
"It looks like nonsense, but if you know what you're looking for, it's very
clear. It's a practice sheet -- your handwriting attempting to look like my
handwriting. It's a good gift you have. I wonder if you haven't done this
before, imitating another person's handwriting. I understand a letter was
found from your husband's dead wife saying that his first son was a bastard.
I wonder if you wrote that letter. I wonder if I showed this evidence of
your gift to your husband whether he would believe you wrote that letter. In
the future, dear Wolf Queen, don't lay the same trap twice."
Potema shook her head, furious, unable to speak.
"Give me your forgery and go take a walk in the rain. And then, later today,
unhatch whatever other plots you have to keep me from the throne." Antiochus
fixed his eyes on Potema's. "I will be Emperor, Wolf Queen. Now go."
Potema handed her brother the letter and left the room. For a few moments,
out in the hallway, she said nothing. She merely glared at the slivers of
rainwater dripping down the marble wall from a tiny, unseen crack.
"Yes, you will, brother," she said. "But not for very long."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Wolf Queen, Book IV
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_mercantile2
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Mercantile skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Wolf Queen, Book Four
by Waughin Jarth
From the pen of the first century third era sage Montocai:
3E 109
Ten years after being crowned Emperor of Tamriel, Antiochus Septim had
impressed his subjects with little but the enormity of his lust for carnal
pleasures. By his second wife, Gysilla, he had a daughter in the year 104,
who he named Kintyra, after his great-great-great grandaunt, the Empress.
Enormously fat and marked by every venereal disease known to the Healers,
Antiochus spent little time on politics. His siblings, by marked contrast,
excelled in this field. Magnus had married Hellena, the Cyrodiil Queen of
Lilmoth -- the Argonian priest-king having been executed -- and was
representing the Imperial interests in Black Marsh admirably. Cephorus and
his wife Bianki were ruling the Hammerfell kingdom of Gilane with a healthy
brood of children. But no one was more politically active than Potema, the
Wolf-Queen of the Skyrim kingdom of Solitude.
Nine years after the death of her husband, King Mantiarco, Potema still ruled
as regent for her young son, Uriel. Their court had become very fashionable,
particularly for rulers who had a grudge to bear against the Emperor. All
the kings of Skyrim visited Castle Solitude regularly, and over the years,
emissaries from the lands of Morrowind and High Rock did as well. Some
guests came from even farther away.
3E 110
Potema stood at the harbor and watched the boat from Pyandonea arrive.
Against the gray, breaking waves where she had seen so many vessels of
Tamrielic manufacture, it looked less than exotic. Insectoid, certainly,
with its membranous sails and rugged chitin hull, but she had seen similar if
not identical seacraft in Morrowind. No, if not for the flag which was
markedly alien, she would not have picked out the ship from others in the
harbor. As the salty mist ballooned around her, she held out her hand in
welcome to the visitors from another island empire.
The men aboard were not merely pale, they were entirely colorless, as if
their flesh were made of some white limpid jelly, but she had been
forewarned. At the arrival of the King and his translator, she looked
directly into their blank eyes and offered her hand. The King made noises.
"His Great Majesty, King Orgnum," said the translator, haltingly. "Expresses
his delight at your beauty. He thanks you for giving him refuge from these
dangerous seas."
"You speak Cyrodilic very well," said Potema.
"I am fluent in the languages of four continents," said the translator. "I
can speak to the denizens of my own country Pyandonea, as well as those of
Atmora, Akavir, and here, in Tamriel. Yours is the easiest, actually. I was
looking forward to this voyage."
"Please tell his highness that he is welcome here, and that I am entirely at
his disposal," said Potema, smiling. Then she added, "You understand the
context? That I am just being polite?"
"Of course," said the translator, and then made several noises at the King,
which the King reacted to with a smile. While they conversed, Potema looked
up the dock and saw the now familiar gray cloaks watching her while they
spoke with Levlet, Antiochus's man. The Psijic Order from the Summerset
Isle. Very bothersome.
"My diplomatic emissary Lord Vhokken will show you to your rooms," said
Potema. "Unfortunately, I have some other guests as well who require my
attention. I hope your great majesty understands."
His Great Majesty King Orgnum did understand, and Potema made arrangements to
dine with the Pyandoneans that evening. Meeting with the Psijic Order
required all of her concentration. She dressed in her simplest black and
gold robe and went to her stateroom to prepare. Her son, Uriel, was on the
throne, playing with his pet joughat.
"Good morning, mom."
"Good morning, darling," said Potema, lifting her son in the air with feigned
stain. "Talos, but you're heavy. I don't think I've ever carried such a
heavy ten-year-old."
"That's probably because I'm eleven," said Uriel, perfectly aware of his
mother's tricks. "And you're going to say that as an eleven-year-old, I
should probably be with my tutor."
"I was fanatical about studying at your age," said Potema.
"I am king," said Uriel petulantly.
"But don't be satisfied with that," said Potema. "By all rights, you should
be emperor already, you understand that, don't you?"
Uriel nodded his head. Potema took a moment to marvel at his likeness to the
portraits of Tiber Septim. The same ruthless brow and powerful chin. When
he was older and lost his baby fat, he'd be a splitting image of his great
great great great great granduncle. Behind her, she heard the door opening
and an usher bringing in several gray cloaks. She stiffened slightly, and
Uriel, on cue, jumped down from the throne and left the stateroom, pausing to
greet the most important of the Psijics.
"Good Morning, Master Iachesis," he said, enunciating each syllable with a
regal accent that made Potema's heart soar. "I hope your accommodations at
Castle Solitude meet with your approval."
"They do, King Uriel, thank you," said Iachesis, delighted and charmed.
Iachesis and his Psijics entered the chamber and the door was shut behind
them. Potema sat only for a moment on the throne before stepping off the
dais and greeting her guests.
"I am so sorry to have kept you waiting," said Potema. "To think that you
sailed all the way from the Summerset Isles and I should keep you waiting any
longer. You must forgive me."
"It's not all that long a voyage," said one of the gray cloaks, angrily. "It
isn't as if we sailed all the way from Pyandonea."
"Ah. You've seen my most recent guests, King Orgnum and his retinue," said
Potema breezily. "I suppose you think it unusual, me entertaining them, as we
all know the Pyandoneans mean to invade Tamriel. You are, I take it, as
neutral in this as you are in all political matters?"
"Of course," said Iachesis proudly. "We have nothing to gain or lose by the
invasion. The Psijic Order preceded the organization of Tamriel under the
Septim Dynasty and we shall survive under any political regime."
"Rather like a flea on whatever mongrel happens along, are you?" said Potema,
narrowing her eyes. "Don't overestimate your importance, Iachesis. Your
order's child, the Mages Guild, has twice the power you have, and they are
entirely on my side. We are in the process of making an agreement with King
Orgnum. When the Pyandoneans take over and I am in my proper place as
Empress of this continent, then you shall know your proper place in the order
of things."
With a majestic stride, Potema left the stateroom, leaving the grey cloaks to
look from one to the other.
"We must speak to Lord Levlet," said one of the grey cloaks.
"Yes," said Iachesis. "Perhaps we should."
Levlet was quickly found at his usual place at the Moon and Nausea tavern.
As the three grey cloaks entered, led by Iachesis, the smoke and the noise
seemed to die in their path. Even the smell of tobacco and flin dissipated
in their wake. He rose and then escorted them to a small room upstairs.
"You've reconsidered," said Levlet with a broad smile.
"Your Emperor," said Iachesis, and then corrected himself, "Our Emperor
originally asked for our support in defending the west coast of Tamriel from
the Pyandonean fleet in return for twelve million gold pieces. We offered
our services at fifty. Upon reflection on the dangers that a Pyandonean
invasion would have, we accept his earlier offer."
"The Mages Guild has generously -- "
"Perhaps for as low ten million gold pieces," said Iachesis quickly.
Over the course of dinner, Potema promised King Orgnum through the
interpreter, to lead an insurrection against her brother. She was delighted
to discover that her capacity for lying worked in many different cultures.
Potema shared her bed that night with King Orgnum, as it seemed the polite
and diplomatic thing to do. As it turned out, he was one of the better
lovers she had ever had. He gave her some herbs before beginning that made
her feel as if she was floating on the surface of time, conscious only of the
gestures of love after she had found herself making them. She felt herself
like the cooling mist, quenching the fire of his lust over and over and over
again. In the morning, when he kissed her on the cheek, and said with his
bald white eyes that he was leaving her, she felt a stab of regret.
The ship left harbor that morning, en route to the Summerset Isles and the
imminent invasions. She waved them off to sea as she footsteps behind her.
It was Levlet.
"They will do it for eight million, your highness" he said.
"Thank Mara," said Potema. "I need more time for an insurrection. Pay them
from my treasury, and then go to the Imperial City and get the twelve million
from Antiochus. We should make a good profit from this game, and you, of
course, will have your share."
Three months later, Potema heard that the fleet of the Pyandoneans had been
utterly destroyed by a storm that had appeared suddenly off the Isle of
Artaeum. The home port of the Psijic Order. King Orgnum and all of his
ships had been utterly annihilated.
"Sometimes making people hate you," she said, holding her son Uriel close,
"Is how you make a profit ."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Wolf Queen, Book V
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_speechcraft2
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Speechcraft skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Wolf Queen, Book Five
by Waughin Jarth
From the pen of Inzolicus, Second Century Sage and Student of Montocai:
3E 119
For twenty-one years, The Emperor Antiochus Septim ruled Tamriel, and proved
an able leader despite his moral laxity. His greatest victory was in the War
of the Isle in the year 110, when the Imperial fleet and the royal navies of
Summerset Isle, together with the magical powers of the Psijic Order,
succeeded in destroying the Pyandonean invading armada. His siblings, King
Magnus of Lilmoth, King Cephorus of Gilane, and Potema, the Wolf Queen of
Solitude, ruled well and relations between the Empire and the kingdoms of
Tamriel were much improved. Still, centuries of neglect had not repaired all
the scars that existed between the Empire and the kings of High Rock and
Skyrim.
During a rare visitation from his sister and nephew Uriel, Antiochus, who had
suffered from several illnesses over his reign, lapsed into a coma. For
months, he lingered in between life and death while the Elder Council
prepared for the ascension of his fifteen-year-old daughter Kintyra to the
throne.
3E 120
"Mother, I can't marry Kintyra," said Uriel, more amused by the suggestion
than offended. "She's my first cousin. And besides, I believe she's engaged
to one of the lords of council, Modellus."
"You're so squeamish. There's a time and a place for propriety," said
Potema. "But you're correct at any rate about Modellus, and we shouldn't
offend the Elder Council at this critical juncture. How do you feel about
Princess Rakma? You spent a good deal of time in her company in Farrun."
"She's all right," said Uriel. "Don't tell me you want to hear all the dirty
details."
"Please spare me your study of her anatomy," Potema grimaced. "But would you
marry her?"
"I suppose so."
"Very good. I'll make the arrangements then," Potema made a note for herself
before continuing. "King Lleromo has been a difficult ally to keep, and a
political marriage should keep Farrun on our side. Should we need them.
When is the funeral?"
"What funeral?" asked Uriel. "You mean for Uncle Antiochus?"
"Of course," sighed Potema. "Anyone else of note die recently?"
"There were a bunch of little Redguard children running through the halls, so
I guess Cephorus has arrived. Magnus arrived at court yesterday, so it ought
to be any day now."
"It's time to address the Council then," said Potema, smiling.
She dressed in black, not her usual colorful ensembles. It was important to
look the part of the grieving sister. Regarding herself in the mirror, she
felt that she looked all of her fifty-three years. A shock of silver wound
its way through her auburn hair. The long, cold, dry winters in northern
Skyrim had created a map of wrinkles, thin as a spiderweb, all across her
face. Still, she knew that when she smiled, she could win hearts, and when
she frowned, she could inspire fear. It was enough for her purposes.
Potema's speech to the Elder Council is perhaps helpful to students of public
speaking.
She began with flattery and self-abasement: "My most august and wise friends,
members of the Elder Council, I am but a provincial queen, and I can only
assume to bring to issue what you yourselves must have already pondered."
She continued on to praise the late Emperor, who had been a popular ruler,
despite his flaws: "He was a true Septim and a great warrior, destroying --
with your counsel -- the near invincible armada of Pyandonea."
But little time was wasted, before she came to her point: "The Empress
Gysilla unfortunately did nothing to temper my brother's lustful spirits. In
point of fact, no whore in the slums of the city spread out on more beds than
she. Had she attended to her duties in the Imperial bedchamber more
faithfully, we would have a true heir to the Empire, not the halfwit, milksop
bastards who call themselves the Emperor's children. The girl called Kintyra
is popularly believed to be the daughter of Gysilla and the Captain of the
Guard. It may be that she is the daughter of Gysilla and the boy who cleans
the cistern. We can never know for certain. Not as certainly as we can know
the lineage of my son, Uriel. The eldest true son of the Septim Dynasty. My
lords, the princes of the Empire will not stand for a bastard on the throne,
that I can assure you."
She ended mildly, but with a call to action: "Posterity will judge you. You
know what must be done."
That evening, Potema entertained her brothers and their wives in the Map
Room, her favorite of the Imperial dining chambers. The walls were splashed
with bright, if fading representations of the Empire and all the known lands
beyond, Atmora, Yokunda, Akavir, Pyandonea, Thras. Overhead the great glass
domed ceiling, wet with rain, displayed distorted images of the stars
overhead. Lightning flashed every other minute, casting strange phantom
shadows on the walls.
"When will you speak to the Council?" asked Potema as dinner was served.
"I don't know if I will," said Magnus. "I don't believe I have anything to
say."
"I'll speak to them when they announce the coronation of Kintyra," said
Cephorus. "Merely as a formality to show my support and the support of
Hammerfell."
"You can speak for all of Hammerfell?" asked Potema, with a teasing smile.
"The Redguards must love you very much."
"We have a unique relationship with the Empire in Hammerfell," said
Cephorus's wife, Bianki. "Since the treaty of Stros M'kai, it's been
understood that we are part of the Empire, but not a subject."
"I understand you've already spoken to the Council," said Magnus's wife,
Hellena, pointedly. She was a diplomat by nature, but as the Cyrodilic ruler
of an Argonian kingdom, she knew how to recognize and confront adversity.
"Yes, I have," said Potema, pausing to savor a slice of braised jalfbird. "I
gave them a short speech about the coronation this afternoon."
"Our sister is an excellent public speaker," said Cephorus.
"You're too kind," said Potema, laughing. "I do many things better than
speaking."
"Such as?" asked Bianki, smiling.
"Might I ask what you said in your speech?" asked Magnus, suspiciously.
There was a knock on the chamber door. The head steward whispered something
to Potema, who smiled in response and rose from the table.
"I told the Council that I would give my full support to the coronation,
provided they proceed with wisdom. What could be sinister about that?"
Potema said, and took her glass of wine with her to the door. "If you'll
pardon me, my niece Kintyra wishes to have a word with me."
Kintyra stood in the hall with the Imperial Guard. She was but a child, but
on reflection, Potema realized that at her age, she was already married two
years to Mantiarco. There was a similarity, to be certain. Potema could see
Kintyra as the young queen, with dark eyes and pallid skin smooth and
resolute like marble. Anger flashed momentarily in Kintyra's eyes on seeing
her aunt, but emotion left her, replaced with calm Imperial presence.
"Queen Potema," she said serenely. "I have been informed that my coronation
will take place in two days time. Your presence at the ceremony will not be
welcome. I have already given orders to your servants to have your
belongings packed, and an escort will be accompanying you back to your
kingdom tonight. That is all. Goodbye, aunt."
