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| | | | | |_) | | | | | \ \/ / | | | | | | | \| |
| | | | | _ < | | | | \ / | | | | | | | . ` |
| `--' | | |_) | | `----.| | \ / | | | `--' | | |\ |
\______/ |______/ |_______||__| \__/ |__| \______/ |__| \__|
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I:
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==========================================================================
This is a FAQ about the books of the Elder Scrolls IV Oblivion and it's
various offical mods including the Knights of the Nine and Shivering Isles,
where to find them, and the text that is in them.
=================================================
II:
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/ __)( _ )( \( )(_ _)( ___)( \( )(_ _)/ __)
( (__ )(_)( ) ( )( )__) ) ( )( \__ \
\___)(_____)(_)\_) (__) (____)(_)\_) (__) (___/
===================================================
I. Introduction
II. Table of Contents
III. Contacting Me
IV. Version History
V. Book FAQ
V.1 Skill Books
V.2 The Books
VI. Credits
VII. Legal Stuff
VIII. The End
========================================================================
III:
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=========================================================================
You may contact me at
[email protected] but only for the
following things.
*Errors in my guide
*Spelling Mistakes
*Suggestions
*Praise
*Contributions
*Constructive Criticism
*Asking if you can use this FAQ on your site
Things you should not email to me:
*SPAM
*Things that have nothing to do with Oblivion
*Hate Mail/Flames
*etc...
=================================================
IV:
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\ \ / /___________ _____|__| ____ ____
\ Y // __ \_ __ \/ ___/ |/ _ \ / \
\ /\ ___/| | \/\___ \| ( <_> ) | \
\___/ \___ >__| /____ >__|\____/|___| /
\/ \/ \/
___ ___ .__ __
/ | \|__| _______/ |_ ___________ ___.__.
/ ~ \ |/ ___/\ __\/ _ \_ __ < | |
\ Y / |\___ \ | | ( <_> ) | \/\___ |
\___|_ /|__/____ > |__| \____/|__| / ____|
\/ \/ \/
====================================================
Version Number: 0.1
Date Added: 07/04/07
What's New: Started
Version Number: 1.0
Date: 11/15/07
What's New: Finally got over lots of lazyness and finished it,
Everything is new.
Version Number: 1.1
Date: 11/20/07
What's New: Added Shivering Isles books
===========================================================================
V:
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| | | |__ ___ | |_) | ___ ___ | | __ | |__ / \ | | | |
| | | '_ \ / _ \ | _ < / _ \ / _ \| |/ / | __/ /\ \| | | |
| | | | | | __/ | |_) | (_) | (_) | < | | / ____ \ |__| |
|_| |_| |_|\___| |____/ \___/ \___/|_|\_\ |_|/_/ \_\___\_\
===========================================================================
As in previous Elder Scrolls games, Oblivion is full of books.
In this FAQ I will list each one, where to find most of them,
and even have what is said within them. Many of the nonmagic
books are found all over Oblivion and there is not really a
specific spot to look for them so if there is a book without
a location usually that means it is one of these. If there is
a specific location for a book and I don't have in this FAQ
feel free to Email me and I may add it into the FAQ and give
you credit for finding it.
Table of Contents
ACROBATIC BOOKS
LOLZ01 - The Black Arrow, v1
LOLZ02 - A Dance in Fire, v1
LOLZ03 - A Dance in Fire, v4
LOLZ04 - Mystery of Talara, v1
LOLZ05 - Thief
ALCHEMY BOOKS
LOLZ06 - Calcinator Treatise
LOLZ07 - De Rerum Dirennis
LOLZ08 - A Game at Dinner
LOLZ09 - Mannimarco, King of Worms
LOLZ10 - Song of the Alchemists
ALTERATION BOOKS
LOLZ11 - Daughter of the Niben
LOLZ12 - The Dragon Break
LOLZ13 - The Lunar Lorkhan
LOLZ14 - Reality & Other Falsehoods
LOLZ15 - Sithis
ARMORER BOOKS
LOLZ16 - The Armorer's Challenge
LOLZ17 - Cherim's Heart of Anequina
LOLZ18 - Heavy Armor Repair
LOLZ19 - Last Scabbard of Akrash
LOLZ20 - Light Armor Repair
ATHLETICS BOOKS
LOLZ21 - The Argonian Account, Book 1
LOLZ22 - Beggar
LOLZ23 - A Dance in Fire, v3
LOLZ24 - The Ransom of Zarek
LOLZ25 - The Red Kitchen Reader
BLADE BOOKS
LOLZ26 - 2920, Morning Star (V1)
LOLZ27 - Battle of Sancre Tor
LOLZ28 - Fire and Darkness
LOLZ29 - Song of Hrormir
LOLZ30 - Words and Philosophy
BLOCK BOOKS
LOLZ31 - A Dance in Fire, V2
LOLZ32 - Death Blow of Abernaint
LOLZ33 - The Mirror
LOLZ34 - The Warp in the West
LOLZ35 - Warrior
BLUNT BOOKS
LOLZ36 - The Importance of Where
LOLZ37 - King
LOLZ38 - The Legendary Sancre Tor
LOLZ39 - Mace Etiquette
LOLZ40 - Night Falls on Sentinal
CONJURATION BOOKS
LOLZ41 - 2920, Frostfall (v10)
LOLZ42 - 2920, Hearth Fire (V9)
LOLZ43 - The Doors of Oblivion
LOLZ44 - Liminal Bridges
LOLZ45 - Mythic Dawn Commentaries 1
LOLZ46 - The Warrior's Charge
DESTRUCTION BOOKS
LOLZ47 - The Art of War Magic
LOLZ48 - The Horrors of Castle Xyr
LOLZ49 - A Hypothetical Treachery
LOLZ50 - Mystery of Talara, v3
LOLZ51 - Mythic Dawn Commentaries 2
LOLZ52 - Response to Bero's Speech
HAND TO HAND BOOKS
LOLZ53 - Ahzirr Traajijazeri
LOLZ54 - Immortal Blood
LOLZ55 - Master Zoaraym's Tale
LOLZ56 - Way of the Exposed Palm
LOLZ57 - The Wolf Queen, V2
HEAVY ARMOR BOOKS
LOLZ58 - 2920, MidYear (V6)
LOLZ59 - Chimarvamidium
LOLZ60 - Fighters Guild History, 1st Edition/History of the Fighers Guild
LOLZ61 - Hallgerd's Tale
LOLZ62 - How Orsinium Passed to Orcs
ILLUSION BOOKS
LOLZ63 - The Argonian Account, Book 3
LOLZ64 - Incident in Necrom
LOLZ65 - Mystery of Talara, v4
LOLZ66 - Mythic Dawn Commentaries 3
LOLZ67 - Palla, Volume 1
LOLZ68 - The Wolf Queen, v3
LIGHT ARMOR BOOKS
LOLZ69 - Ice and Chitin
LOLZ70 - Lord Jornibret's Last Dance
LOLZ71 - The Rear Guard
LOLZ72 - The Refugees
LOLZ73 - Rislav The Righteous
MARKSMAN BOOKS
LOLZ74 - A Dance in Fire, v5
LOLZ75 - The Black Arrow, v2
LOLZ76 - Father of the Niben
LOLZ77 - The Gold Ribbon of Merit
LOLZ78 - Vernaccus and Bourlor
MERCANTILE BOOKS
LOLZ79 - 2920, Sun's Height (v7)
LOLZ80 - The Buying Game
LOLZ81 - A Dance in Fire, v6
LOLZ82 - A Dance in Fire, v7
LOLZ83 - Wolf Queen, v4
MYSTICISM BOOKS
LOLZ84 - 2920, Sun's Dawn (v2)
LOLZ85 - Before the Ages of Man
LOLZ86 - The Black Arts On Trial
LOLZ87 - The Firsthold Revolt
LOLZ88 - Mythic Dawn Commentaries 4
LOLZ89 - Souls, Black and White
RESTORATION BOOKS
LOLZ90 - 2920, Rain's Hand (v4)
LOLZ91 - The Exodus
LOLZ92 - Mystery of Talara, v2
LOLZ93 - Notes on Racial Phylogeny
LOLZ94 - Withershins
SECURITY BOOKS
LOLZ95 - Advances in Lock Picking
LOLZ96 - The Locked Room
LOLZ97 - Proper Lock Design
LOLZ98 - Surfeit of Thieves
LOLZ99 - The Wolf Queen, v1
SNEAK BOOKS
LOLZ100 - 2920, Last Seed (v8)
LOLZ101 - Legend of Krately House
LOLZ102 - Purloined Shadows
LOLZ103 - Sacred Witness
LOLZ104 - The Wolf Queen, v6
SPEECHCRAFT BOOKS
LOLZ105 - 2920, Second Seed (v5)
LOLZ106 - Biography of the Wolf Queen
LOLZ107 - The Wolf Queen, v5
LOLZ108 - The Wolf Queen, v7
MARKER BOOKS
LOLZ109 - Agnar's Journal
LOLZ110 - Cleansing of the Fane
LOLZ111 - Knightfall
LOLZ112 - Modern Heretics
NON-MAGICAL BOOKS
LOLZ113 - 2920, First Seed (v3)
LOLZ114 - 2920, Sun's Dusk (v11)
LOLZ115 - 2920, Evening Star (v12)
LOLZ116 - Aevar Stone-Singer
LOLZ117 - Amantius Allectus' Diary
LOLZ118 - The Amulet of Kings
LOLZ119 - Ancotar's Journal
LOLZ120 - Arcana Restored
LOLZ121 - The Argonian Account, Book 2
LOLZ122 - The Argonian Account, Book 4
LOLZ123 - Ayleid Reference Text
LOLZ124 - Azura and the Box
LOLZ125 - Beggar Prince
LOLZ126 - Bible of the Deep Ones
LOLZ127 - Biography of Barenziah, v 1
LOLZ128 - Biography of Barenziah, v 2
LOLZ129 - Biography of Barenziah, v 3
LOLZ130 - A Bloody Journal
LOLZ131 - The Book of Daedra
LOLZ132 - Brenus Astis' Journal
LOLZ133 - Brief History of the Empire v 1
LOLZ134 - Brief History of the Empire v 2
LOLZ135 - Brief History of the Empire v 3
LOLZ136 - Brief History of the Empire v 4
LOLZ137 - The Brothers of Darkness
LOLZ138 - Children of the Sky
LOLZ139 - A Children's Anuad
LOLZ140 - Dar-Ma's Diary
LOLZ141 - Darkest Darkness
LOLZ142 - Diary of Springheel Jak
LOLZ143 - Drothan's Field Journal (Mehrunes Razor)
LOLZ144 - Drothan's Journal (Mehrunes Razor)
LOLZ145 - Dwemer History and Culture
LOLZ146 - Earana's Notes
LOLZ147 - The Eastern Provinces
LOLZ148 - Fall of the Snow Prince
LOLZ149 - Feyfolken I
LOLZ150 - Feyfolken II
LOLZ151 - Feyfolken III
LOLZ152 - The Firmament
LOLZ153 - Five Songs of King Wulfharth
LOLZ154 - The Five Tenets
LOLZ155 - Followers of the Gray Fox
LOLZ156 - Fragment: On Artaeum
LOLZ157 - Frontier, Conquest
LOLZ158 - Frostcrag Spire Memoirs (Wizard's Tower)
LOLZ159 - Fundaments of Alchemy
LOZL160 - Galerion the Mystic
LOLZ161 - Gelebourne's Journal
LOLZ162 - Glories and Laments
LOLZ163 - Gods and Worship
LOLZ164 - Greywyn's Journal (Vile Lair)
LOLZ165 - Guide to Anvil
LOLZ166 - Guide to Bravil
LOLZ167 - Guide to Cheydinhal
LOLZ168 - Guide to Chorrol
LOLZ169 - Guide to the Imperial City
LOLZ170 - Guide to Leyawiin
LOLZ171 - Guide to Skingrad
LOLZ172 - Hanging Gardens
LOLZ173 - Hiding With the Shadow
LOLZ174 - History of Lock Picking
LOLZ175 - Imbel Genealogy
LOLZ176 - Journal of the Lord Lovidicus
LOLZ177 - The Knights of the Nine
LOLZ178 - The Last King of the Ayleids
LOLZ179 - The Legendary Scourge
LOLZ180 - A Less Rude Song
LOLZ181 - A Life of Uriel Septim VII
LOLZ182 - Lithnilian's Research Notes
LOLZ183 - Log of the Emma May
LOLZ184 - The Lusty Argonian Maid
LOLZ185 - Macabre Manifest
LOLZ186 - The Madness of Pelagius
LOLZ187 - Mages Guild Charter
LOLZ188 - Magic from the Sky
LOLZ189 - Manifesto Cyrodiil Vampyrum (Vile Lair)
LOLZ190 - Manual of Armor
LOLZ191 - Manual of Arms
LOLZ192 - Manual of Spellcraft
LOLZ193 - Mixed Unit Tactics
LOLZ194 - More than Mortal
LOLZ195 - Mysterious Akavir
LOLZ196 - Mystery of Talara, v 5
LOLZ197 - Mysticism
LOLZ198 - Myth or Menace?
LOLZ199 - Necromancer's Moon
LOLZ200 - N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis!