Potema began to reply, but Kintyra and her guard turned and moved back down
the corridor to the stateroom. The Wolf Queen watched them go, and then
reentered the Map Room.
"Sister-in-Law," said Potema, addressing Bianki with deep malevolence. "You
asked what I do better than speaking? The answer is: war."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Wolf Queen, Book VI
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_sneak1
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Sneak skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Wolf Queen, Book Six
by Waughin Jarth
From the pen of Inzolicus, Second Century Sage:
3E 120
The fifteen-year-old Empress Kintyra Septim II, daughter of Antiochus, was
coroneted on the 3rd day of First Seed. Her uncles Magnus, King of Lilmoth,
and Cephorus, King of Gilane, were in attendance, but her aunt, Potema, the
Wolf Queen of Solitude, had been banished from the court. Once back in her
kingdom, Queen Potema began assembling the rebellion, which was to be known
as the War of the Red Diamond. All the allies she had made over the years of
disgruntled kings and nobles joined forces with her against the new Empress.
The first early strikes against the Empire were entirely successful.
Throughout Skyrim and northern High Rock, the Imperial army found themselves
under attack. Potema and her forces washed over Tamriel like a plague,
inciting riots and insurrections everywhere they touched. In the autumn of
the year, the loyal Duke of Glenpoint on the coast of High Rock sent an
urgent request for reinforcements from the Imperial Army, and Kintyra, to
inspire the resistance to the Wolf Queen, led the army herself.
3E 121
"We don't know where they are," said the Duke, deeply embarrassed. "I've sent
scouts out all over the countryside. I can only assume that they've
retreated up north upon hearing of your army's arrival."
"I hate to say it, but I was hoping for a battle," said Kintyra. "I'd like to
put my aunt's head on a spike and parade it around the Empire. Her son Uriel
and his army are right on the border to the Imperial Province, mocking me.
How are they able to be so successful? Are they just that good in battle or
do my subjects truly hate me?"
She was tired after many months of struggling through the mud of autumn and
winter. Crossing the Dragontail Mountains, her army nearly marched into an
ambush. A blizzard snap in the normally temperate Barony of Dwynnen was so
unexpected and severe that it must certainly have been cast by one of
Potema's wizard allies. Everywhere she turned, she felt her aunt's touch.
And now, her chance of facing the Wolf Queen at last had been thwarted. It
was almost too much to bear.
"It is fear, pure and simple," said the Duke. "That is her greatest weapon."
"I need to ask," said Kintyra, hoping that by sheer will she could keep her
voice from revealing any of the fear the Duke spoke of. "You've seen the
army. Is it true that she has summoned a force of undead warriors to do her
bidding?"
"No, as a matter of fact, it's not true, but she certainly fosters that
rumor. Her army attacks at night, partly for strategic reasons, and partly
to advance fears like that. She has, so far as I know, no supernatural aid
other than the standard battlemages and nightblades of any modern army."
"Always at night," said Kintyra thoughtfully. "I suppose that's to disguise
their numbers."
"And to move her troops into position before we're aware of them" added the
Duke. "She's the master of the sneak attack. When you hear a march to the
east, you can be certain she's already on top of you from the south. But
listen, we'll discuss this all tomorrow morning. I've prepared the castle's
best rooms for you and your men."
Kintyra sat in her tower suite and by the light of the moon and a single
tallow candle, she penned a letter to her husband-to-be, Lord Modellus, back
in the Imperial City. She hoped to be married to him in the summer at the
Blue Palace her grandmother Quintilla had loved so much, but the war may not
permit it. As she wrote, she gazed out the window at the courtyard below and
the haunted, leafless trees of winter. Two of her guards stood on the
battlements, several feet away from one another. Just like Modellus and
Kintyra, she thought, and proceeded to expound on the metaphor in her letter.
A knock on the door interrupted her poetry.
"A letter, your majesty, from Lord Modellus," said the young courier, handing
the note to her.
It was short, and she read it quickly before the courier had a chance to
retire. "I'm confused by something. When did he write this?"
"One week ago," said the courier. "He said it was urgent that I make it here
as quickly as possible while he mobilized the army. I imagine they've left
the City already."
Kintyra dismissed the courier. Modellus said that he had received a letter
from her, urgently calling for reinforcements to the battle at Glenpoint.
But there was no battle at Glenpoint, and she had only just arrived today.
Then who wrote the letter in her handwriting, and why would they want
Modellus to bring a second army out of the Imperial City into High Rock?
Feeling a chill from the night air at the window, Kintyra went to shut the
latch. The two guards on the battlements were gone. She leaned over at the
sound of a muffled struggle behind one of the barren trees, and did not hear
the door open.
When she turned, she saw Queen Potema and Mentin, Duke of Glenpoint, in the
room with a host of guards.
"You move quietly, aunt," she said after a moment's pause. She turned to the
Duke. "What turned you against your loyalty to the Empire? Fear?"
"And gold," said the Duke simply.
"What happened to my army?" asked Kintyra, trying to look Potema steadily in
the face. "Is the battle over so soon?"
"All your men are dead," smiled Potema. "But there was no battle here.
Merely quiet and efficient assassination. There will be battles ahead,
against Modellus in the Dragontail Mountains and against the remnants of the
Imperial Army in the City. I'll send you regular updates on the progress of
the war."
"So I am to be kept here as your hostage?" asked Kintyra, flatly, suddenly
aware of the solidity of the stones and the great height of her tower room.
"Damn you, look at me! I am your Empress!"
"Think of it this way, I'm taking you from being a fifth rate ruler to a
first rate martyr," said Potema with a wink. "But I understand if you don't
want to thank me for that."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Wolf Queen, Book VII
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_speechcraft4
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Speechcraft skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Wolf Queen, Book Seven
by Waughin Jarth
From the pen of Inzolicus, Second Century Sage:
3E 125
The exact date of the Empress Kintyra Septim II's execution in the tower at
Glenpoint Castle is open to some speculation. Some believe she was slain
shortly after her imprisonment in the 121st year, while others maintain that
she was likely kept alive as a hostage until shortly before her uncle
Cephorus, King of Gilane, reconquered western High Rock in the summer of the
125th year. The certainty of Kintyra's demise rallied many against the Wolf
Queen Potema and her son, who had been crowned Emperor Uriel Septim III four
years previously when he invaded the under-guarded Imperial City.
Cephorus concentrated his army on the war in High Rock, while his brother
Magnus, King of Lilmoth, brought his Argonian troops through loyal Morrowind
and into Skyrim to fight in Potema's home province. The reptilian troops
fought well in the summer months, but during the winter, they retired south
to regroup and attack again when the weather was warm. At this stalemate,
the War lasted out two more years.
Also, in the 125th year, Magnus's wife Hellena gave birth to their first
child, a boy who they named Pelagius, after the Emperor who fathered Magnus,
Cephorus, the late Emperor Antiochus, and the dread Wolf Queen of Solitude.
3E 127
Potema sat on soft silk cushions in the warm grass in front of her tent and
watched the sun rise over the dark woods on the other side of the meadow. It
was a peculiarly vibrant morning, typical of Skyrim summertide. The high
chirrup of insects buzzed all around her and the sky surged with thousands of
fallowing birds, rolling over one another and forming a multitude of
patterns. Nature was unaware of the war coming to Falconstar, she surmised.
"Your highness, a message from the army in Hammerfell," said one of her
maids, bringing in a courier. He was breathing hard, stained with sweat and
mud. Evidence of a long, fast ride over many, many miles.
"My queen," said the courier, looking to the ground. "I bring grave news of
your son, the Emperor. He met your brother King Cephorus's army in
Hammerfell in the countryside of Ichidag and there did battle. You would be
proud, for he fought well, but in the end, the Imperial army was defeated and
your son, our Emperor, was captured. King Cephorus is bringing him to
Gilane."
Potema listened to the news, scowling. "That clumsy fool," she said at last.
Potema stood up and strolled into camp, where the men were arming themselves,
preparing for battle. Long ago, the soldiers understood that their lady did
not stand on ceremony, and she would prefer that they work rather than salute
her. Lord Vhokken was ahead of her, already meeting with the commander of
the battlemages, discussing last minute strategy.
"My queen," said the courier, who had been following her. "What are you going
to do?"
"I'm going to win this battle with Magnus, despite his superior position
holding the ruins of Kogmenthist Castle," said Potema. "And then when I know
what Cephorus means to do with the Emperor, I'll respond accordingly. If
there's a ransom to be paid, I'll pay it; if there's a prison exchange
needed, so be it. Now, please, bath yourself and rest, and try not to get in
the way of the war."
"It's not an ideal scenario," said Lord Vhokken when Potema had entered the
commander's tent. "If we attack the castle from the west, we'll be running
directly into the fire from their mages and archers. If we come from the
east, we'll be going through swamps, and the Argonians do better in that type
of environment than we do. A lot better."
"What about the north and south? Just hills, correct?"
"Very steep hills, your highness," said the commander. "We should post bowmen
there, but we'll be too vulnerable putting out the majority of our force."
"So it's the swamp," said Potema, and added, pragmatically. "Unless we
withdraw and wait for them to come out before fighting."
"If we wait, Cephorus will have his army here from High Rock, and we'll be
trapped between the two of them," said Lord Vhokken. "Not a preferable
situation."
"I'll talk to the troops," said the commander. "Try to prepare them for the
swamp attack."
"No," said Potema. "I'll speak to them."
In full battlegear, the soldiers gathered in the center of camp. They were a
motley collection of men and women, Cyrodiils, Nords, Bretons, and Dunmer,
youngbloods and old veterans, the sons and daughters of nobles, shopkeepers,
serfs, priests, prostitutes, farmers, academics, adventurers. All of them
under the banner of the Red Diamond, the symbol of the Imperial Family of
Tamriel.
"My children," Potema said, her voice ringing out, hanging in the still
morning mist. "We have fought in many battles together, over mountaintops and
beach heads, through forests and deserts. I have seen great acts of valor
from each one of you, which does my heart proud. I have also seen dirty
fighting, backstabbing, cruel and wanton feats of savagery, which pleases me
equally well. For you are all warriors."
Warming to her theme, Potema walked the line from soldier to soldier, looking
each one in the eye: "War is in your blood, in your brain, in your muscles,
in everything you think and everything you do. When this war is over, when
the forces are vanquished that seek to deny the throne to the true emperor,
Uriel Septim III, you may cease to be warriors. You may choose to return to
your lives before the war, to your farms and your cities, and show off your
scars and tell tales of the deeds you did this day to your wondering
neighbors. But on this day, make no mistake, you are warriors. You are
war."
She could see her words were working. All around her, bloodshot eyes were
focusing on the slaughter to come, arms tensing around weapons. She
continued in her loudest cry, "And you will move through the swamplands, like
an unstoppable power from the blackest part of Oblivion, and you will rip the
scales from the reptilian things in Kogmenthist Castle. You are warriors,
and you need not only fight, you must win. You must win!"
The soldiers roared in response, shocking the birds from the trees all around
the camp.
From a vantage point on the hills to the south, Potema and Lord Vhokken had
excellent views of the battle as it raged. It looked like two swarms of two
colors of insect moving back and forth over a clump of dirt which was the
castle ruins. Occasionally, a burst of flame or a cloud of acid from one of
the mages would flicker over the battle arresting their attention, but hour
after hour, the fighting seemed like nothing but chaos.
"A rider approaches," said Lord Vhokken, breaking the silence.
The young Redguard woman was wearing the crest of Gilane, but carried a white
flag. Potema allowed her to approach. Like the courier from the morning,
the rider was well travel-worn.
"Your Highness," she said, out of breath. "I have been sent from your
brother, my lord King Cephorus, to bring you dire news. Your son Uriel was
captured in Ichidag on the field in battle and from there transported to
Gilane."
"I know all this," said Potema scornfully. "I have couriers of my own. You
can tell your master that after I've won this battle, I'll pay whatever
ransom or exchange --"
"Your Highness, an angry crowd met the caravan your son was in before it made
it to Gilane," the rider said quickly, "Your son is dead. He had been burned
to death within his carriage. He is dead."
Potema turned from the young woman and looked down at the battle. Her
soldiers were going to win. Magnus's army was in retreat.
"One other item of news, your highness," said the rider. "King Cephorus is
being proclaimed Emperor."
Potema did not look at the woman. Her army was celebrating their victory.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Wolf Queen, Book VIII
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Enchant2
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Enchant skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Wolf Queen, Book Eight
by Waughin Jarth
From the pen of Inzolicus, Second Century Sage:
3E 127
Following the Battle of Ichidag, the Emperor Uriel Septim III was captured
and, before he was able to be brought to his uncle's castle in the Hammerfell
kingdom of Gilane, he met his death at the hands of an angry mob. This
uncle, Cephorus, was thereafter proclaimed emperor and rode to the Imperial
City. The troops formerly loyal to Emperor Uriel and his mother, the Wolf
Queen Potema, pledged themselves to the new Emperor. In return for their
support, the nobility of Skyrim, High Rock, Hammerfell, the Summerset Isle,
Valenwood, Black Marsh, and Morrowind demanded and received a new level of
autonomy and independence from the Empire. The War of the Red Diamond was at
an end.
Potema continued to fight a losing battle, her area of influence dwindling
and dwindling until only her kingdom of Solitude remained in her power. She
summoned daedra to fight for her, had her necromancers resurrect her fallen
enemies as undead warriors, and mounted attack after attack on the forces of
her brothers, the Emperor Cephorus Septim I and King Magnus of Lilmoth. Her
allies began leaving her as her madness grew, and her only companions were
the zombies and skeletons she had amassed over the years. The kingdom of
Solitude became a land of death. Stories of the ancient Wolf Queen being
waited on by rotting skeletal chambermaids and holding war plans with
vampiric generals terrified her subjects.
3E 137
Magnus opened up the small window in his room. For the first time in weeks,
he heard the sounds of a city: carts squeaking, horses clopping over the
cobblestones, and somewhere a child laughing. He smiled as he returned to
his bedside to wash his face and finish dressing. There was a distinctive
knock on the door.
"Come in, Pel," he said.
Pelagius bounded into the room. It was obvious that he had been up for
hours. Magnus marveled at his energy, and wondered how much longer battles
would last if they were run by twelve-year-old boys.
"Did you see outside yet?" Pelagius asked. "All the townspeople have come
back! There are shops, and a Mages Guild, and down by the harbor, I saw a
hundred shops come in from all over the place!"
"They don't have to be afraid anymore. We've taken care of all the zombies
and ghosts that used to be their neighbors, and they know it's safe to come
back."
"Is Uncle Cephorus going to turn into a zombie when he dies?" asked Pelagius.
"I wouldn't put that past him," laughed Magnus. "Why do you ask?"
"I heard some people saying that he was old and sick," said Pelagius.
"He's not that old," said Magnus. "He's sixty years old. That's just two
years older than I."
"And how old is Aunt Potema?" asked Pelagius.
"Seventy," said Magnus. "And yes, that is old. Any more questions will have
to wait. I have to go meet with the commander now, but we can talk at
supper. You can make yourself busy, and not get into any trouble?"
"Yes, sir," said Pelagius. He understood that his father had to continue to
hold siege on aunt Potema's castle. After they took it over and locked her
up, they would move out of the inn and into the castle. Pelagius was not
looking forward to that. The whole town had a funny, sweet, dead smell, but
he could not get even as close as the castle moat without gagging from the
stench. They could dump a million flowers on the place and it wouldn't make
any difference at all.
He walked through the city for hours, buying some food and then some ribbons
for his sister and mother back in Lilmoth. He thought about who else he
needed to buy gifts for and was stumped. All his cousins, the children of
Uncle Cephorus, Uncle Antiochus, and Aunt Potema, had died during the war,
some of them in battle and some of them during the famines because so many
crops had been burned. Aunt Bianki had died last year. There was only he,
his mother, his sister, his father, and his uncle the Emperor left. And Aunt
Potema. But she didn't really count.
When he came upon the Mages Guild earlier that morning, he had decided not to
go in. Those places always spooked him with their strange smoke and crystals
and old books. This time, it occurred to Pelagius that he might buy a gift
for Uncle Cephorus. A souvenir of Solitude's Mages Guild.
An old woman was having trouble with the front door, so Pelagius opened it
for her.
"Thank you," she said.
She was easily the oldest thing he had ever seen. Her face looked like an
old rotted apple framed with a wild whirl of bright white hair. He
instinctively moved away from her gnarled talon when she started to pat him
on the head. But there was a gem around her neck that immediately fascinated
him. It was a single bright yellow jewel, but it almost looked there was
something trapped within. When the light hit it from the candles, it brought
out the form of a four-legged beast, pacing.
"It's a soul gem," she said. "Infused with the spirit of a great demon
werewolf. It was enchanted long, long ago with the power to charm people,
but I've been thinking about giving it another spell. Perhaps something from
the School of Alteration like Lock or Shield." She paused and looked at the
boy carefully with yellowed, rheumy eyes. "You look familiar to me, boy.
What's your name?"
"Pelagius," he said. He normally would have said "Prince Pelagius," but he
was told not to draw attention to himself while in town.
"I used to know someone named Pelagius," the old woman said, and slowly
smiled. "Are you here alone, Pelagius?"
"My father is... with the army, storming the castle. But he'll be back when
the walls have been breached."
"Which I dare say won't take too much longer," sighed the old woman.
"Nothing, no matter how well built, tends to last. Are you buying something
in the Mages Guild?"
"I wanted to buy a gift for my uncle," said Pelagius. "But I don't know if I
have enough gold."
The old woman left the boy to look over the wares while she went to the Guild
enchanter. He was a young Nord, ambitious, and new to the kingdom of
Solitude. It took little persuasion and a lot of gold to convince him to
remove the charm spell from the soul gem and imbue it with a powerful curse,
a slow poison that would drain wisdom from its wearer year by year until he
or she lost all reason. She also purchased a cheap ring of fire resistance.
"For your kindness to an old woman, I've bought you these," she said, giving
the boy the necklace and the ring. "You can give the ring to your uncle, and
tell him it has been enchanted with a levitation spell, so if ever he needs
to leap from high places, it will protect him. The soulgem is for you."
"Thank you," said the boy. "But this is too kind of you."
"Kindness has nothing to do with it," she answered, quite honestly. "You see,
I was in the Hall of Records at the Imperial Palace once or twice, and I read
about you in the foretellings of the Elder Scrolls. You will be Emperor one
day, my boy, the Emperor Pelagius Septim III, and with this soul gem to guide
you, posterity will always remember you and your deeds."
With those words, the old woman disappeared down an alley behind the Mages
Guild. Pelagius looked after her, but he did not think to search behind a
heap of stones. If he had, he would have found a tunnel under the city into
the very heart of Castle Solitude. And if he had found his way there, he
would have found, past the shambling undead and the moldering remains of a
once grand palace, the bedroom of the queen.
In that bedroom, he would find the Wolf Queen of Solitude in repose,
listening to the sounds of her castle collapsing. And he would see a
toothless grin growing on her face as she breathed her last.
From the pen of Inzolicus, Second Century Sage:
3E 137
Potema Septim died after a month long siege on her castle. While she lived,
she had been the Wolf Queen of Solitude, Daughter of the Emperor Pelagius II,
Wife of King Mantiarco, Aunt of the Empress Kintyra II, Mother of Emperor
Uriel III, and Sister of the Emperors Antiochus and Cephorus. At her death,
Magnus appointed his son, Pelagius, as the titular head of Solitude, under
guidance from the royal council.
3E 140
The Emperor Cephorus Septim died after falling from his horse. His brother
was proclaimed the Emperor Magnus Septim.
3E 141
Pelagius, King of Solitude, is recorded as "occasionally eccentric" in the
Imperial Annals. He marries Katarish, Duchess of Vvardenfell.
3E 145
The Emperor Magnus Septim dies. His son, who will be known as Pelagius the
Mad, is coronated.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Wraith's Wedding Dowry
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_unarmored1
Weight: 4
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Unarmored skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Wraith's Wedding Dowry
by Voltha gra-Yamwort
(translated by Apthorne)
"The poets are right. There is something life-changing about being in love,"
said Kepkajna gra-Minfang, sometimes called the Wraith. "I haven't wanted to
rob anyone or anything in weeks. Why, the other day, I saw the door wide
open at a wealthy merchant's house, but my mind was fully occupied with what
I should wear on my wedding day."
"You have been out of the right society for very long now," frowned her
friend Khargol approvingly. "You never told me what happened to your first
husband, you know, the one the shaman gave you?"
"Torn apart by ash ghouls," smiled Kepkajna dreamily. "It was rather saddish.
But I know nothing like that would happen to Wodworg. No life of adventure
for him. He's practically an Imperial. In fact, he is one. Did I tell you
how we met?"
"Hundreds of times," grumbled Khargol, reaching for his flagon. "He was your
jailer, and he refused you food until you promised to marry him."
"Have you ever heard of anything so madly romantic in all your life?" sighed
Kepkajna, and then grew serious. "I was going to say that I hope my old
friends will wish me well, but as Old Bosriel used to say, there's no point
in hoping for what cannot be. We'll leave with the Imperial Knights for
Balmora immediately after the wedding, but as long as we're in Dagon Fel, the
gang will find some way of disrupting my love life and bring me back to the
light. I know it."
As the days approached towards the Wraith's wedding day, there was certainly
something sinister in the air that Kepkajna could smell when she was not
transported by heady bliss. Dark figures seemed to shift in the shadows and
disappear when approached. She recognized the clothing of some beggars near
Wodworg's cottage as costumes, but the mendicants hurried away before she
could recognize which of her old gang was stalking her.
But these moments of apprehension were few. Kepkajna was truly happy, making
arrangements for the ceremony to be performed at the very dungeon where
Wodworg had imprisoned her. Her father was long since dead -- another victim
of the ash ghouls -- but her fiance's commander volunteered to act in his
behalf. Of course, Kepkajna had to supply her own dowry. She spent every
last mark of her savings of ill-gotten gain to buy her beloved a truly
wonderful present.
The wedding was set for the stroke of midnight, as is Orc tradition. The
handmaidens, wives of Imperial officers, were busily sewing her into her gown
of red velvet and fine gold filigree in the mid-morning. Dolcetta, one of
the handmaidens, remarked that she had heard that Kepkajna had bought Wodworg
a truly beautiful gift for her dowry.
"Let me show it to you," Kepkajna giggled, dashing from the room half-dressed
to her hidden alcove. The present had been stolen.
The women were horrified, but the Wraith found herself merely irritated, not
surprised. This was truly the old gang's style. They knew that a wedding
ceremony without a dowry was marked as unlucky. She asked her handmaidens to
finish dressing her quickly while she pondered what the burglars would have
done with her treasure.
The whole region was honeycombed with secret lairs and abandoned sites
thieves used to store their loot. There were obvious places, of course, but
after much reflection, she thought of where she would have put it under
similar circumstances. Once the handmaids had finished, Kepkajna bade them
to make certain that the ceremony went on as scheduled, and not to fret as
she might be a little late. She wrapped herself in a shawl to protect her
gown from dungeon dust and set off for the Shrine of Malacath.
The Wraith had never before attempted to rob her own friends, and though she
was peeved at them for trying to ruin her happiness, she had no interest in
hurting them physically. Her style was to avoid conflict, though she knew it
would be inevitable. The lessons her mentor Khargol had given her had helped
her avoid the lances and blades of guards and Imperial Knights over the
years: now she would see if they would allow her to survive a den of thieves
and the unknown dangers of the Shrine. Without, most importantly, ruining
her dress.
The desolate place was so empty as she delved into it that she feared she
might have made a miscalculation. It was not until she found the small room
hidden down a long corridor that she knew she was at the right place, and
that it was well suited for an ambush. She grabbed the chest with her
treasure within, and turned to face the assault.
Two of her old gang, Yorum and Yohr-i the Redguard twin brother and sister,
were outside the door as she came from the room. They knew the Wraith better
than to taunt her and immediately attacked. Yorum struck out with a left
thrust of his blade while Yohr-i sought to rush her. The Wraith neatly
sidestepped Yohr-i, while dropping her weight to her rear left leg, shifting
her right shoulder to the left to slip past Yorum's strike. The twins
crashed into one another and Kepkajna passed swiftly on.
Almost immediately, she was set on by the Argonian Binyaar, his mace
whistling through the air at her head. They had never much liked one
another. The Wraith snapped into a duck, so the mace whacked with a
tremendous clamor against the stone wall. Binyaar was thrown off balance,
giving her a few seconds lead hurrying up the passage. Ahead she could smell
the fresh night air.
The last of her dowry's defenders was Sorogth, an Orc with whom she had
shared a brief romance. It was he who Kepkajna knew had masterminded the
theft. In a way and in context, she thought, his devotion to her misery was
rather sweet. At the moment, though, she was most concerned with avoiding
his barbed ax that seemed ideal for breaking her dress's fine stitchwork and
the flesh beneath.
Bending her knees slightly, bobbing to avoid strikes to the head, weaving her
head to confuse Sorogth of her next move, shuffling her feet arrhythmically,
the Wraith made an impossible target. She ducked inside his thrusts,
sidestepped his swings, and then sidestepped his thrusts, and ducked his
swings. As erratic as she tried to make her defensive moves, Sorogth still
kept pace with her, refusing to budge from his position at the dungeon
outlet.
Midnight was coming, and the Wraith finally decided that she must end the
confrontation. When Sorogth swung out next, she sidestepped to her left,
swayed down, and ducked her head, so the ax whistled over her right shoulder.
In that instant, his right side was exposed, and she reluctantly smashed the
chest hard into his torso. There was not enough time for Kepkajna to see if
she had killed him or merely knocked him unconscious. In truth, she thought
of nothing else but rushing to her wedding ceremony.
At precisely midnight, Wodworg and Kepkajna were united together. He was
delighted with her dowry gift, a fine suit of armor that would make him the
envy of other Imperial jailers. Even more, he was enchanted by his wife's
tale of retrieving it from the Shrine of Malacath.
"Did it occur to you to put on the armor when you knew that it was an
ambush?" he asked.
"I didn't want to dent your present," she replied, between kisses. "And I
certainly didn't want to wrinkle my gown."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Yellow Book of Riddles
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_yellowbookofriddles
Weight: 3
Value: 30
Special Notes: None
The Yellow Book of Riddles
For earnest pleasure, and the strengthening of the mind, the author here
collects all that he has learned of the art of riddling, by dint of diligent
study, and through years of discourse with others of similar inclination.
[[The posing and puzzling of riddles is a convention of polite aristocratic
Western society. Nobles and social aspirants collect books of riddles and
study them, hoping thereby to increase the chances of their appearing sly and
witty in conversation.]]
A metal neither black nor red
As heavy as man's golden greed
What you do to stay ahead
With friend or arrow or steed
dael :rewsnA ehT
A man says, "If you lie to me I will slay you with my sword. If you tell me
the truth, I will slay you with a spell." What must you say to stay alive?
drows a htiw em yals lliw uoY :rewsnA ehT
A Bosmer, was slain. The Altmer claims the Dunmer is guilty. The Dunmer says
the Khajiit did it. The Orc swears he didn't kill the Bosmer. The Khajiit
says the Dunmer is lying. If only one of these speaks the truth, who killed
the Bosmer?
crO ehT :rewsnA ehT
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Trap
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_sneak4
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Sneak skill 1 point the first time the book is read
Trap
by Anonymous
I saw the gold, and I took it. A different man might not have, I know that,
and from time to time, I think back on the hour when I saw the gold and took
it. You see, I was hungry. Isn't it ironic.
I don't remember much else about that night but the gold and the hunger. I
don't remember the name of the tavern, or even the village, but I believe it
was somewhere in southern Vvardenfell. I can't really be certain. For some
time, I sat dumbly in my chair, my mind occupied with nothing but the pain in
my stomach. If you've never been truly hungry from days of no food, you
can't know what it's like. You can't concentrate on anything. It wasn't
until a figure to my left got up from the table to get a drink and left a
stack of gold marks behind that I snapped to awareness.
From this moment on, my memory is crystalline.
My eyes to the gold. My eyes to the stranger's back, walking calmly toward
the barmaid. My hand to the gold. The gold in my pocket. I'm up from the
table, and out the door. For just a moment, I look back. The stranger has
turned to look my way. He wears a hood, but I can feel his eyes meet mine.
I swear, I can scent a smile.
Out into the street, and behind some barrels I crouched down, waiting for my
pursuer. One benefit of a lifetime running from guards, I know how to
disappear. For nearly an hour, I waited there, suffering even more from
hunger. You see, I was awake now and I had the means to buy myself a feast.
This knowledge tortured me. When I finally got to my feet, I very nearly
fainted. I had only enough energy to walk to the other edge of the village
to a run-down tavern before collapsing at a table. I think I must have
fallen unconscious for a moment before I heard the barmaid's voice.
"Can I get you something to eat, sera?"
I gorged myself on roasts and pies and huge frothing mugs of greef. As the
fog of near fatal starvation began to lift, I looked up from my plate to see
a gold-masked stranger looking at me, his vizard glowing by the blinding
light of the moon through the window. He wore black leather armor and was a
different physique and size from the man I had burgled, but I could tell he
knew. I paid for my meal quickly and left.
I skirted the edge of the village, through a tiled central courtyard
surrounded by the squalid peasant's cottages. There was not a light shining
from any window or door. No one was on the streets. I could find no place
to hide, so I took the road out of town, heading for the wilderness. Hunger
had pushed me on in the days before, but now I felt what I imagined to be the
whip of guilt. Or perhaps, even then, it was fear.
I fell twice, rushing down the dark path, unused to the slopes and pebbled
texture. The sounds of animal life, which I had numbed to, were suddenly
very loud in my ears. And there was something else out there in the night,
something chasing me.
On the side of the road, there was a low wall, and I scrambled over it and
hid. I knew enough about concealment to pick a spot where the bulwark sunk
slightly so even if someone saw the outline of my figure, he would assume it
to be part of the wall. It wasn't long before I heard the sound of running
footsteps from more than one person pass me by and then stop. There was a
moment of whispered conversation, and one of the people ran back on the path
toward the village. Then, silence.
After a few more minutes, I peered out from behind the wall. A female figure
in a dun gown, wimple, and veil stood in the road. On the other end of the
road, blocking the way back to town, was a knight, coated in dark mail. I
could see neither of their faces. For a moment, I froze, unsure whether
either or both had seen me.
"Run," said the woman in a dead voice.
The hill behind me was too steep, so I leapt over the wall and across the
road in two bounds. Into the night forest I ran, the maddening jingle of the
accursed gold in my pocket. I knew I was making so much noise my pursuers
could not help but hear me, but now I cared more for putting distance between
us than in stealth. Clouds of ash filtered through the moonlight, but I
still knew it was too bright to hide. I ran and ran until I felt all my
blood pumping in my head and heart, begging me to stop.
I was at the edge of the wood, on the other side of a shallow stream from a
vast, crumbling house encircled by a rail fence. Behind me, running footfall
in the broken, dusty earth. To the south, downstream, a distinct sodden
splashing of someone moving nearer.