LOLZ201 - The Old Ways
LOLZ202 - On Morrowind
LOLZ203 - On Oblivion
LOLZ204 - Opusculus Lamae Bal ta Mezzamortie (Vile Lair)
LOLZ205 - Origin of the Mages Guild
LOLZ207 - Palla, Volume 2
LOLZ208 - The Path of Transcendence
LOLZ209 - Pension of the Ancestor Moth
LOLZ210 - The Pig Children
LOLZ211 - The Posting of the Hunt
LOLZ212 - Provinces of Tamriel
LOLZ213 - The Real Barenziah, v 1
LOLZ214 - The Real Barenziah, v 2
LOLZ215 - The Real Barenziah, v 3
LOLZ216 - The Real Barenziah, v 4
LOLZ217 - The Real Barenziah, v 5
LOLZ218 - The Red Book of Riddles
LOLZ219 - Remanada
LOLZ220 - Report: Disaster at Ionith
LOLZ221 - Ruins of Kemel-Ze
LOLZ222 - Rolard Nordssen
LOLZ223 - The Seed
LOLZ224 - Shezarr and the Divines (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ225 - Sir Amiel's Journal (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ226 - The Song of Pelinal, v1 (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ227 - The Song of Pelinal, v2 (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ228 - The Song of Pelinal, v3 (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ229 - The Song of Pelinal, v4 (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ230 - The Song of Pelinal, v5 (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ231 - The Song of Pelinal, v6 (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ232 - The Song of Pelinal, v7 (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ233 - The Song of Pelinal, v8 (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ234 - Spirit of the Daedra
LOLZ235 - Ten Commands: Nine Divines
LOLZ236 - Thief of Virtue
LOLZ237 - The Third Door
LOLZ238 - Tome of Unlife
LOLZ239 - Traitor's Diary
LOLZ240 - Treatise on Ayleidic Cities (Mehrunes Razor)
LOLZ241 - Trials of St. Alessia
LOLZ242 - The True Nature of Orcs
LOLZ243 - Varieties of Daedra
LOLZ244 - The Waters of Oblivion
LOLZ245 - The Wild Elves
LOLZ246 - The Wolf Queen, v8
LOLZ240A - Lord Kelvyn's Will
LOLZ240B - Lord Jaren's Journal
BLACK HORSE COURIOR (NORMAL)
(Normal Black Horse Papers can be found at
any time in many different locations ranging
from people's houses to guild halls. You can
also get them from couriors.)
LOLZ247 - Assassination!
LOLZ248 - Gray Fox, Man or Myth?
LOLZ249 - Gray Fox Unmasked!
LOLZ250 - New 'Doomstones' Series!
LOLZ251 - A New Guild for Fighters?
LOLZ252 - Night Mother Rituals!
BLACK HORSE COURIOR (TRIGGERED)
(Triggered Black Horse papers are ones
that will appear after a certain task
is done such as the compeletion of a
certain quest)
LOLZ253 - Adamus Phillida Slain!
LOLZ254 - Anvil Tarts Thwarted!
LOLZ255 - Cheydinhal Heir Saved!
LOLZ256 - Greatest Painter Safe!
LOLZ257 - New Watch Captain Named
LOLZ258 - Palace Break-In?
LOLZ259 - Pale Pass Discovery!
LOLZ260 - Poor Burdened by Taxes!
LOLZ261 - Pranks Spoils Society Gathering!
LOLZ262 - Rain of Burning Dogs!
LOLZ263 - Tragic Accident! Baenlin Dead!
LOLZ264 - Vampire Nest in the City!
LOLZ265 - Waterfront Raid Fails!
SHIVERING ISLES BOOKS
LOLZ266 - Alyssa's Journal
LOLZ267 - Brief Journal
LOLZ268 - Bark and Sap
LOLZ269 - Blessing of Sheogorath
LOLZ270 - Cindanwe's Notebook
LOLZ271 - An Elytra's Life
LOLZ272 - Fall of Vitharn
LOLZ273 - From Frog to Man
LOLZ274 - Grommok's Journal
LOLZ275 - Guide to New Sheoth
LOLZ276 - Heretical Thoughts
LOLZ277 - The Liturgy of Affliction
LOLZ278 - The Living Woods
LOLZ279 - Manual of Xedilian
LOLZ280 - Myths of Shegorath
LOLZ281 - The Predecessors
LOLZ282 - The Prophet Arden-Sul
LOLZ283 - The Ravings of Fenroy
LOLZ284 - Saints and Seducers
LOLZ285 - The Shivering Apothecary
LOLZ286 - The Shivering Bestiary
LOLZ287 - 16 Accords of Madness, v. VI
LOLZ288 - 16 Accords of Madness, v. IX
LOLZ289 - 16 Accords of Madness, v. XII
LOLZ290 - The Standing Stones
LOLZ291 - Traelius' Journal
LOLZ292 - Wabbajack
LOLZ293 - Zealotry
NOTES
(Will be added shortly)
-BOOKS BY SERIES-
~2920, THE LAST YEAR OF THE FIRST ERA~
-Morning Star (LOLZ26)
-Sun's Dawn (LOLZ84)
-First Seed (LOLZ113)
-Rain's Hand (LOLZ90)
-Second Seed (LOLZ105)
-MidYear (LOLZ58)
-Sun's Height (LOLZ79)
-Last Seed (LOLZ100)
-Hearth Fire (LOLZ42)
-Frostfall (LOLZ41)
-Sun's Desk (LOLZ114)
-Evening Star (LOLZ115)
~A DANCE IN FIRE~
-Volume 1 (LOLZ02)
-Volume 2 (LOLZ31)
-Volume 3 (LOLZ23)
-Volume 4 (LOLZ03)
-Volume 5 (LOLZ74)
-Volume 6 (LOLZ81)
-Volume 7 (LOLZ82)
~~ANCIENT TALES OF THE DWEMER~~
Book II: The Seed (LOLZ223)
Book III: The Importance of Where (LOLZ36)
Book V: Song of the Alchemists (LOLZ10)
BooK VI: Chimarvamidium (LOLZ59)
Book X: More than Mortal (LOLZ194)
Book XI: Azura and the Box (LOLZ124)
~THE ARGONIAN ACCOUNT~
-Book 1 (LOLZ21)
-Book 2 (LOLZ121)
-Book 3 (LOLZ63)
-Book 4 (LOLZ122)
~THE BLACK ARROW~
-Volume 1 (LOLZ01)
-Volume 2 (LOLZ75)
~~MYSTERY OF TALARA~
-Volume 1 (LOLZ04)
-Volume 2 (LOLZ92)
-Volume 3 (LOLZ50)
-Volume 4 (LOLZ65)
-Volume 5 (LOLZ196)
~~MYTHIC DAWN COMMENTARIES~~
-Book 1 (LOLZ45)
-Book 2 (LOLZ51)
-Book 3 (LOLZ66)
-Book 4 (LOLZ88)
~~PALLA~~
-Book 1 (LOLZ67)
-Book 2 (LOLZ207)
~~STORY OF ESLAF EROL~~
-Beggar (LOLZ22)
-Thief (LOLZ04)
-Warrior (LOLZ35)
-King (LOLZ37)
~~THE WOLF QUEEN~~
-Volume 1 (LOLZ99)
-Volume 2 (LOLZ57)
-Volume 3 (LOLZ68)
-Volume 4 (LOLZ83)
-Volume 5 (LOLZ107)
-Volume 6 (LOLZ104)
-Volume 7 (LOLZ108)
-Volume 8 (LOLZ246)
Template:
(Search Code: Enter this code using Control F while using the table of
contents above to quickly find what you need or want.
Book Name: The Title of the Book
Character that "wrote it": It's ingame author
ID: The PC plays of this game can use this ID to create a copy of the book
whereever they are. For ID's that start with xx that means they are books
that come from one of the official mods and the xx will stand for what
number the mod is. If it is the first mod you installed the xx will be 01
and so on until the 9th mod which is 09. After that it gets a little tricky
as with the 10th mod the xx becomes 1A.
Where It can be Found: Where you can find the book. (Will be added soon)
It's Text: The text of the book so you can read it at your computer instead
of while playing the game.
======ACROBATICS BOOKS======
(Search Code: LOLZ01)
~~The Black Arrow, v1~~
Gorgic Guine
Item ID: 000243CD
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ02)
~~A Dance in Fire, v1~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 000243CB
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 1
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.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ03)
~~A Dance in Fire, v4~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 000243CC
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 4
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</pre><pre id="faqspan-2">
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ04)
~~Mystery of Talara, v1~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 000243CE
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ05)
~~Thief~~
Reven
Item ID: 000243CA
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If the reader has not yet had the pleasure of reading the first volume in
these series on the life of Eslaf Erol, 'Beggar,' he should close this book
immediately, for I shan't recap.
I will tell you this much, gentle reader. When we last saw Eslaf, he was a
boy, an orphan, a failed beggar, running through the wildy winter woods of
Skyrim, away from his home of Erolgard. He continued running, stopping here
and there, for many more years, until he was a young man.
Eslaf discovered that among the ways of getting food, asking for it was the
most troublesome. Far easier was finding it in the wilderness, or taking it
from unguarded market stalls. The only thing worse than begging to get food
was begging for the opportunity to work for the money to buy it. That seemed
needlessly complicated.
No, as far as Eslaf was concerned, he was best off being a scavenger, a
beggar, and a thief.
He commited his first act of thievery shortly after leaving Erolgard, while in
the southern woods of Tamburkar in the rugged land near Mount Jensen just east
of the village of Hoarbeld. Eslaf was starving, having not eaten anything but
a rather scrawny raw squirrel in four days, and he smelled meat cooking and
then found the smoke. A band of minstral bards was making camp. He watched
them from the bushes as they cooked, and joked, and flirted, and sang.
He could've asked them for some food, but so many others had refused him
before. Instead, he rushed out, grabbed a piece of meat from the fire, and
wincing from the burns, scrambled up the nearest tree to devour it while the
bards stood under him and laughed.
'What is your next move, thief?' giggled a fair, red-headed woman who was
covered with tattoos. 'How do you intend to disappear without us catching and
punishing you?'
As the hunger subsided, Eslaf realized she was right. The only way to get out
of the tree without falling in their midst was to take the branch down to
where it hung over a creek. It was a drop off a cliff of about fifty feet.
That seemed like the wisest strategy, so Eslaf began crawling in that
direction.
'You do know how to fall, boy?' called out a young Khajiiti, but a few years
older than Eslaf, thin but muscular, graceful in his slightest movements. 'If
you don't, you should just climb down here and take what's coming to you. It's
idiotic to break your neck, when we'd just give you some bruises and send you
on your way.'
'Of course I know how to fall,' Eslaf called back, but he didn't. He just
thought the trick of falling was to have nothing underneath you, and let
nature take its course. But fifty feet up, when you're looking down, is enough
to give anyone pause.
'I'm sorry to doubt your abilities, Master Thief,' said the Khajiiti,
grinning. 'Obviously you know to fall feet first with your body straight but
loose to avoid cracking like an egg. It seems you are destined to escape us.'
Eslaf wisely followed the Khajiiti's hints, and leapt into the river, falling
without much grace but without hurting himself. In the years that followed, he
had to make several more drops from even greater heights, usually after a
theft, sometimes without water beneath him, and he improved the basic
technique.
When he arrived in the western town of Jallenheim on the morning of his
twenty-first birthday, it didn't take him long to find out who was the richest
person, most deserving of being burgled. An impregnable palace in a park near
the center of town was owned by a mysterious young man named Suoibud. Eslaf
wasted no time in finding the palace and watching it. A fortified palace he
had come to learn was like a person, with quirks and habits beneath its hard
shell.
It was not an old place, evidently whatever money this Suoibud had come into
was fairly recent. It was regularly patrolled by guards, implying that the
rich man was fearful of been burgled, with good reason. The most distinctive
feature of the palace was its tower, rising a hundred feet above the stone
walls, doubtless giving the occupant a good defensive view. Eslaf guessed that
that if Suoibud was as paranoid as he guessed him to be, the tower would also
provide a view of the palace storehouse. The rich man would want to keep an
eye on his fortune. That meant that the loot couldn't be directly beneath the
tower, but somewhere in the courtyard within the walls.
The light in the tower shone all night long, so Eslaf boldly decided that the
best time to burgle was by the light of day, when Suoibud must sleep. That
would be the time the guards would least expect a thief to pounce.
And so, when the noon sun was shining over the palace, Eslaf quickly scaled
the wall near the front gate and waited, hidden in the crenelations. The
interior courtyard was plain and desolate, with few places to hide, but he saw
that there were two wells. One the guards used from time to time to draw up
water and slake their thirst, but Eslaf noticed that guards would pass by the
other well, never using it.
He waited until the guards were distracted, just for a second, by the arrival
of a merchant in a wagon, bearing goods for the palace. While they were
searching his wagon, Eslaf leapt, elegantly, feet first, from the wall into
the well.
It was not a particularly soft landing for, as Eslaf had guessed, the well was
not full of water, but gold. Still, he knew how to roll after a fall, and he
didn't hurt himself. In the dank subterranean storehouse, he stuffed his
pockets with gold and was about to go to the door which he assumed would lead
to the tower when he noticed a gem the size of an apple, worth more than all
the gold that was left. Eslaf found room for it down his pants.
The door did indeed lead to the tower, and Eslaf followed its curving
stairwell up, walking quietly but quickly. At the top, he found the master of
the palace's private quarters, ornate and cold, with invaluable artwork and
decorative swords and shields on the walls. Eslaf assumed the snoring lump
under the sheets was Suoibud, but he didn't investigate too closely. He crept
to the windows and looked out.