There was no choice. I half jumped and half fell into the mud and dragged
myself up the bank on the other side. I rolled under the fence and ran
through the open field toward the house. Jerking my head around, I saw seven
shadowy figures by the fence posts. The cloaked man I had robbed. The man
in the gold mask. The veiled woman. The dark knight. Three others too who
had pursued me, but I had never seen. And I thought I was the stealthy one.
The moon was entirely hidden in a swarm of ash. Only the stars offered their
meager illumination as I reached the open door of the ruin. I slammed and
bolted the door behind me, but I knew there could be no protection for very
long. As I looked about the ravaged interior of broken furniture, I searched
for someone to hide. A corner, a niche where if I stayed very still, no one
would see me.
A splintered table lying against the wall looked perfect for my purposes. I
crawled under it, and jumped when something moved and I heard a frightened
old man's voice.
"Who's there?"
"It's all right," I whispered. "I'm not one of them."
His puckered, gnarled hand reached out from the shadow and gripped my arm.
Instantly, I felt sleep fall upon me, resist it as I might. The old man's
horrible face, the face of the hungry dead, emerged as the moon came out and
shone through the broken window. His talon still gripping me, I fell back,
smelling his death surround me.
The table was thrown back. There stood the seven hunters and a dozen more.
No, hunters they weren't. They were harriers who had chased me out of every
hiding place, expertly pushing me to the lair of the real predator. He was
weak with age, the old man was, not as good at the chase as once he was. A
blunt, killing machine.
"Please," I said. It was all I could muster.
Having enjoyed the sport I offered, he granted me mercy, of sorts. I was not
bled dry. I was not cursed by being made one of them, the Berne. I was kept
with others, most of us mad with fear, to be aged and tasted at the vampires'
whim. We are called cattle.
I lost all hope months ago of ever leaving the dank cellar where they keep
us. Even if this note finds its way to the outside world, I cannot give
enough information about my whereabouts to be rescued, even if some champion
were able to defeat the bloodsuckers. I only write this to keep my own
sanity, and to warn others.
There is something worse than being hungry.
Being food.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Unnamed Book
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_short blade1
Weight: 4
Value: 225
Special Notes: Raises Short Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
"The problem with thieves today," said Lledos, "Is the lack of technique. I
know there's no honor among thieves, and there never was, but there used to
be some pride, some skill, some basic creativity. It really makes those of us
with a sense of history despair."
Imalyn sneered, slamming down his flagon of greef violently on the rough-hewn
table. "B'vek, what do you want us to say? You asks us 'What do you do when
you see a guard?' and I says, 'Stab the fetcher in the back.' What d'you
prefer? We challenge 'em to a game of chits?"
"So much ambition, so little education," said Lledos with a sigh. "My dear
friends, we aren't mugging some Nord tourist fresh off the ferry. The
Cobblers Guildhall may not sound intimidating but tonight, when the dues
collection is housed there before being sent to the bank, the security's
going to be tighter than a kwama's ass. You can't just stab at every back you
encounter and expect to make it into the vaults."
"Why don't you explain specifically what you'd like us to do?" asked Galsiah
calmly, trying to keep the tone of the group down. Most locals at the Plot
and Plaster cornerclub in Tel Aruhn knew enough not to listen in, but she
knew better than to take any chances.
"The common thief," said Lledos, pouring himself more greef, warming to his
subject. "Sticks his dagger in his opponent's back. This may slay the target,
but more often gives him time to scream and drenches the attacker with blood.
Not good. Now a good throat-slashing, properly executed, can both slay and
silence a guard and leave the thief relatively bloodfree. And after all,
after the robbery, we don't want people seeing a bunch of blood-soaked
butchers running through the streets. Even in Tel Aruhn, that's likely to
warrant suspicion.
"If you can catch your victim lying down asleep or resting, you are in an
excellent position. You place one hand over the mouth with your thumb under
the chin, then you use your other hand to slit the throat, and quickly turn
the head to one side so the body bleeds out away from you. There is a risk
here of becoming blood stained if you don't move the head quickly enough. If
you're unsure, strangle the victim first to avoid the blood that tends to
spurt out in three foot jets when someone is stabbed while alive.
"A very good friend of mine, a thief in Gnisis whose name I won't mention,
swears by the strangle-and-slash technique. Simply put, you grab your
victim's throat from behind and while throttling him, you batter his face
against the opposite wall. When the victim is thus rendered unconscious, you
slash his throat while still holding him from behind, and the risk of
staining one's clothes with blood is practically nonexistant.
"The classic technique, which requires less grappling than my friend's
variation, is to place one hand over the victim's mouth, and then saw through
the throat in three or four stroke rather like playing a violin. It requires
little effort, and while there's quite a bit of blood, it all jets forward
away from you.
There's no reason when one knows one is going to be slitting some throats not
to take some precautions and bring some extra equipment. The best neck-
hackers I know generally carry a bit of wadded cloth on the aft-side of their
knives to keep blood from getting on their cuffs. It's impractical for this
sort of assignment, but when you're only anticipating one or two victims,
nothing beats throwing a sack over the targets head, drawing the string
tight, and then supplying the killing blow or blows."
Imalyn laughed loudly, "Can I see a demonstration sometime?"
"Very soon," said Lledos. "If Galsiah has done her job."
Galsiah brought out the map of the guildhouse, freshly stolen, and they began
to detail out the strategy.
The last several hours had been a whirlwind to all. In less than a day, the
three had met, formulated a plan, bought or stolen the necessary ingredients,
and were about to execute it. Not one of the three were sure whether
confidence or stupidity were driving the other two, but the fates were
aligned. The guildhouse was going to be robbed.
When the sun set, Lledos, Galsiah, and Imalyn approached the Cobblers
Guildhouse on the east end of town. Galsiah used her cachous of stoneflower
to mask their scent from the guard wolves as the three passed over the
parapets. She also acted as lead scout, and Lledos was impressed. For someone
of relative inexperience, she knew her way through shadows.
Lledos's expertise was demonstrated a dozen times, and the guards were of
such a diverse variety, he was able to demonstrate all the means of silent
assassination he had developed over the years.
Imalyn opened the vault in his unique and systematic method. As the tumblers
fell beneath his fingers, he softly sang an old dirty tavern song about the
Ninety-Nine Loves of Boethiah. He said it helped him focus and organize
difficult combinations. Within seconds, the vault was open and the gold was
in hand.
They left the guildhouse an hour after they entered. No alarm had been
raised, the gold was gone, and corpses lay pooling blood on the stone floors
within.
"Well done, my friends, well done. You learned well." Lledos said as he
poured the gold pieces into the specially designed compartments in his
tunic's sleeves, where they held fast with no jingling or unusual bulges.
"We'll meet back at the Plot and Plaster tomorrow morning and split up the
bounty."
The group parted ways. The only person who knew the most covert route through
the city's sewer system, Lledos, slipped in through a duct and vanished
below. Galsiah threw on her shawl, muddied her face to resemble an old f'lah
fortune-teller, and headed north. Imalyn headed east into the park, trusting
his unnatural senses to keep him away from the citywatch.
Now I teach them the greatest lesson of all, thought Lledos as he sloshed
through the labyrinthine tunnels of sludge. His guar was waiting where he
left it at the city gates, making a laconic lunch of the chokeweed shrub to
which it had been leashed.
On the road to Vivec, he thought of Galsiah and Imalyn. Perhaps they had been
caught and brought in for questioning already. It was a pity he couldn't see
them undergoing interrogation. Who would break under pressure first? Imalyn
was certainly the tougher of the two, but Galsiah doubtless had hidden
reserves. It was merely intellectual curiousity: they thought his name was
Lledos and he was meeting them at the Plot and Plaster. The authorities
wouldn't therefore be looking for a Dunmer named Sathis celebrating his
wealth miles and miles away in Vivec.
As he prodded his mount forward and the sun began rising, Sathis pictured
Galsiah and Imalyn not undergoing interrogation, but sleeping the good deep
sleep of the wicked, dreaming of how they would spend their share of the
gold. Both would wake up early and rush to the Plot and Plaster. He could see
them now, Imalyn laughing and carrying on, Galsiah hushing him to avoid
bringing undue attention. They would take a couple flagons of greef, perhaps
order a meal -- a big one -- and wait. Hours would pass, and so would their
moods. The chain of reactions that every betrayed person exhibits:
nervousness, doubt, bewilderment, anger.
The sun was fully risen when Sathis reached the stables of his house on the
outskirts of Vivec. He reigned in his guar and filled its feed. The rest of
the stalls were empty. It wouldn't be until that afternoon when his servants
returned from the feast of St Rilms in Gnisis. They were good people, and he
treated them well, but from past experience he knew that servants talked. If
they began to connect his absences with thefts in other towns, it was only a
matter of time before they would go to the authorities or blackmail him.
After all, they were human. It was best in the long run to give them a week
off with pay whenever he was out of town on business.
He slipped the gold into the vault in his study, and went upstairs. The
schedule had been tight, but Sathis had given himself a few hours to rest
before his household returned. His own bed was wonderfully soft and warm
compared to the dreadful mattress he had to use at the canton in Tel Aruhn.
Sathis woke up some time later from a nightmare. For a second after he opened
his eyes, he thought he could still hear Imalyn's voice nearby, singing The
Ninety-Nine Loves of Boethiah. He lay still in his bed, waiting, but there
was no sound except the usual creaks and groans of his old house. Afternoon
sunlight came through his bedroom window in ribbons, catching dust. He closed
his eyes.
The song returned, and Sathis heard the vault door in his study swing open.
The smell of stoneflower filled his nose and he opened his eyes. Only a
little of the afternoon sunlight could pierce the inside of the burlap sack.
A strong, feminine hand clamped over the mouth and a thumb jabbed under his
chin. Just as his throat opened and his head was shoved to the side, he heard
Galsiah in her typical calm voice, "Thank you for the lesson, Sathis."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Vampires of Vvardenfell, v I
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_vampiresofvvardenfell1
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
Vampires of Vvardenfell
Volume I
[excerpts]
..The violent antipathy of Morrowind culture toward necromancy ensures that
vampires are virtually unknown in Morrowind...
..The Temple does not acknowledge the existence of Western vampire hunting
orders. Nonetheless, interviews with Temple officials persuade me that the
Dunmer of Morrowind are experienced and knowledgeable in the handling of
these menaces. On the other hand, they freely admit that even a large
community of vampires might easily escape detection in the remote wastelands,
or in the subterranean labyrinths of abandoned strongholds and wizard
towers....
..The "ash vampire" of Ashlander legend is not undead. Sorceries and
blessings affecting the undead reportedly have no effect on these creatures.
No specimen has ever been examined, and no references have ever linked these
legends with the known clans of Tamrielic vampires....
..Vvardenfell's three known bloodlines differ greatly in their approach to
prey. The Quarra bloodline features exceptional strength and endurance, and
attacks in a state of ecstatic frenzy. Aundae vampires are potent
spellcasters, seeking to hypnotize victims before feeding, while the swift
and agile Berne clan vampires prefer stealth and ambush, first poisoning the
victim with a bite, then withdrawing to a safe distance, returning to feed
only when the prey has weakened...
..It is supposed that vampirism is contracted from wounds received from a
vampire. Since few victims survive vampiric attacks or feedings, the process
of contracting the disease is little understood. Some have suggested that
victims may willingly submit themselves to the will of a vampire, but no real
evidence of this exists....
..During the incubation phase, lasting up to 72 hours, the vampirism disease
exhibits no symptoms, and may be cured by general spellcraft or cult
blessings. However, during incubation, some victims have reported sleep
disturbances and troubling dreams. After symptoms are exhibited, however, the
disease is incurable and irreversible....
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Vampires of Vvardenfell, v II
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_vampiresofvvardenfell2
Weight: 3
Value: 400
Special Notes: None
Vampires of Vvardenfell
Volume II
[excerpts]
.. In the West, a shadowy fraternity of vampire hunters is believed to be
primarily composed of formerly afflicted vampires who have been cured of the
disease. According to legend, the Vampire Hunters refuse to reveal the cure
to the disease for fear that it may encourage depraved thrill seekers from
deliberately infecting themselves.
In the East, the Western tradition of Vampire Hunters is unknown. Vampirism
is known to be incurable, and even if it were curable, a cured vampire would
be an abomination to be destroyed. Since the disease is infallibly cured if
treated within three days, failure to treat oneself after an encounter with a
vampire would be considered a deliberate attempt to contract the disease, and
a mark of monstrous depravity....
.. In Temple doctrine, one ancient tradition holds that, among his many
other crimes, Molag Bal, the Father of Monsters, spawned the first vampire
upon the corpse of a defeated foe. Several different versions of this story
exist, with the foe variously identified as a Daedra Lord, a Temple Saint, or
a powerful beast creature. This account of the origin of vampirism is
peculiar to Morrowind, appearing nowhere else in Imperial lore.
Unfortunately, scholarly inquiry upon this topic is discouraged by the
Temple, which controls access to the only substantial collection of
historical and cultural records in Morrowind....
.. Though the Dunmer believe the disease is incurable, a Buoyant Armiger of
former years named Galur Rithari insisted that he was cured of vampirism.
Initially imprisoned by the Temple for heresy, he later recanted, was
released, and served his final years as a librarian in the Hall of Wisdom in
Vivec. It is interesting that previous to his imprisonment for heresy,
Rithari had been posted to the Buoyant Armiger garrison at Bal Ur, a
pilgrimage site known as the "birthplace of Molag Bal."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Varieties of Faith...
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_varietiesoffaithintheempire
Weight: 3
Value: 30
Special Notes: None
Varieties of Faith in the Empire
by Brother Mikhael Karkuxor of the Imperial College
This is my best attempt at a listing of the pantheons and associated divine
spirits of Tamriel's dominant cultures. This list is by no means complete
(the Imperial City of Cyrodiil alone boasts a vast host of saints and holy
spirits). It only includes the most important spirits revered by native
members of the culture. Other et'Ada, especially Daedra, are often familiar
known to many cultures, though specific names are included here only when
they possess a particular cultural significance. The omission of any
reference to the worships of the Argonians of Black Marsh is a result of my
complete inadequacy in reconciling the obscure and contradictory accounts
available to me on that subject.
Akatosh (Dragon God of Time): Akatosh is the chief deity of the Nine Divines
(the major religious cult of Cyrodiil and its provinces), and one of two
deities found in every Tamrielic religion (the other is Lorkhan). He is
generally considered to be the first of the Gods to form in the Beginning
Place; after his establishment, other spirits found the process of being
easier and the various pantheons of the world emerged. He is the ultimate God
of the Cyrodilic Empire, where he embodies the qualities of endurance,
invincibility, and everlasting legitimacy.
Alduin (World Eater): Alduin is the Nordic variation of Akatosh, and only
superficially resembles his counterpart in the Nine Divines. For example,
Alduin's sobriquet, 'the world eater', comes from myths that depict him as
the horrible, ravaging firestorm that destroyed the last world to begin this
one. Nords therefore see the god of time as both creator and harbinger of the
apocalypse. He is not the chief of the Nordic pantheon (in fact, that
pantheon has no chief; see Shor, below) but its wellspring, albeit a grim and
frightening one.
Alkosh (Dragon King of Cats): Pre-ri'Datta Dynasty Anaquinine deity. A
variation on the Altmeri Auri-El, and thus an Akatosh-as-culture-hero for the
earliest Khajiiti. His worship was co-opted during the establishment of the
Riddle-T'har, and he still enjoys immense popularity in Elsweyr's wasteland
regions. He is depicted as a fearsome dragon, a creature the Khajiit say 'is
just a real big cat'. He repelled an early Aldmeri pogrom of Pelinal
Whitestrake during mythic times.
Almalexia (Mother Morrowind): Most traces of Akatosh disappeared from ancient
Chimer legends during their so-called 'exodus', primarily due to that god's
association and esteem with the Altmeri. However, most aspects of Akatosh
which seem so important to the mortal races, namely immortality, historicity,
and genealogy, have conveniently resurfaced in Almalexia, the most popular of
Morrowind's divine Tribunal.
Arkay (God of the Cycle of Life and Death): Member of the Nine Divines
pantheon, and popular elsewhere as well. Arkay is often more important in
those cultures where his father, Akatosh, is either less related to time or
where his time aspects are difficult to comprehend by the layman. He is the
god of burials and funeral rites, and is sometimes associated with the
seasons. His priests are staunch opponents of necromancy and all forms of the
undead. It is said that Arkay did not exist before the world was created by
the gods under Lorkhan's supervision/urging/trickery. Therefore, he is
sometimes called the Mortals' God.
Auri-El (King of the Aldmer): The Elven Akatosh is Auri-El. Auri-El is the
soul of Anui-El, who, in turn, is the soul of Anu the Everything. He is the
chief of most Aldmeri pantheons. Most Altmeri and Bosmeri claim direct
descent from Auri-El. In his only known moment of weakness, he agreed to take
his part in the creation of the mortal plane, that act which forever sundered
the Elves from the spirit worlds of eternity. To make up for it, Auri-El led
the original Aldmer against the armies of Lorkhan in mythic times,
vanquishing that tyrant and establishing the first kingdoms of the Altmer,
Altmora and Old Ehlnofey. He then ascended to heaven in full observance of
his followers so that they might learn the steps needed to escape the mortal
plane.
Azura (Goddess of Dusk and Dawn): Azura was the god-ancestor that taught the
Chimer the mysteries needed to be different than the Altmer. Some of her more
conventional teachings are sometimes attributed to Boethiah. In the stories,
Azura is often more a communal cosmic force for the race as a whole than an
ancestor or a god. Also known as the Anticipation of Sotha Sil. In Elsweyr,
Azurah is nearly a wholly separate entity, yet she is still tied into the
origins of Khajiiti out of Altmeri stock.
Baan Dar (The Bandit God): In most regions, Baan Dar is a marginal diety, a
trickster spirit of thieves and beggars. In Elsweyr he is more important, and
is regarded as the Pariah. In this aspect, Baan Dar becomes the cleverness or
desperate genius of the long-suffering Khajiit, whose last minute plans
always upset the machinations of their (Elven or Human) enemies.
Boethiah (Prince of Plots): Heralded by the Prophet Veloth, Boethiah is the
original god-ancestor of the Dark Elves. Through his illuminations, the
eventual 'Chimer', or Changed Folk, renounced all ties to the Aldmer and
founded a new nation based on Daedric principles. All manner of Dark Elven
cultural 'advances' are attributed to Boethiah, from philosophy to magic to
'responsible' architecture. Ancient Velothi allegories are uniformly heroic
successes of Boethiah over enemies of every type, foundation stories of
Chimeri struggle. Also known as the Anticipation of Almalexia.
Diagna (Orichalc God of the Sideways Blade): Hoary thuggish cult of the
Redguards. Originated in Yokuda during the Twenty Seven Snake Folk Slaughter.
Diagna was an avatar of the HoonDing (the Yokudan God of Make Way, see below)
that achieved permanence. He was instrumental to the defeat of the Lefthanded
Elves, as he brought orichalc weapons to the Yokudan people to win the fight.
In Tamriel, he led a very tight knit group of followers against the Orcs of
Orsinium during the height of their ancient power, but then faded into
obscurity. He is now little more than a local power spirit of the Dragontail
mountains.
Dibella (Goddess of Beauty): Popular god of the Nine Divines. In Cyrodiil,
she has nearly a dozen different cults, some devoted to women, some to
artists and aesthetics, and others to erotic instruction.
Herma-Mora (The Woodland Man): Ancient Atmoran demon who, at one time, nearly
seduced the Nords into becoming Aldmer. Most Ysgramor myths are about
escaping the wiles of old Herma-Mora. Also called the Demon of Knowledge, he
is vaguely related to the cult origins of the Morag Tong ('Foresters Guild'),
if only by association with his brother/sister, Mephala.
HoonDing (The Make Way God): Yokudan spirit of 'perseverance over infidels'.
The HoonDing has historically materialized whenever the Redguards need to
'make way' for their people. In Tamrielic history this has only happened
three times -- twice in the first era during the Ra Gada invasion and once
during the Tiber War. In this last incarnation, the HoonDing was said to have
been either a sword or a crown, or both.
Jhunal (Rune God): The Nordic god of hermetic orders. After falling out of
favor with the rest of that pantheon, he became Julianos of the Nine Divines.
He is absent in modern Skyrim mythology.
Jode (Big Moon God): Aldmeri god of the Big Moon. Also called Masser or
Mara's Tear. In Khajiti religion, Jode is only one aspect of the Lunar
Lattice, or ja-Kha'jay.
Jone (Little Moon God): Aldmeri god of the Little Moon. Also called Secunda
or Stendarr's Sorrow. In Khajiti religion, Jone is only one aspect of the
Lunar Lattice, or ja-Kha'jay.
Julianos (God of Wisdom and Logic): Often associated with Jhunal, the Nordic
father of language and mathematics, Julianos is the Cyrodilic god of
literature, law, history, and contradiction. Monastic orders founded by Tiber
Septim and dedicated to Julianos are the keepers of the Elder Scrolls.
Kyne (Kiss At the End): Nordic Goddess of the Storm. Widow of Shor and
favored god of warriors. She is often called the Mother of Men. Her daughters
taught the first Nords the use of the thu'um, or Storm Voice.
Kynareth (Goddess of Air): Kynareth is a member of the Nine Divines, the
strongest of the Sky spirits. In some legends, she is the first to agree to
Lorkhan's plan to invent the mortal plane, and provides the space for its
creation in the void. She is also associated with rain, a phenomenon said not
to occur before the removal of Lorkhan's divine spark.
Leki (Saint of the Spirit Sword): Goddess daughter of Tall Papa, Leki is the
goddess of aberrant swordsmanship. The Na-Totambu of Yokuda warred to a
standstill during the mythic era to decide who would lead the charge against
the Lefthanded Elves. Their swordmasters, though, were so skilled in the Best
Known Cuts as to be matched evenly. Leki introduced the Ephemeral Feint.
Afterwards, a victor emerged and the war with the Aldmer began.
Lorkhan (The Missing God): This Creator-Trickster-Tester deity is in every
Tamrielic mythic tradition. His most popular name is the Aldmeri 'Lorkhan',
or Doom Drum. He convinced or contrived the Original Spirits to bring about
the creation of the mortal plane, upsetting the status quo -- much like his
father Padomay had introduced instability into the universe in the Beginning
Place. After the world is materialized, Lorkhan is separated from his divine
center, sometimes involuntarily, and wanders the creation of the et'Ada. He
and his metaphysical placement in the 'scheme of things' is interpreted a
variety of ways. In Morrowind, for example, he is a being related to the
Psijiic Endeavor, a process by which mortals are charged with transcending
the gods that created them. To the High Elves, he is the most unholy of all
higher powers, as he forever broke their connection to the spirit plane. In
the legends, he is almost always an enemy of the Aldmer and, therefore, a
hero of early Mankind.
Lorkhaj (Moon Beast): Pre-ri'Datta Dynasty Anaquinine deity, easily
identified with the Missing God, Lorkhan.
Magnus (Magus): The god of sorcery, Magnus withdrew from the creation of the
world at the last second, though it cost him dearly. What is left of him on
the world is felt and controlled by mortals as magic. One story says that,
while the idea was thought up by Lorkhan, it was Magnus who created the
schematics and diagrams needed to construct the mortal plane. He is sometimes
represented by an astrolabe, a telescope, or, more commonly, a staff.
Cyrodilic legends say he can inhabit the bodies of powerful magicians and
lend them his power. Associated with Zurin Arctus, the Underking.
Malacath (God of Curses): Malacath is the reanimated dung that was Trinimac.
A somewhat weak but vengeful Daedra, the Dark Elves say he is also Malak, the
god-king of the orcs. He always tests the Dunmer for physical weakness.
Malooc (Horde King): An enemy god of the Ra Gada. Led the goblins against the
Redguards during the first era. Fled east when the army of the HoonDing
overtook his goblin hordes.
Mauloch (Malacath): An Orcish god, Mauloch troubled the heirs of King Harald
for a long time. Fled east after his defeat at the Battle of Dragon Wall, ca.
1E660. His rage was said to fill the sky with his sulphurous hatred, later
called the "Year of Winter in Summer".
Mara (Goddess of Love): Nearly universal goddess. Origins started in mythic
times as a fertility goddess. In Skyrim, Mara is a handmaiden of Kyne. In the
Empire, she is Mother-Goddess. She is sometimes associated with Nir of the
'Anuad', the female principle of the cosmos that gave birth to creation.
Depending on the religion, she is either married to Akatosh or Lorkhan, or
the concubine of both.
Mehrunes Dagon (God of Destruction): Popular Daedric power. He is associated
with natural dangers like fire, earthquakes, and floods. In some cultures,
though, Dagon is merely a god of bloodshed and betrayal. He is an especially
important deity in Morrowind, where he represents its near-inhospitable
terrain.
Mephala (Androgyne): Mephala is the Webspinner, or the Spider God. In
Morrowind, he/she was the ancestor that taught the Chimer the skills they
would need to evade their enemies or to kill them with secret murder. Enemies
were numerous in those days since the Chimer were a small faction. He/she,
along with Boethiah, organized the clan systems that eventually became the
basis for the Great Houses. He/she founded the Morag Tong. Also called the
Anticipation of Vivec.
Molag Bal (God of Schemes, King of Rape): Daedric power of much importance in
Morrowind. There, he is always the archenemy of Boethiah, the Prince of
Plots. He is the main source of the obstacles to the Dunmer (and preceding
Chimer) people. In the legends, Molag Bal always tries to upset the
bloodlines of Houses or otherwise ruin Dunmeri 'purity'. A race of
supermonsters, said to live in Molag Amur, are the result of his seduction of
Vivec during the previous era.
Morihaus (First Breath of Man): Ancient cultural hero god of the Cyro-
Nordics. Legend portrays him as the Taker of the Citadel, an act of mythic
times that established Human control over the Valley Heartland. He is often
associated with the Nordic powers of thu'um, and therefore with Kynareth.
Morwha (Teat God): Yokudan fertility goddess. Fundamental deity in the
Yokudan pantheon, and the favorite of Tall Papa's wives. Still worshipped in
various areas of Hammerfell, including Stros M'kai. Morwha is always
portrayed as four-armed, so that she can 'grab more husbands'.
Nerevar (Godkiller): The Chimeri king of Resdayn, the Golden Age of old
Veloth. Slain during the Battle of Red Mountain, Nerevar was the Herald of
the Triune Way, and is the foremost of the saints of Dunmeri faith. He is
said to have killed Dumac, the Last Dwarven King, and feasted on his heart.
Onsi (Boneshaver): Notable warrior god of the Yokudan Ra Gada, Onsi taught
Mankind how to pull their knives into swords.
Orkey (Old Knocker): A loan-god of the Nords, who seem to have taken up his
worship during Aldmeri rule of Atmora. Nords believe they once lived as long
as Elves until Orkey appeared; through heathen trickery, he fooled them into
a bargain that 'bound them to the count of winters'. At one time, legends
say, Nords only had a lifespan of six years due to Orkey's foul magic. Shor
showed up, though, and, through unknown means, removed the curse, throwing
most of it onto the nearby Orcs.
Phynaster: Hero-god of the Summerset Isles, who taught the Altmer how to
naturally live another hundred years by using a shorter walking stride.
Rajhin (Footpad): Thief god of the Khajiiti, who grew up in the Black Kiergo
section of Senchal. The most famous burglar in Elsweyr's history, Rajhin is
said to have stolen a tattoo from the neck of Empress Kintyra as she slept.
Reman (The Cyrodiil): Culture god-hero of the Second Empire, Reman was the
greatest hero of the Akaviri Trouble. Indeed, he convinced the invaders to
help him build his own empire, and conquered all of Tamriel except for
Morrowind. He instituted the rites of becoming Emperor, which included the
ritual geas to the Amulet of Kings, a soulgem of immense power. His Dynasty
was ended by the Dunmeri Morag Tong at the end of the first era. Also called
the Worldly God.
Riddle'Thar (Two-Moons Dance): The cosmic order deity of the Khajiiti, the
Riddle'Thar was revealed to Elsweyr by the prophet Rid-Thar-ri'Datta, the
Mane. The Riddle'Thar is more a set of guidelines by which to live than a
single entity, but some of his avatars like to appear as humble messengers of
the gods. Also known as the Sugar God.
Ruptga (Tall Papa): Chief deity of the Yokudan pantheon. Ruptga, more
commonly 'Tall Papa', was the first god to figure out how to survive the
Hunger of Satakal. Following his lead, the other gods learned the
'Walkabout', or a process by which they can persist beyond one lifetime. Tall
Papa set the stars in the sky to show lesser spirits how to do this, too.
When there were too many spirits to keep track of, though, Ruptga created a
helper out the dead skin of past worlds. This helper is Sep (see below), who
later creates the world of mortals.
Satakal (The Worldskin): Yokudan god of everything. A fusion of the concepts
of Anu and Padomay. Basically, Satakal is much like the Nordic Alduin, who
destroys one world to begin the next. In Yokudan mythology, Satakal had done
(and still does) this many times over, a cycle which prompted the birth of
spirits that could survive the transition. These spirits ultimately become
the Yokudan pantheon. Popular god of the Alik'r nomads.
Sheogorath (The Mad God): The fearful obeisance of Sheogorath is widespread,
and is found in most Tamrielic quarters. Contemporary sources indicate that
his roots are in Aldmeri creation stories; therein, he is 'born' when
Lorkhan's divine spark is removed. One crucial myth calls him the 'Sithis-
shaped hole' of the world.
Sheor (Bad Man): In Bretony, the Bad Man is the source of all strife. He
seems to have started as the god of crop failure, but most modern theologians
agree that he is a demonized version of the Nordic Shor, born during the dark
years after the fall of Saarthal.
Sep (The Snake): Yokudan version of Lorkhan. Sep is born when Tall Papa
creates someone to help him regulate the spirit trade. Sep, though, is driven
crazy by the hunger of Satakal, and he convinces some of the gods to help him
make an easier alternative to the Walkabout. This, of course, is the world as
we know it, and the spirits who followed Sep become trapped here, to live out
their lives as mortals. Sep is punished by Tall Papa for his transgressions,
but his hunger lives on as a void in the stars, a 'non-space' that tries to
upset mortal entry into the Far Shores.
Shezarr (God of Man): Cyrodilic version of Lorkhan, whose importance suffers
when Akatosh comes to the fore of Imperial (really, Alessian) religion.
Shezarr was the spirit behind all human undertaking, especially against
Aldmeri aggression. He is sometimes associated with the founding of the first
Cyrodilic battlemages. In the present age of racial tolerance, Shezarr is all
but forgotten.
Shor (God of the Underworld): Nordic version of Lorkhan, who takes sides with
Men after the creation of the world. Foreign gods (i.e., Elven ones) conspire
against him and bring about his defeat, dooming him to the underworld.
Atmoran myths depict him as a bloodthirsty warrior king who leads the Nords
to victory over their Aldmeri oppressors time and again. Before his doom,
Shor was the chief of the gods. Sometimes also called Children's God (see
Orkey, above).
Sotha Sil (Mystery of Morrowind): God of the Dunmer, Sotha Sil is the least
known of the divine Tribunal. He is said to be reshaping the world from his
hidden, clockwork city.
Stendarr (God of Mercy): God of the Nine Divines, Stendarr has evolved from
his Nordic origins into a deity of compassion or, sometimes, righteous rule.