It was going to be a difficult fall, for certes. He needed to jump from the
tower, past the walls, and hit the tree on the other side. The tree branches
would hurt, but they would break his fall, and there was a pile of hay he had
left under the tree to prevent further injury.
Eslaf was about to leap when the occupant of the room woke up with a start,
yelling, 'My gem!'
Eslaf and stared at him for a second, wide-eyed. They looked alike. Not
surprising, since they were brothers.
Eslaf Erol's story is continued in the book 'Warrior.'
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~~ALCHEMY BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ06)
~~Calcinator Treatise~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00073A5F
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Argonian alchemists of the Black Marsh have long held that the phases of the
moon dictate the precise positioning of the Calcinator. During the full moon,
the Calcinator should face due South, aligned with the Southron pole star. It
is well known that the Southron pole star is slightly offset from true south.
The diligent Alchemist will refer to star charts for the specific day and time
to more precisely align the Calcinator.
For each night of the phases of the moon after full, the Calcinator should be
rotated clockwise one twenty-eighth of a circle. If the Alchemist is closer to
the Southron pole star than the Northern Sisters, he should rotate it counter-
clockwise instead. Set the device where the moonlight is shining on half of
it. Of course, if it is a new moon, the Calcinator should be fully exposed
instead.
Proper alignment of the Calcinator will create one part in forty-seven more
purity of the distillate. Obviously this is a highly desired attribute, even
though the effect may not be that noticeable.
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(Search Code: LOLZ07)
~~De Rerum Dirennis~~
Vorian Direnni
Item ID: 000243D2
It is found on a shelf on the second floor of All Things Alchemical.
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I am six-hundred-and-eleven years old. I have never had children of my own,
but I have many nieces and nephews and cousins who have been raised with the
tales and traditions of our ancient, illustrious, and occasionally notorious
clan, the Direnni. Few families in Tamriel can boast so many famous figures,
wielding so much power over the fate of so many. Our warriors and kings are
stuff of legend, and it is not to dismiss their honor and their achievements
to say you have heard quite enough about them.
I myself have never picked up a sword or written an important law, but I am
part of a lesser known but still important Direnni tradition: the way of the
wizard. My own autobiography would be of little interest to posterity — though
my nephew, nieces, and cousins indulge me to tell wild tales of life in the
chaotic Second Era of Tamriel — but I have a few ancestors whose stories
should be told. They may have changed history as we know it as dramatically as
my better known relatives, but their names are in danger of being forgotten.
Most recently, Lysandus, the King of Daggerfall, was able to conquer his
ancient enemies of Sentinel in part thanks to his court sorceress, Medora
Direnni. Her grandfather Jovron Direnni was Imperial Battlemage to the court
of the Dunmer Empress of Tamriel, Katariah, assisting her in creating peace in
a time of turmoil. His great great grandfather Pelladil Direnni had a similar
role with the first Potentate, and encouraged the Guild Act without which we
would not have all the professional organizations we have today. His ancestor,
many times back, was the witch Raven Direnni, who with her better known
cousins Aiden and Ryain, brought an end to the tyranny of the latter Alessian
Empire. Before the Psijics of Artaeum, it is said, she created the art of
enchantment, learning how to bind a soul into a gem and use that to ensorcel
all manners of weaponry.
But it is the story of an ancestor even more ancient, more distant than Raven
I wish to tell.
Asliel Direnni harkens back to the humble beginnings of our clan, in the tiny
farming village of Tyrigel on the banks of the river Caomus which was then
called the Diren, hence the family name. Like all on Summurset Isle in those
days, he was a simple planter of the fields. But while others only grew enough
to sustain their immediate kin, even distant cousins of the Dirennis worked
together. They would decide as a group which fields were best for wheat,
orchard, vine, livestock, or apiary, and thereby always have the best yields
of any farm which worked alone, doing the best as it could with what it had.
Asliel had a particularly poor farm for most kind of agriculture, but small
herbs found its stony, loamless, acidic soil very comfortable. Out of
necessity more than anything else he became an expert on all manners of herbs.
For the most part, of course, they were used in flavoring cooking, but as you
know, hardly any plant grows on the surface of our world without a magickal
potential.
Even so long ago, witches already were in existence. It would be ridiculous
for me to suggest that Asliel Direnni invented alchemy. What he did, what we
can all be grateful for, is that he formulated it into an art and science.
There were no witches' covens in Tyrigel, and, of course, there would be no
Mages Guild yet for thousands of years, so people would come to him for cures.
He learned for himself the exact formula for combining black lichen and
roobrush to create a cure for all manners of poison, and the amount of willow
anther to crush and mix with chokeweed to cure diseases.
There were few much greater threats in Tyrigel in those peaceful days than
disease or accidental poisonings. Yes, there were some dark forces in the
wilderness, trolls, chimera, the occasional malevolent fairy folk and Will-O-
the-Wisp, but even the youngest, most foolish Altmer knew how to avoid them.
There were, however, a few unusual threats which Asliel had a hand in
defeating.
One of the tales told of him that I believe to be true is how he was brought a
young niece who had been suffering from an unknown disease. Despite his
ministrations, she grew weaker and weaker every morning. Finally, he gave her
a bitter tasting drink, and the next morning, ashes were found all around her
bed. A vampire had been feeding on the poor girl, but Asliel's potion had
turned her very blood into poison, without harming her in the least.
If only this formula had not been lost in the mists of history!
This would have been enough to make him a minor but significant figure in the
annals of early Summurset, but at that point in history, a barbarian tribe
called the Locvar had found their way down the Diren River, and recognized
Tyrigel as a rich target for raids. The Direnni, not being warriors yet but
simple farmers, were helpless and could only flee and watch the Locvar take
the best of their crops, raid after raid.
Asliel, however, had been experimenting with the vampire dust, and brought his
cousins to him with a plan. The next time the Locvar were sighted on the
Diren, the word went out and all the most able-bodied came to Asliel's
laboratory. When the barbarians arrived in Tyrigel, they found the farms
deserted, and assumed that all had fled as usual. As they set about stealing
the bounty, they suddenly found themselves under attack by invisible forces.
Believing the Direnni farms to be haunted, they ran away very quickly.
They attempted a few more raids, for their greed would always eventually
overpower their fear, and each time, they were set upon by attackers who they
could not see. As barbaric as they were, they were not stupid, and they
changed their mind about the source of their defeat. It could not be that the
farms were haunted, because the crops were still being tended and harvested,
and the animals seemed to show no fear. The Locvar decided to send a scout to
the farm to see if he could spy their secrets.
The scout sent word back to the Locvar that the Direnni farms were populated
with flesh and blood, entirely visible Altmer. He continued to watch as his
barbarian cohorts moved down the river, and he saw the elderly and children
flee for the hills, while the able-bodied farmers and their wives went to
Asliel's laboratory. He saw them go in; he saw no one come out.
As usual, the Locvar were repelled by invisible forces, but their scout soon
told them what he saw happening in the laboratory.
The next night, two of the Locvar approached Asliel's farm very stealthily,
and managed to kidnap him without alerting the rest of the Direnni. The Locvar
chieftain, knowing that the farmers could no longer count on the alchemist to
make them invisible, considered an immediate attack on the farms. But he was a
vengeful sort, and felt he had been humiliated by these simple farmers. A
crafty plan emerged in his mind. What if the Direnni, who always saw his
barbarian tribe coming, for once did not? Imagine the slaughter if no one even
had a chance to flee.
The scout had told the chieftain that Asliel had used the dust of a vampire to
make the farmers invisible, but he was not sure what the other ingredient had
been. He described an incandescent powder that Asliel had mixed into the dust.
Asliel, of course, refused to help the Locvar, but they were experts in
torture as well as pillage, and he knew he would have to talk or die.
Finally after hours of torture, he agreed to tell them what the incandescent
powder was. He did not know the name, but he called it "Glow Dust," the only
remains of a slain Will-O-The-Wisp. He told them they would need a lot of it
if they wanted to turn the whole tribe invisible for the raid.
The Locvar grumbled that not only did they have to find and kill a vampire to
attain his dust, but find and kill several Will-O-The-Wisps to get theirs. In
a few days time, they came back with the ingredients the alchemist asked for.
The chieftain, not being a complete idiot, made Asliel taste the potion first.
He did as he was told and turned invisible, demonstrating that it did truly
work. The chieftain put him to work creating more. No one apparently noticed
that while he did, he was nibbling on black lichen and roobrush.
The Locvar took the potion as he doled it out, and soon, but not too soon that
they didn't suffer, they were all dead.
The scout who had seen Asliel mixing the invisibility potion had apparently
mistook the glow of the candlelight in the laboratory for an incandescence
which the second ingredient of the invisibility potion did not possess. The
second ingredient was actually dull, simple redwort, one of the most common
herbs in Tamriel. When they had insisted during torture that Asliel tell them
what the incandescent powder was, Asliel remembered that he had once
experimentally mixed glow dust and vampire dust together once and created a
powerful poison. It was simple enough to steal a little redwort from the
barbarian's camp, mix that with the vampire and glow dust mixture, and create
a potion that was in fact an invisibility poison. After curing himself, he
gave the poison to the barbarians.
The Locvar, being dead, never again raided the Direnni farms, and having no
other enemies, they were able to grow more and more prosperous and powerful.
Generations later, they left Summurset and began their historic adventures on
the Tamriel mainland. Asliel Direnni, because of his excellence as an
alchemist, was invited to Artaeum and became a Psijic. It is not known how
many more of the common formulas we know today were invented by him there, but
I have no doubt, the science and art of alchemy as we know it today would not
exist without him.
But that is all in the distant past. Asliel's innovations, like my modest
ones, like the achievements of the Dirennis throughout history, are but a
stepping stone to the wonders which will come in the future. I wish I could be
there to witness them, but if I can only share some of the past with the
children of Direnni and the children of Tamriel, then I will consider my life
well spent.
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(Search Code: LOLZ08)
~~A Game at Dinner~~
An Anonymous Spy
Item ID: 000243CF
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ09)
~~Mannimarco, King of Worms~~
Horicles
Item ID: 000243D0
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O sacred isle Artaeum, where rosy light infuses air,
O'er towers and through flowers, gentle breezes flow,
Softly sloping green-kissed cliffs to crashing foam below,
Always springtide afternoon housed within its border,
This mystic, mist-protected home of the Psijic Order:
Those counselors of kings, cautious, wise, and fair.
Ten score years and thirty since the mighty Remans fell,
Two brilliant students studied within the Psijics' fold.
One's heart was light and warm, the other dark and cold.
The madder latter, Mannimarco, whirled in a deathly dance,
His soul in bones and worms, the way of the necromance.
Entrapping and enslaving souls, he cast a wicked spell.
The former, Galerion had magic bold and bright as day.
He confronted Mannimarco beneath gray Ceporah Tower,
Saying, 'Your wicked mysticism is no way to wield your power,
Bringing horror to the spirit world, your studies must cease.'
Mannimarco scoffed, hating well the ways of life and peace,
And returned to his dark artistry; his paints, death and decay.
O sacred isle Artaeum, how slow to perceive the threat,
When the ghastly truth revealed, how weak the punishment.
The ghoulish Mannimarco from the isle of the wise was sent
To the mainland Dawn's Beauty, more death and souls to reap.
'You have found a wolf, and sent the beast to flocks of sheep,'
Galerion told his Masters, 'A terror on Tamriel has set.'
'Speak no more of him,' the sage Cloaks of Gray did say.
'Twas not the first time Galerion thought his Masters callous,
Unconcerned for men and mer, aloof in their island palace.
'Twas not the first time Galerion thought 'twas time to build
A new Order to bring true magic to all, a mighty Mages Guild.
But 'twas the time he left, at last, fair Artaeum's azure bay.
O, but sung we have of Vanus Galerion many times before,
How cast he off the Psijics' chains, bringing magic to the land.
Throughout the years, he saw the touch of Mannimarco's hand,
Through Tamriel's deserts, forests, towns, mountains, and seas.
The dark grip stretching out, growing like some dread disease
By his dark Necromancers, collecting cursed artifacts of yore.
They brought to him these tools, mad wizards and witches,
And brought blood-tainted herbs and oils to his cave of sin,
Sweet Akaviri poison, dust from saints, sheafs of human skin,
Toadstools, roots, and much more cluttered his alchemical shelf,
Like a spider in his web, he sucked all their power into himself,
Mannimarco, Worm King, world's first of the undying liches.
Corruption on corruption, 'til the rot sunk to his very core,
Though he kept the name Mannimarco, his body and his mind
Were but a living, moving corpse as he left humanity behind.
The blood in his veins became instead a poison acid stew.
His power and his life increased as his fell collection grew .
Mightiest were these artifacts, long cursed since days of yore.
They say Galerion left the Guild, calling it 'a morass,'
But untruth is a powerful stream, polluting the river of time.
Galerion beheld Mannimarco's rise through powers sublime,
To his mages and Lamp Knights, 'Before my last breath,
Face I must the tyranny of worms, and kill at last, undeath.'
He led them north to cursed lands, to a mountain pass.
O those who survived the battle say its like was never seen.
Armored with magicka, armed with ensorcelled sword and axe,
Galerion cried, echoing, 'Worm King, surrender your artifacts,
And their power to me, and you shall live as befits the dead.'
A hollow laugh answered, 'You die first,' Mannimarco said.
The mage army then clashed with the unholy force obscene.
Imagine waves of fire and frost, and the mountain shivers,
Picture lightning arching forth, crackling in a dragon's sigh.
Like leaves, the battlemages fly to rain down from the sky,
At the Necromancers' call, corpses burst from earth to fight,
To be shattered into nothingness with a flood of holy light.</pre><pre id="faqspan-3">
A maelstrom of energy unleashed, blood cascades in rivers.
Like a thunderburst in blue skies or a lion's sudden roar,
Like sharp razors tearing over delicate embroidered lace,
So at a touch did Galerion shake the mountain to its base.
The deathly horde fell fatally, but heeding their dying cries
From the depths, the thing they called Worm King did rise.
Nirn itself did scream in the Mages' and Necromancers' war
His eyes burning dark fire, he opened his toothless maw,
Vomiting darkness with each exhalation of his breath,
All sucking in the fetid air felt the icy touch of death.
In the skies above the mountain, darkness overcame pale,
Then Mannimarco Worm King felt his dismal powers fail:
The artifacts of death pulled from his putrid skeletal claw.
A thousand good and evil perished then, history confirms.
Among, alas, Vanus Galerion, he who showed the way,
It seemed once that Mannimarco had truly died that day.
Scattered seemed the Necromancers, wicked, ghastly fools,
Back to the Mages Guild, victors kept the accursed tools,
Of him, living still in undeath, Mannimarco, King of Worms.
Children, listen as the shadows cross your sleeping hutch,
And the village sleeps away, streets emptied of the crowds,
And the moons do balefully glare through the nightly clouds,
And the graveyard's people rest, we hope, in eternal sleep,
Listen and you'll hear the whispered tap of the footsteps creep,
Then pray you'll never feel the Worm King's awful touch.
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(Search Code: LOLZ10)
~~Song of the Alchemists~~
Marobar Sul
Item ID: 000243D1
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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.
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~~ALTERATION BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ11)
~~Daughter of the Niben~~
Sathyr Longleat
Item ID: 000243D4
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Bravil is one of the most charming towns in Cyrodiil, sparkling in her simple
beauty, illustrious by her past. No visit to the southern part of the Imperial
Province is complete without a walk along Bravil's exciting river port, a talk
with her friendly native children, and, of course, in the tradition of the
village, a whispered word to the famous statue of the Lucky Old Lady.
Many thousands of years before the arrival of the Atmorans, the native Ayleid
people had long lived in the vicinity of modern day Bravil. The Niben then, as
now, provided food and transportation, and the village was even more populous
than it is today. We are not certain what they called their region: as insular
as they were, the word they used would be translated to simply mean "home."
These savage Ayleids were so firmly entrenched that the Bravil region was one
of the very last areas to be liberated by the Alessian army in the second
century of the 1st era. Though little remains of that era culturally or
archeologically, thank Mara, the tales of debauchery and depravity have
entered into the realm of legends.
How the Ayleids were able to survive such a long siege is debated by scholars
to this day. All, however, grant the honor of the victory to one of the
Empress Alessia's centurions, a man called Teo Bravillius Tasus, the man for
whom the modern town is named.
It was said he invaded the village no less than four times, after heavy
resistance, but each time upon the morning dawning, all his soldiery within
would be dead, murdered. By the time more centuria had arrived, the fortified
town was repopulated with Ayleids. After the second successful invasion,
secret underground tunnels were found and filled in, but once again, come
morning, the soldiers were again dead, and the citizens had returned. After
the third successful siege, legions were posted outside of the town, watching
the roads and riverway for signs of attacks, but no one came. The next
morning, the bodies of the invading soldiers were thrown from the parapets of
town's walls.
Teo Bravillius Tasus knew that the Ayleids must be hiding themselves somewhere
in the town, waiting until nightfall, and then murdering the soldiers while
they slept. The question was where. After the fourth invasion, he himself led
the soldiers in a thorough inspection of every corner, every shadow. Just as
they were ready to give up, the great centurion noticed two curious things.
High in the sheer walls of the town, beyond anyone's ability to climb, there
were indentations, narrow platforms. And by the river just inside the town, he
discovered a single footprint from someone clearly not wearing the Imperial
boot.
The Ayleids, it seemed, had taken two routes to hide themselves. Some had
levitated up to the walls and hidden themselves high above, and others had
slipped into the river, where they were able to breathe underwater. It was a
relatively easy task once the strange elves' even stranger hiding holes had
been discovered to rout them out, and see to it that there were no more
midnight assassinations of the Empress's troops.
It may seem beyond belief that an entire community could be so skilled in
these spells hundreds and hundreds of years before the Mages Guild was formed
to teach the ways of magicka to the common folk. There does, however, appear
to be evidence that, just as the Psijics on the Isle of Artaeum developed
Mysticism long before there was a name for it, the even more obscure Ayleids
of southern Cyrodiil had developed what was to be known as the school of
Alteration. It is not, after all, much of a stretch when one considers that
other Ayleids at the time of Bravil's conquering and even later were
shapeshifters. The community of pre-Bravil could not turn into beasts and
monsters, but they could alter their bodies to hide themselves away. A related
and useful skill, to be sure. But not so effective to save themselves in the
end.
Very little is left of the Ayleid presence in Bravil of today, though
archetectural marvels of other kinds are very evident. As beautiful and
arresting as the Benevolence of Mara cathedral and the lord's palace are, no
manmade structure in Bravil is as famous as the statue called The Lucky Old
Lady.
The tales about the Lady and who she was are too numerous to list.
It was said she was born the illegitimate daughter of a prostitute in Bravil,
certainly an inauspicious beginning to a lucky life. She was teased by the
other children, who forever asked her who her father was. Every day, she would
run back to her little shack in tears from their cruelty.
One day, a priest of Stendarr came to Bravil to do charitable work. He saw the
weeping little girl, and when asked, she told him the cause of her misery: she
didn't know who her father was.
"You have kind eyes and a mouth that tells no lies," replied the priest after
a moment, smiling. "You are clearly a child of Stendarr, the God of Mercy,
Charity, and Well-Earned Luck."
The priest's thoughtful words changed the girl forever. Whenever she was asked
who her father was, she would cheerfully reply, "I am a child of Luck."
She grew up to be a barmaid, it was said, kind and generous to her customers,
frequently allowing them to pay when they were able to. On a particularly
rainy night, she gave shelter to a young man dressed in rags, who not only had
no money to pay, but was belligerent and rude to her as she fed him and gave
him a room. The next morning, he left without so much as a thank you. Her
friends and family admonished her, saying that she had to be careful, he might
have even been dangerous.
A week later, a royal carriage arrived in Bravil, with an Imperial prince
within. Though he was scarcely reconizable, it was the same young man the Lady
had helped. He apologized profusely for his appearance and behavior,
explaining that he had been kidnapped and cursed by a band of witches, and it
wasn't until later he had returned to his senses. The Lady was showered with
riches, which she, of course, generously shared with all the people of Bravil,
where she lived to a content old age.
No one knows when the statue to her was erected in the town square, or who the
artist was, but it has stood there for thousands of years, since the first
era. To this day, visitors and Bravillians alike go to the Lucky Old Lady to
ask for her to bless them with luck in their travails.
Just one more charming aspect of the charming, and very lucky village of
Bravil.
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(Search Code: LOLZ12)
~~The Dragon Break~~
Fal Droon
Item ID: 000243D5
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ13)
~~The Lunar Lorkhan~~
Fal Droon
Item ID: 000243D8
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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).
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(Search Code: LOLZ14)
~~Reality & Other Falsehoods~~
Item ID: 00073A69
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It is easy to confuse Illusion and Alteration. Both schools of magic attempt
to create what is not there. The difference is in the rules of nature.
Illusion is not bound by them, while Alteration is. This may seem to indicate
that Alteration is the weaker of the two, but this is not true. Alteration
creates a reality that is recognized by everyone. Illusion's reality is only
in the mind of the caster and the target.
To master Alteration, first accept that reality is a falsehood. There is no
such thing. Our reality is a perception of greater forces impressed upon us
for their amusement. Some say that these forces are the gods, other that they
are something beyond the gods. For the wizard, it doesn't really matter. What
matters is the appeal couched in a manner that cannot be denied. It must be
insistent without being insulting.
To cast Alteration spells is to convince a greater power that it will be
asier to change reality as requested than to leave it alone. Do not assume
that these forces are sentient. Our best guess is that they are like wind and
water. Persistent but not thoughtful. Just like directing the wind or water,
diversions are easier than outright resistance. Express the spell as a subtle
change and it is more likely to be successful.
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(Search Code: LOLZ15)
~~Sithis~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 000243D6
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ16)
~~The Armorer's Challenge~~
Mymophonus
Item ID: 000243D9
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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, 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. He 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 to a keen sharp
enough to trim a mosquito's eyebrows, and 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 in the arena in the Imperial City with an audience of the
Empress and the Imperial Council two hours later. From the moment Saccus saw
Eul in his suit of shining ebony and dai-katana blazing and Beraid in his
collection of dusty, rusted merchandise from Hazadir's shop, he knew who would
win. And he was right.
The first blow from the dai-katana lodged in the soft shield, as there was no
metal trim to deflect it. Before l could pull his sword back, Beraid lashed
out with his long sword at the weak points in the armor, it was the perfect
weapon to perforate the joints. Eul retrieved his sword and slashed at Beraid
but his armor was scaled and angled, and the attacks rolled off like water.
When Eul's armor began to fall off, the Empress and Council, 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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(Search Code: LOLZ17)
~~Cherim's Heart of Anequina~~
Livillus Perus, Professor at the Imperial University
Item ID: 000243DC
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ18)
~~Heavy Armor Repair~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00073A68
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Heavy armor must be designed to take a lot of punishment. It will receive
direct blows from all sorts of weapons while protecting the wearer. Such armor
tends to be made from a few large pieces rather than lots of small pieces like
light armor.
Iron and steel are easy to work. Just heat them up and pound them back into
shape. You can even use a camp fire for field repairs. Avoid filing off any of
the metal. Always try to conserve the metal and work it back into shape.
If a piece needs a lot of hammering, it may become brittle. Reheating the
armor every now and then can reduce the brittleness after severe repairs. Once
the hammering is done, be sure to oil it well. The freshly hammered surfaces
will rust more quickly and need to be protected.
Dwarven and Orcish armor require small and large hammers. Heat should be used
sparingly, particularly with Orcish. Both types respond better to many small
hammer strokes rather than fewer heavy strokes.
Ebony can only be hammered when heated. It will develop small cracks that
eventually shatter the material if hammered cold. Daedric should always be
worked on at night... ideally under a new or full moon, and never during an
eclipse. A red harvest moon is best.
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(Search Code: LOLZ19)
~~Last Scabbard of Akrash~~
Tabar Vunqidh
Item ID: 000243DA
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ20)
~~Light Armor Repair~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00073A67
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There are two classes of light armor, metallic and non-metallic. Chainmail,
Elven, Mithril and Glass are all examples of metallic light armor. You may be
surprised to think that Glass can be thought of as metallic, but appearances
are deceiving. What we call Glass is nothing like the windows panes you see in
houses. The greenish material is far stronger and has a much higher melting
point.
Non-metallic armors are Fur and Leather. For these armor types, the hammer is
less useful than the sewing kit. A sharp awl is necessary to restitch the
thick material. Holes frequently have to be patched with spare material. The
rule of thumb is once you have to patch a patch, it's time to throw out the
armor and get a new set.
Metallic armor will occasionally need a patch. Usually it can be repaired by
hammering the torn pieces back together. Elven and Mithril will repair better
when heated. Chainmail is usually malleable enough to work on cold.
The trickiest of all is Glass. Hammer blows struck across the grain run the
risk of shattering the armor. Whenever possible, allign the hammer blows with
the grain. In extreme cases, place the armor in tub of oil. Place the anvil so
that the affected piece is on the anvil, but just under the oil. Vibrations
from the hammer blows are absorbed by the oil and less likely to shatter the
Glass.
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~~ATHLETIC BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ21)
~~The Argonian Account, Book 1~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 000243E2
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On a minor but respectable plaza in the Imperial City sat, or perhaps lounged,
Lord Vanech's Building Commission. It was an unimaginative, austere building
not noted so much for its aesthetic or architectural design as for its
prodigious length. If any critics wondered why such an unornamented, extended
erection held such fascination for Lord Vanech, they kept it to themselves.
In the 398th year of the 3rd Era, Decumus Scotti was a senior clerk at the
Commission.
It had been a few months since the shy, middle-aged man had brought Lord
Vanech the most lucrative of all contracts, granting the Commission the
exclusive right to rebuild the roads of Valenwood which had been destroyed in
the Five Year War. For this, he had become the darling of the managers and the
clerks, spending his days recounting his adventures, more or less
faithfully... although he did omit the ending of the tale, since many of them
had partaken in the celebratory Unthrappa roast provided by the Silenstri.
Informing one's listeners that they've gorged on human flesh improves very few
stories of any good taste.
Scotti was neither particularly ambitious nor hard-working, so he did not mind
that Lord Vanech had not given him anything to actually do.
Whenever the squat little gnomish man would happen upon Decumus Scotti in the
offices, Lord Vanech would always say, "You're a credit to the Commission.
Keep up the good work."
In the beginning, Scotti had worried that he was supposed to be doing
something, but as the months went on, he merely replied, "Thank you. I will."