He is said to have accompanied Tiber Septim in his later years. In early
Altmeri legends, Stendarr is the apologist of Men.
Stuhn (God of Ransom): Nordic precursor to Stendarr, brother of Tsun. Shield-
thane of Shor, Stuhn was a warrior god that fought against the Aldmeri
pantheon. He showed Men how to take, and the benefits of taking, prisoners of
war.
Syrabane (Warlock's God): An Aldmeri god-ancestor of magic, Syrabane aided
Bendu Olo in the Fall of the Sload. Through judicious use of his magical
ring, Syrabane saved many from the scourge of the Thrassian Plague. He is
also called the Apprentices' God, for he is a favorite of the younger members
of the Mages Guild.
Tava (Bird God): Yokudan spirit of the air. Tava is most famous for leading
the Yokudans to the isle of Herne after the destruction of their homeland.
She has since become assimilated into the mythology of Kynareth. She is still
very popular in Hammerfell among sailors, and her shrines can be found in
most port cities.
Tiber Septim (Talos, the Dragonborn): Heir to the Seat of Sundered Kings,
Tiber Septim is the most important hero-god of Mankind. He conquered all of
Tamriel and ushered in the Third Era (and the Third Empire). Also called
Ysmir, 'Dragon of the North'.
Trinimac: Strong god of the early Aldmer, in some places more popular than
Auri-El. He was a warrior spirit of the original Elven tribes that led armies
against the Men. Boethiah is said to have assumed his shape (in some stories,
he even eats Trinimac) so that he could convince a throng of Aldmer to listen
to him, which led to their eventual Chimeri conversion. He vanishes from the
mythic stage after this, to return as the dread Malacath (Altmeri propaganda
portrays this as the dangers of Dunmeri influence).
Tsun: Extinct Nordic god of trials against adversity. Died defending Shor
from foreign gods.
Tu'whacca (Tricky God): Yokudan god of souls. Tu'whacca, before the creation
of the world, was the god of Nobody Really Cares. When Tall Papa undertook
the creation of the Walkabout, Tu'whacca found a purpose; he became the
caretaker of the Far Shores, and continues to help Redguards find their way
into the afterlife. His cult is sometimes associated with Arkay in the more
cosmopolitan regions of Hammerfell.
Vivec (Master of Morrowind): Warrior-poet god of the Dunmer. Vivec is the
invisible keeper of the holy land, ever vigilant against the dark gods of the
Volcano. He/she has saved the Dunmeri people from certain death on numerous
occasions, most notably when he/she taught them how to breathe water for a
day so that he/she could flood Morrowind and kill the Akaviri invaders, ca.
2E572.
Xarxes: Xarxes is the god of ancestry and secret knowledge. He began as a
scribe to Auri-El, and has kept track of all Aldmeri accomplishments, large
and small, since the beginning of time. He created his wife, Oghma, from his
favorite moments in history.
Y'ffre (God of the Forest): Most important deity of the Bosmeri pantheon.
While Auri-El Time Dragon might be the king of the gods, the Bosmer revere
Y'ffre as the spirit of 'the now'. According to the Wood Elves, after the
creation of the mortal plane everything was in chaos. The first mortals were
turning into plants and animals and back again. Then Y'ffre transformed
himself into the first of the Ehlnofey, or 'Earth Bones'. After these laws of
nature were established, mortals had a semblance of safety in the new world,
because they could finally understand it. Y'ffre is sometimes called the
Storyteller, for the lessons he taught the first Bosmer. Some Bosmer still
possess the knowledge of the chaos times, which they can use to great effect
(the Wild Hunt).
Ysmir (Dragon of the North): The Nordic aspect of Talos. He withstood the
power of the Greybeards' voices long enough to hear their prophecy. Later,
many Nords could not look on him without seeing a dragon.
Z'en (God of Toil): Bosmeri god of payment in kind. Studies indicate origins
in both Argonian and Akaviri mythologies, perhaps introduced into Valenwood
by Kothringi sailors. Ostensibly an agriculture deity, Z'en sometimes proves
to be an entity of a much higher cosmic order. His worship died out shortly
after the Knhaten Flu.
Zeht (God of Farms): Yokudan god of agriculture. Renounced his father after
the world was created, which is why Tall Papa makes it so hard to grow food.
Zenithar (God of Work and Commerce, Trader God): Member of the Nine Divines,
Zenithar is understandably associated with Z'en. In the Empire, however, he
is a far more cultivated god of merchants and middle nobility. His
worshippers say, despite his mysterious origins, Zenithar is the god 'that
will always win'.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Vernaccus and Bourlor
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_marksman3
Weight: 4
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Marksman skill 1 point the first time the book is read
Vernaccus and Bourlor
By Tavi Dromio
Hallgerd walked into the King's Ham that Loredas evening, his face clouded
with sadness. While he ordered a mug of greef, his mates Garaz and Xiomara
joined him with moderately sincere concern.
"What's wrong with you, Hallgerd?" asked Xiomara. "You're later than usual,
and there's a certain air of tragedy you've dragged in with you. Have you
lost money, or a nearest and dearest?"
"I haven't lost any money," Hallgerd grimaced. "But I've just received word
from my nephew than my cousin Allioch has died. Perfectly natural, he says,
just old age. Allioch was ten years younger than me."
"Aw, that's terrible. But it goes to show that it's important to savor all
of life's possibilities, 'cause you never know when your time is coming,"
said Garaz, who had been sitting at the same stool at the smoky cornerclub
for the last several hours. He was not one cursed with self-awareness.
"Life's short all right," agreed Xiomara. "But if you'll pardon a sentimental
thought, few of us are aware of the influence we'll have after our deaths.
Perhaps there's comfort there. For example, have I told you the story about
Vernaccus and Bourlor?"
"I don't believe so," said Hallgerd.
Vernaccus was a daedra (said Xiomara, throwing a few dribbles on flin on the
hearth to cast the proper mood), and though our tale took place many, many
years ago, it would be fair to say that Vernaccus still is one. For what
after all is time to the immortal daedra?
"Actually," Garaz interrupted. "I understand that the notion of immortality--
"
"I am trying to offer our friend an inspirational tale in his hour of need,"
Xiomara growled. "I don't have all bloody night to tell it, if you don't
mind."
You wouldn't have heard of Vernaccus (said Xiomara, abandoning the theme of
immortality for the time being) for even at the height of his power and fame,
he was considered feeble by the admittedly high standards of the day. Of
course, this lack of respect infuriated him, and his reaction was typical of
lesser daedra. He went on a murderous rampage.
Soon word spread through all the villages in the Colovian West of the unholy
terror. Whole families had been butchered, castles destroyed, orchards and
fields torched and cursed so nothing would ever grow there again.
To make things even worse for the villagers, Vernaccus began getting
visitations from an old rival of his from Oblivion. She was a daedra seducer
named Horavatha, and she delighted in taunting him to see how angry she could
make him become.
"You've flooded a village and that's supposed to be impressive?" she would
sneer. "Try collapsing a continent, and maybe you'll get a little attention."
Vernaccus could become pretty angry. He didn't come very close to collapsing
the continent of Tamriel, but it wasn't for lack of trying.
A hero was needed to face the mad daedra, and fortunately, one was available.
His name was Bourlor, and it was said that he had been blessed by the goddess
Kynareth. That was the only explanation for his inhuman accuracy with his
bow and arrow, for he never missed a target. As a child he had driven his
marksmanship tutors wild with frustration. They would tell him how to plant
his feet, how to nock a bolt, the proper grip for the cord, the best method
of release. He ignored all the rules, and somehow, every time, the arrow
would catch a breath of wind and sail directly to his target. It did not
matter if the quarry was moving or still, at very close range or miles away.
Whatever he wanted to strike with his arrow would be struck.
Bourlor answered the call when one of the village mayors begged him for help.
Unfortunately, he was not as great a horseman as he was an archer. As he
rode through the forest toward the mayor's town, a place called Evensacon,
Vernaccus was already murdering everyone there. Horavatha watched, and
stifled back a yawn.
"Murdering a small town mayor isn't going to put you in famous company, you
know. What you need is a great champion to defeat. Someone like Ysgramor or
Pelinal Whitestrake or--" she stared at the figure emerging from the forest.
"That fellow!"
"Who's he?" growled Vernaccus between bites of the mayor's quivering body.
"The greatest archer in Tamriel. He's never missed."
Bourlor had his bow strung and was pointing it at the daedra. For a moment,
Vernaccus felt like laughing -- the fellow was not even aiming straight --
but he had a well-honed sense of self-preservation. There was something
about the man's look of confidence that convinced the daedra that Horavatha
wasn't lying. As the bolt left the bow, Vernaccus vanished in a sheet of
flame.
The arrow impaled a tree. Bourlor stood and stared. He had missed a target.
In Oblivion, Vernaccus raged. Fleeing before a mortal man like that -- not
even the basest scamp would have been so craven. He had exposed himself for
the weak, cowardly creature he was. As he considered what steps to take to
salvage the situation, he found himself face-to-knee with the most fearsome
of the Daedra Princes, Molag Bal.
"I never thought anything much of you, Vernaccus," the giant boomed. "But you
have more than proven your worth. You have shown the creatures of Mundus
that the daedra are more powerful than the blessings of the Gods."
The other denizens of Oblivion quickly agreed (as they always did) with the
view of Molag Bal. The daedra are, after all, always very sensitive about
their various defeats at the hands of mortal champions. Vernaccus was
proclaimed The Elusive Beast, The Unpursuable One, He Who Cannot Be Touched,
The Bane of Kynareth. Shrines devoted to him began to be built in remote
corners of Morrowind and Skyrim.
Bourlor meanwhile, now found flawed, was never again called to rescue a
village. He was so heartbroken over his failure to strike his target that he
became a hermit, and never restrung his bow again. Some months later, he
died, unmourned and unremembered.
"Is this really the tale you thought would cheer me?" asked Hallgerd
incredulously. "I've heard the King of Worms told more inspirational
stories."
"Wait," smiled Xiomara. "I'm not finished yet."
For a year's time, Vernaccus was content to watch his legend grow and his
fledging worship spread from his home in Oblivion. He was, in addition to
being cowardly and inclined toward murderous rages, also a very lazy
creature. His worshippers told tales of their Master avoiding the bolts of a
thousand archers, of moving through oceans without getting wet, and other
feats of avoidance that he would rather not have to demonstrate in person.
The real story of his ignominious retreat from Bourlor was thankfully
forgotten.
The bad news, when it came, was delivered to him with some relish by
Horavatha. He had delighted in her jealousy at his growing reputation, so it
was with a cruel smile she told him, "Your shrines are being assaulted."
"Who dares?" he roared.
"Everyone who passes them in the wilderness feels the need to throw a stone,"
Horavatha purred. "You can hardly blame them. After all, they represent He
Who Cannot Be Touched. How could anyone be expected to resist such a
target?"
Vernaccus peered through the veil into the world of Mundus and saw that it
was true. One of his shrines in Colovian West country was surrounded by a
large platoon of mercenary soldiers, who delighted in pelting it with rocks.
His worshippers huddled inside, praying for a miracle.
In an instant, he appeared before the mercenaries and his rage was terrifying
to behold. They fled into the woods before he even had a chance to murder
one of them. His worshippers threw open the wooden door to the shrine and
dropped to their knees in joy and fear. His anger melted. Then a stone
struck him.
Then another. He turned to face his assailants, but the air was suddenly
filled with rocks.
Vernaccus could not see them, but he heard mercenaries in the woods laugh,
"It's not even trying to move out of the way!"
"It's impossible not to hit him!" guffawed another.
With a roar of humiliation, the daedra bounded into the shrine, chased by the
onslaught. One of the stones knocked the door closed behind him, striking
him in the back. His face broke, anger and embarrassment disappearing,
replaced by pain. He turned, shaking, to his worshippers who huddled in the
shadows of the shrine, their faith shattered.
"Where did you get the wood to build this shrine?" Vernaccus groaned.
"Mostly from an copse of trees near the village of Evensacon," his high-
priest shrugged.
Vernaccus nodded. He dropped forward, revealing the deep wound in his back.
A rusted arrowhead buried in a whorl in the wood of the door had jolted loose
in the assault and impaled him. The daedra vanished in a whirlwind of dust.
The shrines were abandoned shortly thereafter, though Vernaccus did have a
brief resurgence as the Patron Spirit of Limitations and Impotence before
fading from memory altogether. The legend of Bourlor himself never became
very well known either, but there are still some who tell the tale, like
myself. And we have the advantage of knowing what the Great Archer himself
didn't know on his deathbed -- his final arrow found its target after all.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Vivec and Mephala
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_vivecandmephala
Weight: 3
Value: 40
Special Notes: None
Vivec and Mephala
Who is ALMSIVI?
Morrowind is holy country, and its gods are flesh and blood. Collectively,
these gods are called the Tribunal, the triune ALMSIVI, three deities
exemplifying Dunmeri virtues. Almalexia is Mercy, Vivec is Mastery, and Sotha
Sil is Mystery. Vivec is easily the most popular of them all. Vivec is also
the most public, for he is the beloved Warrior-Poet of the True People,
paradoxically beautiful and bloody. Vivec is an artistic violence. Vivec is
represented in Temple literature and liturgy as one of the divine kings of
Morrowind. He guards the sacred Velothi subcontinent of Vvardenfell, and
stands guard over Red Mountain, the gate to hell. He is part of the holy
Tribunal, a god of the New Temple, and an aspect of the blessed and righteous
ALMSIVI.
This explicit presentation of Vivec the Guardian God-King and Warrior-Poet is
the one most accessible and familiar to Westerners. However, it is important
to remember that Vivec is also known to the Dunmer as the transcendent
evolution of the daedra that anticipated him, Black Hands Mephala, a
foundation figure of the earliest Chimer. This darker side of Vivec does not
appear in the popular literature and liturgy, but is instinctively understood
and accepted by the Dunmer as an integral part of Vivec's divine aspect. A
more complete appreciation of the complex nature of Vivec requires an
understanding of the nature of Vivec's Anticipation, Mephala, and the darker
themes represented by this Daedra Lord's modes and motivations.
Who is Mephala?
Each of the three Tribunes of the Temple were represented in the dawn of
Chimeri culture by their Anticipations. These Anticipations are known to the
West as the sinister Daedra Lords Azura, Boethiah, and Mephala. In Temple
theology, however, Azura is the Anticipation of Sotha Sil, the Mage-Lord of
Almsivi. Boethiah is the Anticipation of Almalexia, Almsivi's Mother and
Lady. Mephala is the Anticipation of Vivec. According to legend, under the
guidance of these three Daedra Lords, a discontented throng of Altmer
transformed themselves into a new people and founded a new land. And while
Boethiah, the so-called Prince of Plots, provided the revolutionary methods
needed to bring about this transformation, Mephala was the shadowy
implementer of those methods.
As known in the West, Mephala is the demon of murder, sex, and secrets. All
of these themes contain subtle aspects and violent ones
(assassination/genocide, courtship/orgy, tact/poetic truths); Mephala is
understood paradoxically to contain and integrate these contradictory themes.
And all these subtle undercurrents and contradictions are present in the
Dunmer concepts of Vivec, even if they are not explicitly described and
explained in Temple doctrine.
The Dunmer do not envision Lord Vivec as a creature of murder, sex, and
secrets. Rather, they conceive of Lord Vivec as benevolent king, guardian
warrior, poet-artist. But, at the same time, unconsciously, they accept the
notion of darker, hidden currents beneath Vivec's benevolent aspects.
For example, one of the most striking persistent myths associated with Vivec
is the story that Vivec conspired with his co-rulers Almalexia and Sotha Sil
in the murder of Lord Nerevar, the greatest of Dunmer heroes and generals.
The story is derived from Ashlander oral tradition, and is flatly
contradicted by all Temple traditions. Nonetheless, the tale is firmly
established in the Dunmer imagination, as if to say, "Of course Vivec would
never have conspired to murder Lord Nerevar, but it happened so long ago...
who can know the truth?"
The public face of Vivec is benign, sensitive, compassionate, and protective
of his followers. At the same time, the Dunmer seem irrationally comfortable
with the hidden aspects of Vivec, the darker components of violence, lust,
and conspiracy associated the more primitive and ruthless impulses of the
Anticipations.
[This appears to be the records of incoming and outgoing shipments, complete
with dates and business partners.]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Where Were You ... Dragon Broke
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_wherewereyoudragonbroke
Weight: 3
Value: 55
Special Notes: None
Where were you when the Dragon Broke?
Corax, Cyrodiil, Elder Council:
"No one understands what happened when the Selectives danced on that tower.
It would be easy to dismiss the whole matter as nonsense were it not for the
Amulet of Kings. Even the Elder Scrolls do not mention it -- let me correct
myself, the Elder Scrolls cannot mention it. When the Moth priests attune the
Scrolls to the timeless time their glyphs always disappear. The Amulet of
Kings, however, with its oversoul of emperors, can speak of it at length.
According to Hestra, Cyrodiil became an Empire across the stars. According to
Shor-El, Cyrodiil became an egg. Most say something in a language they can
only speak sideways. The Council has collected texts and accounts from all of
its provinces, and they only offer stories that never coincide, save on one
point: all the folk of Tamriel during the Middle Dawn, in whatever 'when'
they were caught in, tracked the fall of the eight stars. And that is how
they counted their days."
Mehra Nabisi, Dunmer, Triune Mistress of the New Temple:
"Accounts of the Middle Dawn are the province of the Empire of Men, and proof
of the deceit that call themselves the Aedra. Eight stars fell on Tamriel,
one for each iniquity that Lorkhan made clear to the world. Veloth read these
signs, and he told Boethiah, who confirmed them, and he told Mephala, who
made wards against them, and he told Azura, who sent ALMSIVI to steer the
True Folk clear of harm. Even the Four Corners of the House of Troubles rose
to protect the periphery of your madness. We watched our borders and saw them
shift like snakes, and saw you run around in it like the spirits of old,
devoid of math, without your if-thens, succumbing to the Ever Now like slaves
of the slim folly, stasis. Do not ask us where we were when the Dragon Broke,
for, of all the world, only we truly know, and we might just show you how to
break it again."
R'leyt-harhr, Khajiit, Tender to the Mane:
"Do you mean, where were the Khajiit when the Dragon Broke? R'leyt tells you
where: recording it. 'One thousand eight years,' you've heard it. You think
the Cyro-Nordics came up with that all on their own. You humans are better
thieves than even Rajhin! While you were fighting wars with phantoms and
giving birth to your own fathers, it was the Mane that watched the ja-
Kha'jay, because the moons were the only constant, and you didn't have the
sugar to see it. We'll give you credit: you broke Alkosh something fierce,
and that's not easy. Just don't think you solved what you accomplished by it,
or can ever solve it. You did it again with Big Walker, not once, but twice!
Once at Rimmen, which we'll never learn to live with. The second time it was
in Daggerfall, or was it Sentinel, or was it Wayrest, or was it in all three
places at once? Get me, Cyrodiil? When will you wake up and realize what
really happened to the Dwarves?"
Mannimarco, God of Worms, the Necromancers:
"The Three Thieves of Morrowind could tell you where they were. So could the
High King of Alinor, who was the one who broke it in the first place. There
are others on this earth that could, too: Ysmir, Pelinal, Arnand the Fox or
should I say Arctus? The Last Dwarf would talk, if they would let him. As for
myself, I was here and there and here again, like the rest of the mortals
during the Dragon Break. How do you think I learned my mystery? The Maruhkati
Selectives showed us all the glories of the Dawn so that we might learn,
simply: as above, so below."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Withershins
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_restoration1
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Restoration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read, Also part of the Thieves Guild quests
Withershins
by Yaqut Tawashi
"All right," said Kazagha. "Why don't you want to talk?"
Zaki put down his mug of mead and just stared at his wife for a few seconds.
Finally, grudgingly: "Because everything I have a conversation, darling, it
flows in alphabetical order. Just like I told you. I think the only way to
stop it is not to talk at all."
"Couldn't you just be imagining this?" said Kazagha patiently. "It wouldn't
be the first time you had an insane paranoid delusion. Remember when you
thought the royal battlemage of Black Marsh was hiding behind every tree with
a rape kit, intent on making you -- a middle-aged, fat, balding tailor --
into his personal sex slave? You don't need to be ashamed, but it's
Sheogorath's way to make us all a little crazy sometimes. If you go to the
healer--"
"Damn it, Kazagha!" snarled Zaki and stomped out, slamming the door behind
him. He nearly collided with Siyasat, his neighbor.
"Excuse me," she said to Zaki's back. He clamped his hands over his ears as
he stormed down the street, turning the corner to his tailor shop. His first
customer was waiting out front, smiling widely. Zaki tried to keep his
temper under control and took out his keys, returning the customer's smile.
"Fine day," said the young man.
"Gods!" hollered Zaki, sending the young man flying with a well-placed punch,
and dashing away.
As much as he hated to admit that Kazagha was right, it was evidently time,
once again, for one of the healer's herbal cocktails. Tarsu's temple to
health, mental and physical, was several streets north, an impressive
obelisk. Halqa, the chief herbalist, met him before he came in the hall.
"How are you today, Sa'Zaki Saf?"
"I need to make an appointment with Tarsu," said Zaki in his calmest voice.
"Just one moment, let me see how his schedule looks." Halqa said, looking
over a scroll. "Is this an emergency?"
"Kind of," said Zaki, and slapped his head. Why couldn't he say yes, or
absolutely, or sure?
"Let's see," said Halqa, frowning. "The best I can do is next Middas. Would
that work for you?"
"Middas!" cried Zaki. "I'll be a complete psychotic by Middas. Isn't there
anything earlier?"
He knew what the answer would be before she said it. There was no
alternative. In a way, he had forced the response. If only he had kept the
conversation going until "Y."
"No," said Halqa. "I'm sorry. Do you want me to make the appointment--?"
Zaki walked away, gritting his teeth. He wandered the streets, his head down
to avoid all conversations, until he looked up and discovered that he had
walked all the way to the wharf. A sweet breeze was blowing along the water
and he took several deep breaths until he felt almost normal. When his temper
cooled, he could think again. What if this alphabetical conversation wasn't a
delusion at all? What if what he felt wasn't paranoia, but acute awareness?
He knew it was the classic dilemma: am I crazy or is there really something
weird going on?
Across the road was a shop called ParaDocks, featuring a display of herbs,
crystals, and vapors trapped in orbs . The sign in the window read "Mystical
Consultation sunrise to noon." It was worth a shot, though Zaki was dubious.
The only people who generally came down the wharf for healing were stupid
adventurers who didn't know any better.
Incense burned in copious billows of pink and gold, obscuring and then
revealing the clutter within. Jijjic death masks glowered down from the
walls, smoking censors hung by chains from the ceiling, and the floor was a
maze of bookshelves. At a wellworn table in the back a small man wearing a
headress was tabulating a young lady's purchases.
"Okay," said the man. "Your total comes to fifty-seven gold pieces. I threw
in the restorative scale conditioner for free. Just remember, the candle
should be lit only after you invoke Goroflox The Unholy, and mandrake root
does best in partial shade."
The customer gave a quick, shy smile to Zaki and left the store.
"Please help me," said Zaki. "Every conversation I hear or get involved in
seems to be arranged alphabetically. I don't know if I'm going insane or if
there are some kind of bizarre forces at work. To be honest with you, I'm
normally a skeptic when it comes to your type of business, but I'm at the end
of my rope. Can you do anything to make this madness end?"
"Quite a common problem, actually," said the man, patting Zaki on the arm.
"When you get to the end of the alphabet, do conversations then go to reverse
alphabetical order or start at the beginning of the alphabet?"
"Reverse alphabetical order," said Zaki, and then corrected himself. "Damn
it! I mean, it starts from the beginning, all over again. I'm in agony. Can
you call on the spirits and tell me, am I insane?"
"Sauriki," said the man with a reassuring smile. "I don't have to. You're
quite sane."
"Thank you," said Zaki, frowning. "By the way, my name's Zaki, not Sauriki."
"Unusually close, eh?" said the man, patting Zaki on the back. "My name's
Octoplasm. Follow me, please. I think I have just what you need."
Octoplasm lead Zaki down the narrow corridor behind the desk. The two men
pushed past dusty cabinets filled with strange creatures in liquids, past
heaps of neolithic stones, past stack after stack of moldering leather-bound
books, into the dank heart of the store. There he picked up a small, squat
cylindrical drum and a book, and handed them to Zaki.
"'Vampirism, Daedric Possession, and Withershin Therapy,'" said Zaki,
squinting his eyes to read the book in the gloom. "What in Oblivion does this
have to do with me? I'm not a vampire, look at this tan. And what's
Withershin Therapy, and how much will it cost me?"
"Withershins, from the Old Cyrodilic withersynes, which means backwards,"
said Octoplasm in a serious tone. "It's the art of reversing the direction of
things in order to gain access to the spirit world, and break curses, cure
vampirism, and trigger all manners of apotropaic healing. You know the story
about the guy who was told that slaughterfish live in hot water, so he said,
'Well, let's boil them in cold water'?"
"Xenophus," said Zaki instinctively, his brother having taken a rather
esoteric upper level course in Cyrodilic philosophy as an elective in at the
Imperial College thirty-one years before, and immediately wishing he hadn't.
"And what do you do with the cylindrical thingy?"
Octoplasm lit a candle and held the object over it so Zaki could see more
clearly. All along the cylinder were narrow slits and when Zaki peered within
them, he saw a succession of old black and white drawings of a naked man
leaping over boxes, one frame after the next.
"You spin it like so," said Octoplasm, slowly whirling the device clockwise
so the man within leapt over the boxes over and over again. "It's called a
zoetrope. Pretty neat, eh? Now, you take it and start spinning it
counterclockwise, and while you're doing it, read this incantation I've
marked in the book."
Zaki took the zoetrope and began spinning it counterclockwise over the
candle, so the little naked man within seemed to bound backwards over the
boxes. It took a little coordination and concentration to keep whirling at a
steady pace, but gradually the man's awkward and jerky backjumps became more
and more fluid until Zaki could no longer see the individual frames flipping.
It looked just like a little humanoid hamster on an endless reverse
treadmill. While he continued to spin the zoetrope with one hand, Zaki took
the book in the other and read the underlined passage.
"Zoetrope counter-spin, counter-spin, counter-spin / Pull my life from the
rut that it's in / I invoke the Goddesses Boethiah, Kynareth, and Drisis / To
invert my potentially metaphysical crisis / My old life may have been rather
pointless and plain / But I dislike the prospect of going insane / Make the
pattern reverse by this withershin / Zoetrope, counter-spin, counter-spin,
counter-spin."
As he chanted the spell, Zaki noticed that the little naked man in the
zoetrope began to look more like himself. The moustache vanished, and the
hairline receded. The man's waistline expanded, and the buttocks sagged to
the shape and texture of half-inflated balloons. Scales approximating his own
Argonian pattern appeared. The man began to trip as he bounded backwards
over the boxes, taking bigger breaths and sweating. By the time Zaki reached
the end of the incantation, his twin was clutching his chest and tumbling
end-over-end over the boxes in a free-fall.
Octoplasm took the zoetrope and the book from Zaki's hands. Nothing seemed to
have changed. No thunder had rumbled. No winged serpents had sprung out of
Zaki's head. No fiery explosions. But Zaki felt that something was different.
Good different. Normal.
At the counter, when Zaki pulled out his sachel of gold pieces, Octoplasm
merely shook his head: "Are treatment radical such of effects term long the
what sure be can't we, naturally. Charge no."
Feeling the first real relief he had felt in days, Zaki walked backwards out
of the shop and down the road to his shop.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Words and Philosophy
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Long Blade1
Weight: 3
Value: 225
Special Notes: Raises Long Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Lady Benoch's
Words and Philosophy
Lady Allena Benoch, former master of the Valenwood Fighter's Guild and head
of the Emperor's personal guard in the Imperial City, has been leading a
campaign to reacquaint the soldiers of Tamriel with the sword. I met with
her on three different occasions for the purposes of this book. The first
time was at her suite in the palace, on the balcony overlooking the gardens
below.
I was early for the interview, which had taken me nearly six months to
arrange, but she gently chided me for not being even earlier.
"I've had time to put up my defenses now," she said, her bright green eyes
smiling.
Lady Benoch is a Bosmer, a Wood Elf, and like her ancestors, took to the bow
in her early years. She excelled at the sport, and by the age of fourteen,
she had joined the hunting party of her tribe as a Jaqspur, a long distance
shooter. During the black year of 396, when the Parikh tribe began their
rampage through southeastern Valenwood with the aid of powers from the
Summurset Isle, Lady Benoch fought the futile battle to keep her tribe's
land.
"I killed someone for the first time when I was sixteen," she says now. "I
don't remember it very well -- he or she was just a blur on the horizon where
I aimed my bow. It meant no more to me than shooting animals. I probably
killed a hundred people like that during that summer and fall. I didn't
really feel like a killer until that wintertide, when I learned what it was
like to look into a man's eyes as you spilled his blood.
"It was a scout from the Parikh tribe who surprised me while I was on camp
watch. We surprised each other, I suppose. I had my bow at my side, and I
just panicked, trying to string an arrow when he was half a yard away from
me. It was the only thing I knew to do. Of course, he struck first with his
blade, and I just fell back in shock.
"You always remember the mistakes of your first victim. His mistake was
assuming because he had drawn blood and I had fallen, that I was dead. I
rushed at him the moment he turned from me towards the sleeping camp of my
tribesmen. He was caught off guard, and I wrested his blade away from him.
"I don't know how many times I stabbed at him. By the time I stopped, when
the next watch came to relieve me, my arms were black and blue with strain,
there was not a solid piece of him left. I had literally cut him into
pieces. You see, I had no concept of how to fight or how much it took to
kill a man."
Lady Benoch, aware of this deficiency in her education, began teaching
herself swordsmanship at once.
"You can't learn how to use a sword in Valenwood," she says. "Which isn't to
say Bosmer can't use blades, but we're largely self-taught. As much as it
hurt when my tribe found itself homeless, pushed to the north, it did have
one good aspect: it afforded me the opportunity to meet Redguards."
Studying all manners of weapon wielding under the tutelage of Warday A'kor,
Lady Benoch excelled. She became a freelance adventurer, traveling through
the wilds of southern Hammerfell and northern Valenwood, protecting caravans
and visiting dignitaries from the various dangers indigenous to the
population.
Unfortunately, before we were able to pursue her story of her early years any
further, Lady Benoch was called away on urgent summons from the Emperor.
Such is often the case with the Imperial Guard, and in these troubled times,
perhaps, more so than in the past. When I tried to contact her for another
talk, her servants informed me than their mistress was in Skyrim. Another
month passed, and when I visited her suite, I was told she was in High Rock.
To her credit, Lady Benoch actually sought me out for our second interview on
Sun's Dusk of that year. I was in a tavern in the City called the Blood and
Rooster, when I felt her hand on my shoulder. She sat down at the rude table
and continued her tale as if it had never been interrupted.
She returned to the theme of her days as an adventurer, and told me about the
first time she ever felt confident with a sword.