There was, on the other hand, the future to consider. He was not a young man,
and though he was receiving a respectable salary for someone not doing actual
work, Scotti considered that soon he might have to retire and not get paid for
not doing work. It would be nice, he decided, if Lord Vanech, out of gratitude
for the millions of gold the Valenwood contract was generating, might deign to
make Scotti a partner. Or at least give him a small percentage of the bounty.
Decumus Scotti was no good at asking for things like that, which was one of
the reasons why, previous to his signal successes in Valenwood as a senior
clerk for Lord Atrius, he was a lousy agent. He had just about made up his
mind to say something to Lord Vanech, when his lordship unexpectedly pushed
things along.
"You're a credit to the Commission," the waddling little thing said, and then
paused. "Do you have a moment free on your schedule?"
Scotti nodded eagerly, and followed his lordship to his hideously decorated
and very enviable hectare of office space.
"Zenithar blesses us for your presence at the Commission," the little fellow
squeaked grandly. "I don't know whether you know this, but we were having a
bad time before you came along. We had impressive projects, for certain, but
they were not successful. In Black Marsh, for example, for years we've been
trying to improve the roads and other routes of travel for commerce. I put my
best man, Flesus Tijjo, on it, but every year, despite staggering investments
of time and money, the trade along those routes only gets slower and slower.
Now, we have your very clean, very, very profitable Valenwood contract to
boost the Commission's profits. I think it's time you were rewarded."
Scotti grinned a grin of great modesty and subtle avarice.
"I want you to take over the Black Marsh account from Flesus Tijjo."
Scotti shook as if awaking from a pleasant dream to hideous reality, "My Lord,
I - I couldn't -"
"Nonsense," chirped Lord Vanech. "Don't worry about Tijjo. He will be happy to
retire on the money I give him, particularly as soul-wrenchingly difficult as
this Black Marsh business has been. Just your sort of a challenge, my dear
Decumus."
Scotti couldn't utter a sound, though his mouth feebly formed the word "No" as
Lord Vanech brought out the box of documentation on Black Marsh.
"You're a fast reader," Lord Vanech guessed. "You can read it all en route."
"En route to ..."
"Black Marsh, of course," the tiny fellow giggled. "You are a funny chap.
Where else would you go to learn about the work that's being done, and how to
improve it?"
The next morning, the stack of documentation hardly touched, Decumus Scotti
began the journey south-east to Black Marsh. Lord Vanech had hired an able-
bodied guard, a rather taciturn Redguard named Mailic, to protect his best
agent. They rode south along the Niben, and then south-east along the
Silverfish, continuing on into the wilds of Cyrodiil, where the river
tributaries had no names and the very vegetation seemed to come from another
world than the nice, civilized gardens of the northern Imperial Province.
Scotti's horse was tied to Mailic's, so the clerk was able to read. It made it
difficult to pay attention to the path they were taking, but Scotti knew he
needed at least a cursory familiarity with the Commission's business dealings
in Black Marsh.
It was a huge box of paperwork going back forty years, when the Commission had
first been given several million in gold by a wealthy trader, Lord Xellicles
Pinos-Revina, to improve the condition of the road from Gideon to Cyrodiil. At</pre><pre id="faqspan-4">
that time, it took three weeks, a preposterously long time, for the rice and
root he was importing to arrive, half-rotten, in the Imperial Province. Pinos-
Revina was long dead, but many other investors over the decades, including
Pelagius IV himself, had hired the Commission to build roads, drain swamps,
construct bridges, devise anti-smuggling systems, hire mercenaries, and, in
short, do everything that the greatest Empire in history knew would work to
aid trade with Black Marsh. According to the latest figures, the result of
this was that it took two and a half months for goods, now thoroughly rotten,
to arrive.
Scotti found that when he looked up after concentrating on what he was
reading, the landscape had always changed. Always dramatically. Always for the
worse.
"This is Blackwood, sir," said Mailic to Scotti's unspoken question. It was
dark and woodsy, so Decumus Scotti thought that a very appropriate name.
The question he longed to ask, which in due course he did ask, was, "What's
that terrible smell?"
"Slough Point, sir," Mailic replied as they turned the next bend, where the
umbrageous tunnel of tangled tree and vine opened to a clearing. There
squatted a cluster of formal buildings in the dreary Imperial design favored
by Lord Vanech's Commission and every Emperor since Tiber, together with a
stench so eye-blindingly, stomach-wrenchingly awful that Scotti wondered,
suddenly, if it were deadly poisonous. The swarms of blood-colored, sand-
grain-sized insects obscuring the air did not improve the view.
Scotti and Mailic batted at the buzzing clouds as they rode their horses
towards the largest of the buildings, which on approach revealed itself to be
perched at the edge of a thick, black river. From its size and serious aspect,
Scotti guessed it to be the census and excise office for the wide, white
bridge that stretched across the burbling dark water to the reeds on the other
side. It was a very nice, bright, sturdy-looking bridge, built, Scotti knew,
by his Commission.
A poxy, irritable official opened the door quickly on Scotti's first knock.
"Come in, come in, quickly! Don't let the fleshflies in!"
"Fleshflies?" Decumus Scotti trembled. "You mean, they eat human flesh?"
"If you're fool enough to stand around and let them," the soldier said,
rolling his eyes. He had half an ear, and Scotti, looking around at the other
soldiers in the fort noted that they all were well-chewed. One of them had no
nose at all to speak of. "Now, what's your business?"
Scotti told them, and added that if they stood outside the fortress instead of
inside, they might catch more smugglers.
"You better be more concerned with getting across that bridge," the soldier
sneered. "Tide's coming up, and if you don't get a move on, you won't get to
Black Marsh for four days."
That was absurd. A bridge swamped by a rising tide on a river? Only the look
in the soldier's eyes told Scotti he wasn't joking.
Upon stepping out of the fort, he saw that the horses, evidently tired of
being tortured by the fleshflies, had ripped free of their restraints and were
bounding off into the woods. The oily water of the river was already lapping
on the planks, oozing between the crevices. Scotti reflected that perhaps he
would be more than willing to endure a wait of four days before going to Black
Marsh, but Mailic was already running across.
Scotti followed him, wheezing. He was not in excellent shape, and never had
been. The box of Commission materials was heavy. Halfway across, he paused to
catch his breath, and then discovered he could not move. His feet were stuck.
The black mud that ran through the river was a thick gluey paste, and having
washed over the plank Scotti was on, it held his feet fast. Panic seized him.
Scotti looked up from his trap and saw Mailic leaping from plank to plank
ahead of him, closing fast on the reeds on the other side.
"Help!" Scotti cried. "I'm stuck!"
Mailic did not even turn around, but kept jumping. "I know, sir. You need to
lose weight."
Decumus Scotti knew he was a few pounds over, and had meant to start eating
less and exercising more, but embarking on a diet hardly seemed to promise
timely aid in his current predicament. No diet on Nirn would have helped him
just then. However, on reflection, Scotti realized that the Redguard intended
that he drop the box of documents, for Mailic was no longer carrying any of
the essential supplies he had had with him previously.
With a sigh, Scotti threw the box of Commission notes into the glop, and felt
the plank under him rise a quarter of an inch, just enough to free him from
the mud's clutches. With an agility born of extreme fear, Scotti began leaping
after Mailic, dropping onto every third plank, and springing up before the
river gripped him.
In forty-six leaps, Decumus Scotti crashed through the reeds onto the solid
ground behind Mailic, and found himself in Black Marsh. He could hear behind
him a slurping sound as the bridge, and his container of important and
official records of Commission affairs, was consumed by the rising flood of
dark filth, never to be seen again.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ22)
~~Beggar~~
Reven
Item ID: 000243E1
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Eslaf Erol was the last of the litter of five born to the Queen of the
prosperous Nordic kingdom of Erolgard, Lahpyrcopa, and her husband, the King
of Erolgard, Ytluaf. During pregnancy, the Queen had been more than twice as
wide as she was tall, and the act of delivery took three months and six days
after it had begun. It is perhaps understandable that the Lahpyrcopa elected,
upon expelling Eslaf to frown, say, 'Good riddance,' and die.
Like many Nords, Ytluaf did not care very much for his wife and less for his
children. His subjects were puzzled, therefore, when he announced that he
would follow the ancient tradition of his people of Atmora of following his
beloved spouse to the grave. They had not thought they were particularly in
love, nor were they aware that such a tradition existed. Still, the simple
people were grateful, for the little royal drama alleviated their boredom,
which was and is a common problem in the more obscure parts of northern
Skyrim, particularly in wintertide.
He gathered his household staff and his five fat, bawling little heirs in
front of him, and divided his estate. To his son Ynohp, he gave his title; to
his son Laernu, he gave his land; to his son Suoibud, he gave his fortune; to
his daughter Laicifitra, he gave his army. Ytluaf's advisors had suggested he
keep the inheritance together for the good of the kingdom, but Ytluaf did not
particularly care for his advisors, or the kingdom, for that matter. Upon
making his announcement, he drew his dagger across his throat.
One of the nurses, who was rather shy, finally decided to speak as the King's
life ebbed away. 'Your highness, you forgot your fifth child, little Eslaf.'
Good Ytluaf groaned. It is somewhat hard to concentrate with blood gushing
from one's throat, after all. The King tried in vain to think of something to
bequeath, but there was nothing left.
Finally he sputtered, irritably, 'Eslaf should have taken something then' and
died.
That a babe but a few days old was expected to demand his rightful inheritance
was arguably unfair. But so Eslaf Erol was given his birthright with his
father's dying breath. He would have nothing, but what he had taken.
Since no one else would have him, the shy nurse, whose name was Drusba, took
the baby home. It was a decrepit little shack, and over the years that
followed, it became more and more decrepit. Unable to find work, Drusba sold
all of her furnishings to buy food for little Eslaf. By the time he was old
enough to walk and talk, she had sold the walls and the roof as well, so they
had nothing but a floor to call home. And if you've ever been to Skyrim, you
can appreciate that that is scarcely sufficient.
Drusba did not tell Eslaf the story of his birth, or that his brothers and
sister were leading quite nice lives with their inheritances, for, as we have
said, she was rather shy, and found it difficult to broach the subject. She
was so painfully shy, in fact, that whenever he asked any questions about
where he came from, Drusba would run away. That was more or less her answer to
everything, to flee.
In order to communicate with her at all, Eslaf learned how to run almost as
soon as he could walk. He couldn't keep up with his adopted mother at first,
but in time he learned to go toe-heel toe-heel if he anticipated a short but
fast sprint, and heel-toe heel-toe if it seemed Drusba was headed for a long
distance marathon flight. He never did get all the answers he needed from her,
but Eslaf did learn how to run.
The kingdom of Erolgard had, in the years that Eslaf was growing, become quite
a grim place. King Ynohp did not have a treasury, for Suoibud had been given
that; he did not have any property for income, for Laernu had been given that;
he did not have an army to protect the people, for Laicifitra had been given
that. Futhermore, as he was but a child, all decisions in the kingdom went
through Ynohp's rather corrupt council. It had become a bureaucratic
exploitative land of high taxes, rampant crime, and regular incursions from
neighboring kingdoms. Not a particular unusual situation for a kingdom of
Tamriel, but an unpleasant one nonetheless.
The time finally came when the taxcollector arrived to Drusba's hovel, such as
it was, to collect the only thing he could - the floor. Rather than protest,
the poor shy maid ran away, and Eslaf never saw her again.
Without a home or a mother, Eslaf did not know what to do. He had grown
accustomed to the cold open air in Drusba's shack, but he was hungry.
'May I have a piece of meat?' he asked the butcher down the street. 'I'm very
hungry.'
The man had known the boy for years, often spoke to his wife about how sorry
he felt for him, growing up in a home with no ceilings or walls. He smiled at
Eslaf and said, 'Go away, or I'll hit you.'
Eslaf hurriedly left the butcher and went to a nearby tavern. The tavernkeeper
had been a former valet in the king's court and knew that the boy was by right
a prince. Many times, he had seen the poor ragged lad in the streets, and
sighed at the way fate had treated him.
'May I have something to eat?' Eslaf asked this tavernkeeper. 'I'm very
hungry.'
'You're lucky I don't cook you up and eat you,' replied the tavernkeeper.
Eslaf hurriedly left the tavern. For the rest of the day, the boy approached
the good citizens of Erolgard, begging for food. One person had thrown
something at him, but it turned out to be an inedible rock.
As night fell, a raggedy man came up to Eslaf and, without saying a word,
handed him a piece of fruit and a piece of dried meat. The lad took it, wide-
eyed, and as he devoured it, he thanked the man very sweetly.
'If I see you begging on the streets tomorrow,' the man growled. 'I'll kill
you myself. There are only so many beggars we of the guild allow in any one
town, and you make it one too many. You're ruining business.'
It was a good thing Eslaf Erol knew how to run. He ran all night.
Eslaf Erol's story is continued in the book 'Thief.'
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(Search Code: LOLZ23)
~~A Dance in Fire, v3~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 000243DF
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Chapter 3
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ24)
~~The Ransom of Zarek~~
Marobar Sul
Item ID: 000243DE
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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."
"What happened?" Jalemmil repeated. "Were thou rescued?"
"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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ25)
~~The Red Kitchen Reader~~
Simocles Quo
Item ID: 000243E0
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Though naturally modest, I must admit to some pleasure in being dubbed by our
Emperor's father, the late Pelagius IV, as "the finest connoisseur in
Tamriel." He was also good enough to appoint me the first, and to this day,
the only Master of Cuisine in the Imperial Court. Other Emperors, of course,
had master chefs and cooks in their staff, but only during the reign of
Pelagius was there someone of rarefied tastes to plan the menus and select the
finest produce to be served at court. His son Uriel requested that I continue
in that position, but I was forced to graciously decline the invitation,
because of age and poor health.
This book, however, is not intended to be autobiography. I have had a great
many adventures in my life as a knight of fine dining, but my intention for
this book is much more specific. Many times I have been asked, "What is the
best thing you ever ate?"
The answer to that is not a simple one. Much of the pleasure of a great meal
is not only in the food: it is in the setting, the company, the mood. Eat an
indifferently cooked roast or a simple stew with your one true love, and it is
a meal to be remembered. Have an excellent twelve-course feast with dull
company, while feeling slightly ill, and it will be forgotten, or remembered
only with distaste.
Sometimes meals are memorable for the experiences that come before them.
Fairly recently, in northern Skyrim, I had a bit of bad luck. I was with a
group of fishermen, observing their technique of capturing a very rare, very
delicious fish called Merringar. The fish is found only far from shore, so it
was a week's voyage out beyond civilization. Well, we found our school of
Merringar, but as the fishermen began spearing them, the blood in the water
attracted a family of Dreugh, who capsized the boat and everyone on it. I
managed to save myself, but the fishermen and all our supplies were lost.
Sailing is not, alas, a skill I have picked up over the years, and it took me
three weeks, with no provisions, to find my way back to the kingdom of
Solitude. I had managed to catch enough small fish to eat raw, but I was still
delirious from hunger and thirst. The first meal I had on shore, of Nordic
roast boar, Jazbay wine, and, yes, filet of Merringar would have been
excellent under any circumstances, but because of the threat of starvation I
had faced, it was divine beyond words.
Sometimes meals are even memorable for the experiences that follow them.
In a tavern in Falinesti, I was introduced to a simple peasant dish called
Kollopi, delicious little balls of flesh, thick with spices and juice, so
savory I asked the proprietress whence they came. Mother Pascost explained
that the Kollopi were an arboreal rodent that fed exclusively on the most
tender branches of the graht-oak, and I was fortunate enough to be in
Valenwood at the time of the annual harvest. I was invited to join with a
small colony of Imga monkeys, who alone could gather these succulent little
mice. Because they lived only on the slenderest branches of the trees, and
only on the ends of those same branches, the Imga had to climb beneath them
and jump up to "pick" the Kollopi from their perches. Imga are, of course,
naturally dexterous, but I was then relatively young and spry, and they let me
help them. While I could never jump as high they could, with practice, I found
that if I kept my head and upper body rigid, and launched off the ground with
a scissors-like kick, I could reach the Kollopi on the lowest branches of the
tree. I believe I gathered three Kollopi myself, though with considerable
effort.
To this day, I salivate at the thought of Kollopi, but my mind is on the image
of myself and several dozen Imgas leaping around beneath the shade of the
graht-oaks.
Then, of course, there are the rare meals memorable for what came before,
after, and during the meal, which brings me to the finest thing I ever ate,
the meal that began my lifelong obsession with excellent cuisine.
As a child growing up in Cheydinhal, I did not care for food at all. I
recognized the value of nutrition, for I was not a complete dullard, but I
cannot say that mealtime brought me any pleasure at all. Partly, of course,
this was the fault of my family's cook, who believed that spices were an
invention of the Daedra, and that good Imperials should like their food
boiled, textureless and flavorless. Though I think she was alone in assigning
a religious significance to this, my sampling of traditional Cyrodilic cuisine
suggests that the philosophy is regrettably common in my homeland.
Though I did not enjoy food per se, I was not a morose, unadventurous child in
other respects. I enjoyed the fights in the Arena, of course, and nothing made
me happier than wandering the streets of my town, with my imagination as my
only companion. It was on one such jaunt on a sunny Fredas in Mid Year that I
made a discovery that changed my heart and my life.
There were several old abandoned houses down the street from my own home, and
I often played around them, imagining them to be filled with desperate outlaws
or haunted by hundreds of evil spirits. I never had the nerve to go inside. In
fact, had I not that day seen some other children who had delighted in teasing
me in the past, I would never have gone in. But I needed a sanctuary, so I ran
into the closest one.
The house seemed to be as desolate on the inside as on the outside, further
proof that no one lived there, and had not for some time. When I heard
footsteps, I could only assume that the loathsome little urchins I hoped to
avoid had followed me in. I escaped to the basement, and from there, past a
broken-down wall that led to a well. I could still hear the footsteps above,
and I decided that I was still loath to confront my tormentors. Knocking aside
the rusty locks on the well, I slipped down below.
The well was dry, but I discovered it was far from empty. There was a sort of
a sub-basement to the house, three large rooms that were clean, furnished, and
evidently not abandoned at all. My senses told me someone was living in the
house, after all: not only my sense of sight, but my sense of smell. For one
of the rooms was a large red-painted kitchen, and spread out on the coals of
the oven was a roast, carved into small morsels. Passing a beautiful and
appropriate bas-relief of a mother carving a roast for her grateful children,
I beheld the kitchen and the wonders within.
Like I said, food had never interested me before, but I was transfixed, and
even now as I write this, words fail me in describing the rich aroma that hung
in the air. It was like nothing I had ever smelled in my family's kitchen, and
I was unable to stop myself from popping one of the steaming chunks of meat
into my mouth. The taste was magical, the flesh tender and sweet. Before I
knew it, I had eaten everything on the stove, and I learned at that very
second the truth that that food can and should be sublime.
After gorging myself and having my culinary epiphany, I was conflicted on what
to do. Part of me wanted to wait down in that red kitchen until the chef
returned, so I could ask him what his secret recipe was for the delicious
meat. Part of me recognized that I had stolen into someone's house and eaten
their dinner, and it would be wise to leave while I could. That was what I
did.
Time and again, I've tried to return to that strange, wonderful place, but
Cheydinhal has changed over time. Old houses have been reclaimed, and new
houses abandoned. I know what to look for on the inside of the house - the
well, the beautiful etching of a woman preparing to carve out a roast for her
children, the red kitchen itself - but I have never been able to find the
house again. After a while, as I grew older, I stopped trying. It is better as
it remains in my memory, the most perfect meal I ever ate.
The inspiration for my life that followed all was cooked up, together with
that fabulous meat, right there in the Red Kitchen.
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~~BLADE BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ26)
~~2920, Morning Star (V1)~~
Simocles Quo
Item ID: 000243E4
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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.
</pre><pre id="faqspan-5">
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
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(Search Code: LOLZ27)
~~Battle of Sancre Tor~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00073A61
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In 2E852, allied Nord and Breton forces crossed the borders into Cyrodiil and
occupied the major passes and settlements in the Jerall Mountains. Making
their headquarters for the winter at Sancre Tor, the Nord-Breton allies dared
King Cuhlecain's new general, Talos, to assault them in their mountain
fastnesses.
When they learned that General Talos had mustered an army in the dead of
winter and was marching to assault Sancre Tor, they were elated. Sancre Tor
was impregnable, its citadel on high cliffs overlooking the lower city,
nestled in a high mountain basin with steep, unscalable cliffs in their rear.
The Cyrodilic army was small, poorly trained and outfitted, short on rations,
and unprepared for winter campaigning. As their ragged units assembled in the
lowlands beneath the citadel, the Nord-Breton allies confidently assumed that
their enemy had delivered himself into their trap.
The citadel was not only protected by an unscalable cliff in front and
unscalable heights in their rear, but the entrance to the citadel was
magically concealed under the appearance of a large mountain lake in the basin
beneath the heights. Accordingly, the Nord-Breton allies left on a small force
to defend the citadel, descending through lower passages to attack and
overwhelm the cold, hungry Cyrodilic forces before them. They expected to
defeat, overrun, and annihilate General Talos' army, leaving no one to oppose
their springtime descent into the Cyrodilic Heartlands.
Thus did General Talos lure the Nord-Breton allies to their doom.
Leaving a weak force in the lowlands to draw out the defenders, General Talos
approached the citadel of Sancre Tor from the rear, descending the supposedly
unscalable heights behind the citadel, and sneaking into the supposedly
magically concealed entrance to the inner citadel. This remarkable feat is
attributed to the agency of a single unnamed traitor, by tradition a Breton
turncoat sorcerer, who revealed both the existence of an obscure mountain
trail down the heights behind the citadel and the secret of the citadel
entrance concealed beneath its illusory lake surface.
While the Cyrodilic army in the lowlands fought a desperate defense against
the Nord-Breton sortie, General Talos and his men entered the citadel, swept
aside the sparse defense, captured the Nord-Breton nobles and generals, and
compelled them to surrender the citadel and their armies. The confused and
demoralized Nord captives, already suspicious of the scheming High Rock
sorcerer aristocracy and their overreaching dreams of Heartlands conquests,
deserted the alliance and swore loyalty to Tiber Septim. The Skyrim generals
joined their rank and file in Tiber Septim's army; the High Rock battlemage
command was summarily executed and the captive Bretons imprisoned or sold into
slavery.
Thus was the concerted allied invasion of Cyrodiil foiled, and General Talos'
army swelled by the hardened Nord veteran troops that played so crucial a role
in General Talos' succeeding campaigns which consolidated the Colovian and
Nibenean into the core of the Cyrodilic Empire, and which resulting in the
crowning of General Talos as Emperor Tiber Septim.
Historians marvel at Tiber Septim's tactical daring in assaulting a fortified
mountain citadel in the dead of winter against vastly superior numbers. Later
Tiber Septim attributed his unwavering resolve against overwhelming obstacles
to have been inspired by his divine vision of the Amulet of Kings in the Tomb
of Reman III.
The young Talos may indeed have been inspired by his belief that he was fated
to recover this ancient sacred symbol of the Covenant and to lead Tamriel to
the high civilization of the Third Empire. Nonetheless, this should in no way
reduce our admiration for the dash and genius of this defining military
triumph against impossible odds.
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(Search Code: LOLZ28)
~~Fire and Darkness~~
Ynir Gorming
Item ID: 000243E5
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"Brother, I still call you brother for we share our bonds of blood, tested but
unbroken by hatred. Even if I am murdered, which seems inevitable now, know
that, brother. You and I are not innocents, so our benedictions of mutual
enmity is not tragedy, but horror. This state of silent, shadowed war, of
secret poisons and sleeping men strangled in their beds, of the sudden arrow
and the artful dagger, has no end that I can see. No possibility for peace. I
see the shadows in the room move though the flame of my candle is steady. I
know the signs that I …"
This note was found where it had fallen beneath the floorboards of an
abandoned house in the Nordic village of Jallenheim in the 358th year of the
second era. It was said that a quiet cobbler lived in the house, whispered by
some to be a member of the dread Morag Tong, the assassin's guild outlawed
throughout Tamriel thirty-four years previously. The house itself was
perfectly in order, as if the cobbler had simply vanished. There was a single
drop of blood on the note.
The Dark Brotherhood had paid a call.
This note and others like it are rare. Both the Morag Tong and its hated
child, the Dark Brotherhood, are scrupulous about leaving no evidence behind —
their members know that to divulge secrets of their orders is a lethal
infraction. This obviously makes the job of the historian seeking to trace
their histories very difficult.
The Morag Tong, according to most scholars, had been a facet of the culture of
Morrowind almost since its beginning. After all, the history of Resdayn, the
ancient name of Morrowind, is rife with assassination, blood sacrifice, and
religious zealotry, hallmarks of the order. It is commonly said that the Morag
Tong then as now murdered for the glory of the Daedra Prince Mephala, but
common assumptions are rarely completely accurate. It is my contention that
the earliest form of the Tong additionally worshipped an even older and more
malevolent deity than Mephala. As terrifying as that Prince of Oblivion is,
they had and have reverence for a far greater evil.
Writs of assassination from the first era offer rare glimpses into the Morag
Tong's earliest philosophy. They are as matter of fact as current day writs,
but many contain snatches of poetry which have perplexed our scholars for
hundreds of years. "Lisping sibilant hisses,' 'Ether's sweet sway,' 'Rancid
kiss of passing sin,' and other strange, almost insane insertions into the
writs were codes for the name of the person to be assassinated, his or her
location, and the time at which death was to come. They were also direct
references to the divine spirit called Sithis.
Evidence of the Morag Tong's expertise in assassination seems scarcely
necessary. The few instances of someone escaping a murder attempt by them are
always remarkable and rare, proving that they were and are patient, capable
murderers who use their tools well. A fragment of a letter found among the
effects of a well-known armorer has been sealed in our vaults for some time.
It was likely penned by an unknown Tong assassin ordering weapons for his
order, and offers some illumination into what they looked for in their blades,
as well the mention of Vounoura, the island where the Tong sent its agents in
retirement —
'I congratulate you on your artistry, and the balance and heft of your
daggers. The knife blade is whisper thin, elegantly wrought, but inpractical.
It must have a bolder edge, for arteries, when cut, have a tendencies to self
seal, preventing adequate blood loss. I will be leaving Vounoura in two weeks
time to inspect your new tools, hoping they will be more satisfactory.'
The Morag Tong spread quietly throughout Tamriel in the early years of the
second era, worshipping Mephala and Sithis with blood, as they had always
done.