"I owned at that time an enchanted daikatana, quite a good one, of daedric
metal. It wasn't an original Akaviri, not even of design. I didn't have that
kind of money, but it served my primary purpose of delivering as much damage
with as little effort on my part as possible. A'kor had taught me how to
fence, but when faced with a life or death situation, I always fell back on
the old overhand wallop.
"A pack of orcs had stolen some gold from a local chieftain in Meditea, and I
went looking for them in one of the ubiquitous dungeons that dot the
countryside in that region. There were the usual rats and giant spiders, and
I was enough of a veteran by then to dispatch them with relative ease. The
problem came when I found myself in a pitch black room, and all around me, I
heard the grunts of orcs nearing in.
"I waved my sword around me, connecting with nothing, hearing their footsteps
coming ever nearer. Somehow, I managed to hold back my fear and to remember
the simple exercises Master A'kor had taught me. I listened, stepped
sideways, swung, twisted, stepped forward, swung a circle, turned around,
side-stepped, swung.
"My instinct was right. The orcs had gathered in a circle around me, and
when I found a light, I saw that they were all dead.
"That's when I focused on my study of swordplay. I'm stupid enough to
require a near death experience to see the practical purposes, you see."
Lady Benoch spent the remainder of the interview, responding in her typically
blunt way to the veracity of various myths that surrounded her and her
career. It was true that she became the master of the Valenwood Fighter's
Guild after winning a duel with the former master, who was a stooge of the
Imperial Battlemage, the traitor Jagar Tharn. It was not true that she was
the one responsible for the Valenwood Guild's disintegration two years later
("Actually, the membership in the Valenwood chapter was healthy, but in
Tamriel overall the mood was not conducive for the continued existence of a
nonpartisan organization of freelance warriors.") It was true that she first
came to the Emperor's attention when she defended Queen Akorithi of Sentinel
from a Breton assassin. It was not true that the assassin was hired by
someone in the high court of Daggerfall ("At least," she says wryly, "That
has never been proven."). It was also true that she married her former
servant Urken after he had been in her service for eleven years ("No one
knows how to keep my weaponry honed like he does," she says. "It's a
practical business. I either had to give him a raise or marry him.").
The only story I asked her that she would neither admit nor refute was the
one about Calaxes, the Emperor's bastard. When I brought up the name, she
shrugged, professing no knowledge of the affair. I pressed on with the
details of the story. Calaxes, though not in line for succession, had been
given the Archbishopric of The One: a powerful position in the Imperial City,
and indeed over all Tamriel where that religion is honored. Whispering began
immediately that Calaxes believed that the Gods were angered with the secular
governments of Tamriel and the Emperor specifically. It was even said that
Calaxes advocated full-scale rebellion to establish a theocracy over the
Empire.
It is certainly true, I pressed on, that the Emperor's relationship with
Calaxes had become very stormy, and that legislation had been passed to limit
the Church's authority. That is, up until the moment when Calaxes
disappeared, suddenly, without notice to his closest of friends. Many said
that Lady Benoch and the Imperial Guard assassinated the Archbishop Calaxes
in the sacristy of his church -- the date usually given was the 29th of Sun's
Dusk 3E 498.
"Of course," responds Lady Benoch with one of her mysterious grins. "I don't
need to tell you that the Imperial Guard's position is as protectors of the
throne, not assassins."
"But surely, no one is more trusted that the Guard for such a sensitive
operation," I say, carefully.
Lady Benoch acknowledges that, but merely says that such details of her
duties must remain secret as a matter of Imperial security. Unfortunately,
her ladyship had to leave early the next morning, as the Emperor had business
down south -- of course, I couldn't be told more specifics. She promised to
send me word when she returned so we could continue our interview.
As it turned out, I had business of my own in the Summurset Isle, compiling a
book on the Psijic Order. It was therefore with surprise that I met her
ladyship three months later in Firsthold. We managed to get away from our
respective duties to complete our third and final interview, on a walk along
the Diceto, the great river that passes through the royal parks of the city.
Steering away from questions of her recent duties and assignments, which I
guessed rightly she was loath to answer, I returned to the subject of
swordfighting.
"Frandar Hunding," she says. "Lists thirty-eight grips, seven hundred and
fifty offensive and eighteen hundred defensive positions, and nearly nine
thousand moves essential to sword mastery. The average hack-and-slasher
knows one grip, which he uses primarily to keep from dropping his blade. He
knows one offensive position, facing his target, and one defensive position,
fleeing. Of the multitudinous rhythms and inflections of combat, he knows
less than one.
"The ways of the warrior were never meant to be the easiest path. The
archetype of the idiot fighter is as solidly ingrained as that of the
brilliant wizard and the shrewd thief, but it was not always so. The figure
of the philosopher swordsman, the blade-wielding artist are creatures of the
past, together with the swordsinger of the Redguards, who was said to be able
to create and wield a blade with but the power of his mind. The future of
the intelligent blade-wielder looks bleak in comparison to the glories of the
past."
Not wanting to end our interviews on a sour note, I pressed Lady Allena
Benoch for advice for young blade-swingers just beginning their careers.
"When confronted with a wizard," she says, throwing petals of Kanthleaf into
the Diceto. "Close the distance and hit 'im hard."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Words of Clan Mother Ahnissi
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_wordsclanmother
Weight: 4
Value: 40
Special Notes: None
Words of Clan Mother Ahnissi
to her Favored Daughter
Ahnissi tells you. You are no longer a mewing kitten and you have learned to
keep secrets from Ahnissi, and so Ahnissi tells you.
In the beginning there were two littermates, Ahnurr and Fadomai. After many
phases, Fadomai said to Ahnurr, "Let us wed and make children to share our
happiness."
And they gave birth to Alkosh, the First Cat. And Ahnurr said, "Alkosh, we
give you Time, for what is as fast or as slow as a cat?"
And they gave birth to Khenarthi, the Winds. "Khenarthi, to you we give the
sky, for what can fly higher than the wind?"
And they gave birth to Magrus, the Cat's Eye. "Magrus, to you we give the
sun, for what is brighter than the eye of a cat?"
And they gave birth to Mara, the Mother Cat. "Mara, you are love, for what is
more loving than a mother?"
And they gave birth to S'rendarr, the Runt. "S'rendarr, we give you mercy,
for how does a runt survive, except by mercy?"
And many phases passed and Ahnurr and Fadomai were happy.
And Ahnurr said, "We should have more children to share our happiness." And
Fadomai agreed. And she gave birth to Hermorah. And she gave birth to
Hircine. And she gave birth to Merrunz and Mafala and Sangiin and Sheggorath
and many others.
And Fadomai said:
"Hermorah, you are the Tides, for who can say whether the moons predict the
tides or the tides predict the moons?"
"Hircine, you are the Hungry Cat, for what hunts better than a cat with an
empty belly?"
"Merrunz, you are the Ja'Khajiit, for what is more destructive than an
kitten?"
"Mafala, you are the Clan Mother, for what is more secretive than the ways of
the Clan Mothers?"
"Sangiin, you are the Blood Cat, for who can control the urges of blood?"
"Sheggorath, you are the Skooma Cat, for what is crazier than a cat on
skooma?"
And Ahnurr said, "Two litters is enough, for too many children will steal our
happiness."
But Khenarthi went to Fadomai and said, "Fadomai-mother, Khenarthi grows
lonely so high above the world where not even my brother Alkosh can fly."
Fadomai took pity on her and tricked Ahnurr to make her pregnant again.
And Fadomai gave birth to the Moons and their Motions. And she gave birth to
Nirni, the majestic sands and lush forests. And she gave birth to Azurah, the
dusk and the dawn.
And from the beginning, Nirni and Azurah fought for their mother's favor.
Ahnurr caught Fadomai while she was still birthing, and he was angry. Ahnurr
struck Fadomai and she fled to birth the last of her litter far away in the
Great Darkness. Fadomai's children heard what had happened, and they all came
to be with her and protect her from Ahnurr's anger.
And Fadomai gave birth to Lorkhaj, the last of her litter, in the Great
Darkness. And the Heart of Lorkhaj was filled with the Great Darkness. And
when he was born, the Great Darkness knew its name and it was Namiira.
And Fadomai knew her time was near. Fadomai said:
"Ja-Kha'jay, to you Fadomai gives the Lattice, for what is steadier than the
phases of the moons? Your eternal motions will protect us from Ahnurr's
anger." And the moons left to take their place in the heavens. And Ahnurr
growled and shook the Great Darkness, but he could not cross the Lattice.
And Fadomai said:
"Nirni, to you Fadomai leaves her greatest gift. You will give birth to many
people as Fadomai gave birth today." When Nirni saw that Azurah had nothing,
Nirni left smiling.
And all Fadomai's children left except Azurah. And Fadomai said, "To you, my
favored daughter, Fadomai leaves her greatest gift. To you Fadomai leaves her
secrets." And Fadomai told her favored daughter three things.
And Fadomai said, "When Nirni is filled with her children, take one of them
and change them. Make the fastest, cleverest, most beautiful people, and call
them Khajiit."
And Fadomai said, "The Khajiit must be the best climbers, for if Masser and
Secunda fail, they must climb Khenarthi's breath to set the moons back in
their courses."
And Fadomai said, "The Khajiit must be the best deceivers, for they must
always hide their nature from the children of Ahnurr."
And Fadomai said, "The Khajiit must be the best survivors, for Nirni will be
jealous, and she will make the sands harsh and the forests unforgiving, and
the Khajiit will always be hungry and at war with Nirni."
And with these words, Fadomai died.
After many phases, Nirni came to Lorkhaj and said, "Lorkhaj, Fadomai told me
to give birth to many children, but there is no place for them."
And Lorkhaj said, "Lorkhaj makes a place for children and Lorkhaj puts you
there so you can give birth." But the Heart of Lorkhaj was filled with the
Great Darkness, and Lorkhaj tricked his siblings so that they were forced
into this new place with Nirni. And many of Fadomai's children escaped and
became the stars. And many of Fadomai's children died to make Nirni's path
stable. And the survivors stayed and punished Lorkhaj.
The children of Fadomai tore out the Heart of Lorkhaj and hid it deep within
Nirni. And they said, "We curse you, noisy Lorkhaj, to walk Nirni for many
phases."
But Nirni soon forgave Lorkhaj for Nirni could make children. And she filled
herself with children, but cried because her favorite children, the forest
people, did not know their shape.
And Azurah came to her and said, "Poor Nirni, stop your tears. Azurah makes
for you a gift of a new people." Nirni stopped weeping, and Azurah spoke the
First Secret to the Moons and they parted and let Azurah pass. And Azurah
took some forest people who were torn between man and beast, and she placed
them in the best desserts and forests on Nirni. And Azurah in her wisdom made
them of many shapes, one for every purpose. And Azurah named them Khajiit and
told them her Second Secret and taught them the value of secrets. And Azurah
bound the new Khajiit to the Lunar Lattice, as is proper for Nirni's secret
defenders. Then Azurah spoke the Third Secret, and the Moons shone down on
the marshes and their light became sugar.
But Y'ffer heard the First Secret and snuck in behind Azurah. And Y'ffer
could not appreciate secrets, and he told Nirni of Azurah's trick. So Nirni
made the deserts hot and the sands biting. And Nirni made the forests wet and
filled with poisons. And Nirni thanked Y'ffer and let him change the forest
people also. And Y'ffer did not have Azurah's subtle wisdom, so Y'ffer made
the forest people Elves always and never beasts. And Y'ffer named them
Bosmer. And from that moment they were no longer in the same litter as the
Khajiit.
And because Y'ffer had no appreciation for secrets, he shouted the First
Secret across all the heavens with his last breath so that all of Fadomai's
children could cross the Lattice. But Azurah, in her wisdom, closed the ears
of angry Ahnurr and noisy Lorkhaj so they alone did not hear the word.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Words of the Wind
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_words_of_the_wind
Weight: 4
Value: 45
Special Notes: None
Words of the Wind
[This is a volume of verse collected from Ashlander wise women. 'May I shrink
to dust' is from the Ahemmusa Ashlanders of the Grazelands.]
May I shrink to dust
In your cold, wild Wastes,
And may my tongue speak
Its last hymn to your winds.
I pray for the herder
That whistles to his guar at play.
I pray for the hunter
That stalks the white walkers.
I pray for the wise one
That seeks under the hill,
And the wife who wishes
For one last touch of her dead child's hand.
I will not pray for that which I've lost
When my heart springs forth
From your soil, like a seed,
And blossoms anew beneath tomorrow's sun.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Yellow Book of 3E 426
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_yellowbook426
Weight: 3
Value: 20
Special Notes: Adds Hlaalu Councilor conversation topic
Yellow Book of Great House Hlaalu
Councilors of House Hlaalu
Vvardenfell District
Imperial Era 426
Mistress Velanda Omani, by Grace of Almsivi, Honored Councilor of Hlaalu
Council, Vvardenfell District, Free Trader, Lord of Omani Plantation, Elmas
Island, East Vivec, District of Vvardenfell, Province of Morrowind
Master Dram Bero, by Grace of Almsivi, Honored Councilor of Hlaalu Council,
Vvardenfell District, Free Trader, Gentleman of No Fixed Residence, Vivec,
District of Vvardenfell, Province of Morrowind
Master Crassius Curio, by Grace of Almsivi, Honored Councilor of Hlaalu
Council, Vvardenfell District, Free Trader, Curio Manor, Hlaalu Compound,
Vivec, District of Vvardenfell, Province of Morrowind
Master Yngling Half-Troll , by Grace of Almsivi, Honored Councilor of Hlaalu
Council, Vvardenfell District, Free Trader, Yngling Manor, Canton of St.
Olms, Vivec, District of Vvardenfell, Province of Morrowind
Mistress Nevena Ules, by Grace of Almsivi, Honored Councilor of Hlaalu
Council, Vvardenfell District, Free Trader, Ules Manor, Suran, Ascadian
Isles, Bal Ur, District of Vvardenfell, Province of Morrowind
Council Affairs of Note
King Hlaalu Athyn Llethan, High Councilor and Lord of Morrowind, grants
relief to merchants complaining of high tariffs on imported alcoholic
beverages.
The council is pleased to report a reduction in the incidence of theft and
violent crime in the Hlaalu House Districts, thanks to the vigilance of the
Legions and stern sentences by the magistrates. The council laments the
unfortunate disturbances of the public peace resulting from the increasingly
aggressive competition between the Thieves Guild and the Camonna Tong for
control of the black markets.
A minor tax revolt in Balmora was suppressed without undue harm to life and
property. The council sent deputations to the Duke to express their concerns
over the high tax rates and the injurious effect of high tariffs on trade.
[This is a ledger showing how Yngling Half-Troll misdirected funds he was
supposed to spend on restoring the Temple in the Redoran Compound in Vivec.]
=============================================================================
Section 6: Version History
=============================================================================
The Elderscrolls, Morrowind, and all book texts are copyright by Bethesda
This file is Copyright (c)2002 Steve Miller. All rights reserved. This file
was entirely written by me, unless otherwise noted in the Credits section of
this file. This file may NOT be posted, or sold (complete or in part), on ANY
website or media without express written consent from myself. This file May
not be altered in any way by anyone other than myself without express written
consent. If this copyright is broken, action will be taken.
=============================================================================
Section 9: Contact Information
=============================================================================
If you need to contact me you may do so at the following email address...
Stevmill [at] yahoo [dot] com
Email Rules:
Do not send spam, chain letters or anything similar
Do not ask me where a book is located, I am going to add that information in
a later revision, if you ask I will ignore your email.
Do not add me to your email address book, I have been getting tons of virus
laden messages from people that have been infected with KLEZ like viruses.
Do send information that is pertinent to this guide that you would like to
see added.