When the Morag Tong assassinated the Emperor Reman in the year 2920 of the
first era, and his successor, Potentate Versidae-Shae in the 324th year of the
second era, the assassins so long in the shadows were suddenly thrust into the
light. They had become brazen, drunk with murder, literally painting the words
'MORAG TONG' on the wall in the Potentate's blood.
The Morag Tong was instantly and unanimously outlawed in all corners of
Tamriel, with the exception of its home province of Morrowind. There they
continued to operate with the blessings of the Houses, apparently cutting off
all contact with their satellite brothers to the west. There they continue
their quasi-legal existence, accepting black writs and murdering with
impunity.
Most scholars believe that the birth of the Dark Brotherhood, the secular,
murder-for- profit order of assassins, was as a result of a religious schism
in the Morag Tong. Given the secrecy of both cults, it is difficult to divine
the exact nature of it, but certain logical assumptions can be made.
In order to exist, the Morag Tong must have appealed to the highest power in
Morrowind, which at that time, the Second Era, could only have been the
Tribunal of Almalexia, Sotha Sil, and Vivec. Mephala, whom the Tong worshipped
with Sithis, was said to have been the Anticipation of Vivec. Is it not
logical to assume that in exchange for toleration of their continued
existence, the Tong would have ceased their worship of Mephala in exchange for
the worship of Vivec?
The Morag Tong continues, as we know, to worship Sithis. The Dark Brotherhood
is not considered a religious order by most, merely a secular organization,
offering murder for gold. I have seen, however, proof positive in the form of
writs to the Brotherhood that Sithis is still revered above all.
So where, the reader, asks, is the cause for the schism? How could a silent
war have begun, when both groups are so close? Both assassin's guilds, after
all, worship Sithis. And yet, a figure emerges from history who should give
those with this assumption pause.
The Night Mother.
Who the Night Mother is, where she came from, what her functions are, no one
knows. Carlovac Townway in his generally well-researched historical fiction
2920: The Last Year of the First Era tries to make her the leader of the Morag
Tong. But she is never historically associated with the Tong, only the Dark
Brotherhood.
The Night Mother, my dear friend, is Mephala. The Dark Brotherhood of the
west, unfettered by the orders of the Tribunal, continue to worship Mephala.
They may not call her by her name, but the daedra of murder, sex, and secrets
is their leader still. And they did not, and still do not, to this day,
forgive their brethren for casting her aside.
The cobbler who met his end in the second era, who saw no end in the war
between the Brotherhood and the Tong, was correct. In the shadows of the
Empire, the Brothers of Death remain locked in combat, and they will likely
remain that way forever.
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(Search Code: LOLZ29)
~~Song of Hrormir~~
Item ID: 000243E6
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Hrormir
Son of Hrorgar
Summoned to the Court of Vjindak,
Son of Vjinmore, King of Evensnow.
"Mighty caster of magic,
I charge thee to go to Aelfendor,
For its hoary Warriors do threaten my Land
And bring forth their cousin Demons
To terrify my People."
Hrormir
Son of Hrorgar
Heard the Words of Vjindak Evensnow.
"By Icestaff,
Surely I would help thee
But I have already a Quest to drink
Twelve Flagons of Mead in one Hour,
And then to bed four Wenches,
Twice each.
So I must with grace decline."
The King he did not smile
At Hrormir and his jolly Spirit.
"By thine Honor
Must thou aidest my Cause
For must thou takest up the Sword
Of thy Companion Darfang
Who took the Quest and failed."
Hrormir laughed.
"Now I know thou jest.
My boon Mate Darfang wouldst not fail.
There be no finer Bladesman.
If thou chargest him, he wouldst not fall."
"I did not say he fell.
He joined the Dark Kings of Aelfendor
And by doing so dishonored
Himself and thee, his Friend."
Hrormir could not believe the Words,
And yet, he knew Eversnow
Didst not lie.
So for twenty Days and three rodeth he
To the Land of Night, the Kingdom of Fear,
Where the Peasants ever carried Candles
Knowing what Evil awaiteth them
Should they stray beyond the Glow.
The Sovereigncy of three Dark Kings:
Aelfendor.
There, Torch in Hand, didst Hrormir
Pass through haunted Countryside
And frightened Villages,
And through the black Gates
Of the blacker Castle of Aelfendor.
The three Dark Kings didst sneer
At the sight of mighty Hrormir
And summoned they their Champion
Darfang the Blade.
"My boon Companion!"
Hrormir called in the Hall of Night.
"I dare not trust my Eyes,
For then I wouldst believe
That thou hast joined with Evil,
And turned thy Way from Honor
And Brotherhood!"
"Hrormir!"
Darfang the Blade didst cry.
"If thou dost not go now,
One of us must die, for I hate thee!"
But Hrormir was battle ready,
And in the echoing Halls of Night
The Blade of Darfang
And the Staff of Hrormir
Didst strike again and yet again.
Mighty Warriors and Mages both,
The boon Companions now Foes,
Shook Mundus with their War.
They might have fought for a Year
If there were Sun in Aelfendor
To mark Time,
And either Hrormir or Darfang
May verily have won.
But Hrormir saweth through the Dark
The Tears in the Eyes of his former Friend,
And then he saweth the Shadow of Darfang
Wert not his own.
And so with Icestaff, he did strike
Not Darfang, but his Shadow, which cried.
"Hold, Mortal Man!"
The Shadow becameth the Hag,
Bent and twisted, in her Cloak and Hood.
From her faceless Shadows, she hissed.
"Mortal Man called Hrormir
The Soul of thy boon Companion
Is my Plaything,
But I will take thine in trade,
For though ye both have strong Arms,
Thou hast the more clever Mind
Which my Sons the Dark Kings need
For a Champion of Aelfendor."
Hrormir the brave didst not take a Breath
Or pause before he boldly said.
"Shadowy Hag, release Darfang,
And thou mayst use me as thou will."
The Hag didst laugh and freed Darfang.
"To save thine Honor this thou hast done,
But now thou must be without Honor
Mortal Man, as the Champion
Of the Dark Kings, my Heirs of Gray Maybe,
Thou must help them divide Aelfendor,
And love me,
Thy Shadowy Hag and thy Mistress well."
For his loss of Honor,
And his dear Friend's Sacrifice,
Noble Darfang prepared to take his Dagger
And plunge it in his good Heart,
But Hrormir stayed his Brother's Hand and whispered.
"No, boon Companion,
Wait for me at the Village Banquet Hall."
And then did Darfang the Blade leave the Castle
While Hrormir took the withered Claw
Of the Hag, and pressed it to his Lips.
"Shadowy Hag, to thee I pledge
To only honor thy black Words
To turn my back on Truth
To aid thy Dark Kings' Ambition
To divide their Inheritance fairly
To love thee
To think thee beautiful."
Then to the Chamber in the Heart of Night
Hrormir and the Hag did retire
Kissed he there her wrinkled Lips
And her wrinkled, sagging Breasts,
For ten Days and Nights and three did Hrormir
And his Icestaff
Battle thus.
Then Sweet Kynareth blew honeyed Winds
O'er the Hills and Forest Glens of Aelfendor,
And the Caress of warm blooded Dibella
Coaxed the Blossoms to wanton Display
So that Aelfendor became a Garden
Of all the Senses.
The frightened Servants of the Dark Kings
Woke to find there was naught to fear
And through the once dark Streets of the Village
Came the Cries of Celebration.
In the Banquet Hall of the Village
Hrormir and his boon Companion Darfang
Embraced and drank of rich Mead.
The Shadowy Hag too was smiling,
Sleeping still in her soft Bed,
Until the morning Sun touched her naked Face
And she awoke, and saw All,
And knew All saw her.
And she cried out:
"Mortal Man!"
Night fell fast upon the Land
As the Hag flew into the Banquet Hall
Casting blackest Darkness in her Wake
But all the Celebrants still could see
Her Anger
In her monstrous Face
And they shook with Fear.
The Hag had said the Kingdom was
To be divided among her Heirs.
But Aelfendor had been kept whole
While her Children divided,
Drawn and quartered.
Hrormir was mightily amused.
He swallowed his Laughter
In his Mead,
For none should laugh outright
At the Daedra Lord Nocturnal.
Without her gray Cowl of shadowed Night,
Her hideous Face forced the Moons
To hide themselves.
Hrormir the mighty did not quail.
"Wherest be thine Hood, shadowy hag?"
"Mortal Man hast taken it from me unaware.
When I awoke, my Face unmasked,
My Kingdom cast into the Light,
My Dark King Heirs in Pieces cast,
And here, my Champion smiles.
Yet in truth, thou kept thy Promise truly,
To never keep thy Promise true."
Hrormir
Son of Hrorgar
Bowed to the Hag, his Queen.
"And evermore,
'Til thou releaseth me, will I serve thee so."
"A clever Mind in a Champion
Is a much overvalued Trait."
The Hag released Hrormir's Soul
And he released her Hood.
And so in the Light of darkest Dark,
She left Aelfendor evermore.
And after drinking twelve Flagons of Mead,
And bedding four Wenches
Twice each,
Did Darfang return to Eversnow
With Hrormir
Son of Hrorgar.
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(Search Code: LOLZ30)
~~Words and Philosophy~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 000243E3
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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."
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~~BLOCK BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ31)
~~A Dance in Fire, v2~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 000243EA
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Chapter 2
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.”
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(Search Code: LOLZ32)
~~Death Blow of Abernanit~~
Anonymous (annotated by Geocrates Varnus)
Item ID: 000243E8
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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,</pre><pre id="faqspan-6">
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ33)
~~The Mirror~~
Berdier Wreans
Item ID: 000243E9
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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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ34)
~~The Warp in the West~~
Ulvius Tero
Item ID: 000243EC
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* Secret: For Your Eyes Only *
Let me offer my congratulations to Your Lordship for your recent appointment
as ambassador to the Court of Wayrest.
Your Lordship asked me for a review of existing Blades accounts from 3E 417
concerning 'The Warp in the West', and for a summary of the current state of
affairs there.
Since Your Lordship was in Black Marsh serving in the staff of Admiral
Sosorius at the time, you probably know of these events only from Imperial
proclamations and Chapel declarations, which identify this period as the
'Miracle of Peace'. During the 'Miracle of Peace', according to official
accounts, the formerly war-wracked Iliac Bay region was transformed overnight
from a patchwork of squabbling duchies and petty kingdoms into the peaceful
modern counties of Hammerfell, Sentinel, Wayrest, and Orsinium. The 'Miracle
of Peace', also known as the 'The Warp in the West', is celebrated as the
product of the miraculous interventions of Stendarr, Mara, and Akatosh to
transform this troublesome region into peaceful, well-governed Imperial
counties. The catastrophic destruction of landscape and property and the large
loss of life attending upon this miracle is understood to have been 'tragic,
and beyond mortal comprehension.'
In as much as this account confirms and validates the current borders of these
counties, and identifies the rulers and boundaries of these counties as
'ordained by the Nine', the 'Miracle of Peace' serves Imperial objectives of
peaceful consolidation of ancient petty states and sovereigns into manageable
Imperial jurisdictions. The other remarkable features of these events -- mass
disappearances, armies mysteriously transported hundreds of miles or
completely annihilated, titanic storms and celestial phenomena, apparent local
discontinuities of time -- fit comfortably into the notion that these events
are part of a vast, mysterious divine intervention.
However, this is only the public account of these events, and, as you may
suspect, it conflicts with many other accounts. In short, while this
explanation suits Imperial policy, it has little historical validity.
Your Lordship should know that the Blades have concluded there is no plausible
historical account of these events, and despairs that a plausible historical
account shall ever be produced. The Blades have concluded that a 'miracle'
occurred, insofar as the events are inexplicable, but the Blades strongly
doubt the miracle was of divine origin.
There is good reason to believe that the ruling families of the four modern
Iliac Bay counties had forewarning of the event. There is also some evidence
that some of these ruling families may have been directly or indirectly
responsible for the event. We do not know the exact sequence of actions that
produced the event, although we are confident that the 'Totem' artifact was
involved, and that a Blades agent was involved in employing that artifact. We
unfortunately lost contact with that agent immediately after the event; his
report might have gone some way to resolving the contradictory and paradoxical
accounts of the event.
The Blades have on file few reports from agents dating from the "Warp in the
West" period. Most of our agents were lost in the initial dislocations, and
others were lost in the confusion after the event. I present a few of these
reports to give you a general sense of their limitations, including the report
of your diplomatic predecessor, Lord Strale. You will have had access to other
private and rumored accounts of the period. I believe you will agree that
these documents raise more questions than they answer.
The Report of Hammerfell Agent 'Briarbird'
'I was on assignment in the Alik'r Desert, a few miles south of Bergama on the
9th of Frostfall. I was encamped, as it was still early morning, when I felt
the ground shake so violently, I was thrown to the ground. Dazed, I was aware
of a great roar of a sandstorm, which alarmed me, as I had been on a high dune
and had seen nothing like that on the horizon. It was on me before I was even
on my knees, burying me and my camp.
When I crawled my way out of the sand, I realized that I must make haste and
get to Bergama as soon as possible, as all my food and water had been swept
away. The sun was just rising as I began, like I said. When I reached Bergama,
it was nightfall. The town was in chaos, filled with the soldiers of Sentinel.
The Lord of Bergama's fortress was in ruins.
There had been an attack, but no one had seen it, only the invasion that
followed it. The soldiers of Queen Akorithi of Sentinel refused to be
interviewed about how they had accomplished this sneak attack, but I came to
learn that the whole of northern Hammerfell now belonged to them. Even
stranger, I discovered that my walk from sunrise to sundown had not taken me
not one day, but two. It was now the 11th day of the month, not the 10th. I
had lost a day somewhere, and so apparently had everyone else... except
Akorithi's soldiers, who somehow were aware of the correct date.
I since have concluded that they had received advance warning, and so were
better prepared to deal with the strange confusion of time and dates
associated with the Warp.'
The Report of High Rock Agent 'Graylady'
'I was, at the time of the Warp, undercover as a witch in the Skeffington
Coven of Phyrgias, in central High Rock. In order to give my report, I had
volunteered for an expedition to gather supplies, which would allow me the
freedom to reach my contact in Camlorn. I was traveling north-east along the
foothills of the Wrothgarian Mountains, on the 9th of Frostfall, when I felt a
great heat behind me, like a fire. I turned, but I regret to say I cannot tell
you what I saw. The healers tell me my eyes were burned out of my sockets.
I think I must have fallen into a state of semi-consciousness, for I
distinctly remember falling as the ground seemed to give way beneath me. Then
there was a series of explosions in the distance, to the south, and I heard
high whistling noises that were getting louder, coming closer. I had my shield
with me, and fortunately anticipated that volleys of some sort were falling
from the sky. Though I could not see them, I could hear them coming from a
distance away, and was able to use my shield to block them from striking me.
The assault stopped suddenly, and I could smell smoke. I learned later that
most of the forest of Ykalon and Phygias had caught fire, in an inferno that
started further south in Daenia and the Ilessan Hills. Fortunately, I kept my
bearings, and moved north, finally reaching a temple in the wilderness where
my wounds were healed, as well as they could be.
It was there I learned that there had been a three-way clash between
Daggerfall, Wayrest, and Orsinium not far from where I had been, and that the
land midway between their kingdoms had been decimated.'
The Report of Ambassador Lord Naigon Strale
'His Imperial Majesty had sent me on a delicate errand, the details of which I
cannot convey in this unsecure report, but my official capacity was to be the
Emperor's ambassador to the court of Wayrest. From there, I was to meet with
an old friend, Lady Brisienna, who was already in the vicinity. Forgoing any
attempt at stealth, I was on an Imperial barge, sailing westward on the
Bjoulsae, the morning of the 9th of Frostfall. I remember it was a slightly
chilly day, but the sky was very blue.
'We had just passed the delightful riverside village of Candlemass when the
captain sounded the alarum. There, in front of us, was a colossal wall of
water, at least thirty feet high. It smashed our barge to splinters before any
of us had a chance to react. I woke up on the shore, having been rescued by
one of my servants who had miraculously not lost consciousness. He and I and
one other man were the only survivors.
I thought at first that it was suspiciously similar to what happened to
another agent of ours in High Rock but a short time before, where a freak
storm had shipwrecked him in the Iliac Bay near Privateer's Hold. Furious and
determined to see if similar forces were at work, I began a quick march to
Wayrest.
The march, however, was not so terribly quick. The villages all along the
Bjoulsae were on fire, and battles raged between the orcs of Orsinium and the
soldiers of King Eadwyre in the formerly independent principality of Gauvadon,
just east of Wayrest. I am an accomplished mage, and quite able to defend
myself, but it took the better part of a week to make it those few miles to
Wayrest.
King Eadwyre and his queen Barenziah were celebrating their great victories
when I arrived. By then, I had gathered the barest facts of the matter, that
simultaneously there were seven great battles in the Iliac Bay, and no one
could describe them at all, only their bloodsoaked aftermath.
To summarize: on the 9th of Frostfall, there had been forty-four independent
kingdoms, counties, baronies, and dukedoms surrounding the Iliac Bay, if one
includes the unconquered territories of the Wrothgarian Mountains, the
Dragontail Mountains, the High Rock Sea Coast, the Isle of Balfiera, and the
Alik'r Desert. On the 11th of Frostfall, there were but four - Daggerfall,
Sentinel, Wayrest, and Orsinium - and all the points where they met lay in
ruins, as the armies continued to do battle.
I was determined to find the truth from the King, even if I had to be a most
undiplomatic diplomat to do it.
Eadwyre, though a generally jovial sort, had blustered, saying he did not want
to give out military secrets. The Queen, ever calm with those unreadable red
eyes of hers, told me, 'We do not know.'
I think it is safe to assume that Barenziah did not tell me everything, but
the facts of her story - which I later verified after pointed interviews in
Daggerfall, Sentinel, and Orsinium - was that they had learned that a certain
powerful, ancient weapon was going to be activated. I shan't give the name of
it here. Out of fear that it would be used against Wayrest, the King had
attempted to buy it from the young adventurer who had discovered its
wherebouts. Eadwyre believed, as it turns out quite rightly, that other powers
in the Bay had also attempted to win ownership of this device.
What happened then, as Barenziah said, 'We do not know.'
The morning of the 9th and the morning of the 11th somehow merged through some
sort of Warp in the West, and Wayrest found themselves at war. Their land had
expanded three-fold, but they were under attack by Daggerfall to the west,
Orsinium to the east, and Sentinel to the south. There had been no time to
understand what had happened, the King said. They had simply reacted, sending
their armies to defend their lands against these enemies whose kingdoms had
also gained great territorial advantage.
The battles continue on, now months later, as I return to the Imperial City to
make my report. What more do I have to say? They are bloody, violent clashes,
as is always the case with modern warfare, but I have been to the blackened,
desolate no-man's land between the four remaining kingdoms. No mortal army
caused that devastation.
I can say that the force that shook the Iliac Bay on the 10th of Frostfall 3E
417 was infinitesimally greater than the power these mighty kingdoms are
wielding today.
I can say that there were other strange events on that day which kept the
kingdoms from breaking free of the Empire, and accomplished likely more
besides.
And I can say there is nothing left of it - this power, this weapon - in the
Bay. The Warp that it created swallowed it up.'
Current Political Affairs in the Iliac Bay
Almost twenty years have passed, and the region, though transformed, has
stabilized. There are no more disputed territories, and the kingdoms of
Daggerfall, Wayrest, Sentinel, and Orsinium hold their new borders in relative
peace.
Wayrest spreads across the eastern coast of the Bay, stretching from the land
formerly called Anticlere to half of Gauvadon. Eadwyre has passed on to his
ancestors, leaving his kingdom in the hands of his daughter, Elysana, who has
two children by her royal consort, and seems likely to hold her father's
lands. Your Lordship may also choose to communicate directly with King Helseth
and Queen Barenziah in Mournhold. Their primary preoccupations are, of course,
with Morrowind's affairs, but they may still have useful observations upon
Wayrest's ruling families and political environment that may aid you in your
understanding of the court of Queen Elysana.
King Gortwog of Orsinium controls much of the Wrothgarian Mountains as well as
the profitable rivercoast of the Bjoulsae. He persists in his demands that
Orsinium be recognized as an Imperial province separate from High Rock. The
Elder Council treats Gortwog as a recognized king, and collects taxes directly
from Orsinium, but officially Orsinium remains a county of High Rock, though
technically it spans both the provinces of High Rock and Hammerfell.
Sentinel has gained the most land, sprawling across the entire southern Iliac
Bay from Abibon-Gora, beyond the Dragontail Mountains, to the edge of
Mournoth, Orsinium's territory. Queen Akorithi at her death left her enormous
kingdom to her only surviving son, Lhotun, who is now surely one of the most
powerful kings in Tamriel.
Daggerfall is still ruled by the Breton King Gothryd and the Redguard Queen
Aubk-I. Their land now encompasses all of western High Rock, from the border
they share with Wayrest at Anticlere to the east, to Ykalon to the north. They
have four children now, and are much beloved in their realm.
If there are other repercussions of the mysterious Warp in the West, they have
not yet come to our attention in the course of twenty years of observation.
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(Search Code: LOLZ35)
~~Warrior~~
Reven
Item ID: 000243EB
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is the third book in a four-book series. If you have not read the first
two books, 'Beggar' and 'Thief,' you would be well advised to do so.
Suoibud Erol did not know much of his past, nor did he care to.
As a child, he had lived in Erolgard, but the kingdom was very poor and taxes
were as a result very high. He was too young to manage his abundant
inheritance, but his servants, fearing that their master would be ruined,
moved him to Jallenheim. No one knew why that location was picked. Some old
maid, long dead now, had thought it was a good place to raise a child. No one
else had a better idea.
There may have been children with a more pampered, more spoiled existence than
young Suoibud, but that is doubtful. As he grew, he understood that he was
rich, but he had nothing else. No family, no social position, no security at
all. Loyalty, he found out on more than one occasion, cannot truly be bought.
Knowing that he had but one asset, a vast fortune, he was determined to
protect it, and, if possible, increase it.
Some otherwise perfectly nice people are greedy, but Suoibud was that rare
accident of nature or breeding who has no other interest but acquiring and
hoarding gold. He was willing to do anything to increase his fortune. Most
recently, he had begun secretly hiring mercenaries to attack desirable
properties, and then buying them when no one wanted to live there any more.
The attacks would then, of course, cease, and Suoibud would have profitable
land which he had purchased for a song. It had begun small with a few farms,
but recently he had begun a more ambitious campaign.
In north-central Skyrim, there is an area called The Aalto, which is of unique
geographical interest. It is a dormant volcanic valley surrounded on all sides
by glaciers, so the earth is hot from the volcano, but the constant water
drizzle and air is frigid. A grape called Jazbay grows there comfortably, and
everywhere else in Tamriel it withers and dies. The strange vineyard is a
privately owned, and the wine produced from it is thus rare and extremely
expensive. It is said that the Emperor needs the permission of the Imperial
Council to have a glass of it once a year.
In order to harass the owner of The Aalto into selling his land cheap, Suoibud
had to hire more than a few mercenaries. He had to hire the finest private
army in Skyrim.
Suoibud did not like spending money, but he had agreed to pay the general of
the army, a woman called Laicifitra, a gem the size of an apple. He had not
given it to her yet — payment was to be delivered on the success of the
mission — but he had trouble sleeping knowing that he was going to giving up
such a prize. He always slept during the day so he could watch his storehouse
by night, when he knew thieves were about.
That brings us up to this moment when, after a fitful sleep, Suoibud woke up
at about noon, and surprised a thief in his bedroom. The thief was Eslaf.
Eslaf had been contemplating a leap from the window, a hundred feet down, into
the branches of a tree beyond the walls of the fortified palace, and a tumble
into a stack of hay. Anyone who has ever attempted such a feat will testify
that it takes some concentration and nerve to do such a thing. When he saw
that the rich man sleeping in the room had awakened, both left him, and Eslaf
slipped behind a tall ornamental shield on display to wait for Suoibud to go
back to sleep.
Suoibud did not go back to sleep. He had heard nothing, but could feel someone
in the room with him. He stood up and began pacing the room.
Suoibud paced and paced, and gradually decided that he was imagining things.
No one was there. His fortune was safe and secure.
He was returning to his bed when he heard a clunk. Turning around, he saw the
gem, the one he was to give to Laicifitra on the floor by the Atmoran cavalry
shield. A hand reached out from behind the shield and grabbed it up.
'Thief!' Suoibud cried out, grabbing a jeweled Akaviri katana from the wall
and lunging at the shield.
The 'fight' between Eslaf and Suoibud will not go down in the annals of great
duels. Suoibud did not know how to use a sword, and Eslaf was no expert at
blocking with a shield. It was clumsy, it was awkward. Suoibud was furious,
but was psychologically incapable of using the sword in any way that could
damage its fine filligree, reducing its market value. Eslaf kept moving,
dragging the shield with him, trying to keep it between him and the blade,
which is, after all, the most essential part of any block.
Suoibud screamed in frustration as he struck at the shield, bumping its way
across the room. He even tried negotiating with the thief, explaining that the
gem was promised to a great warrior named Laicifitra, and if he would give it
back, Suoibud would happily give him something else in return. Eslaf was not a
genius, but he did not believe that.
By the time Suoibud's guards came to the bedroom in response to their master's
calls, he had succeeded in backing the shield into a window.
They fell on the shield, having considerable more expertise with their swords
than Suoibud did, but they discovered that there was no one behind it. Eslaf
had leapt out the window and escaped.
As he ran heavily through the streets of Jallenheim, making jingling noises
from the gold coins in his pockets, and feeling the huge gem chafe where he
had hidden it, Eslaf did not know where he should go next. He knew only that
he could never go back to that town, and he must avoid this warrior named
Laicifitra who had claims on the jewel.
Eslaf Erol's story is continued in the book 'King.'
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~~BLUNT BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ36)
~~The Importance of Where~~
Ancient Tales of the Dwemer, Part III
Marobar Sul
Item ID: 000243EE
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ37)
~~King~~
The final book in the adventures of Eslaf Erol.
Reven
Item ID: 000243F0
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Gentle reader, you will not understand a word of what follows unless you have
read and commited to memory the first three volumes in this series, 'Beggar,'
'Thief,' and 'Warrior,' which leads up to this, the conclusion. I encourage
you to seek them out at your favorite bookseller.
We last left Eslaf Erol fleeing for his life, which was a common enough
occurance for him. He had stolen a lot of gold, and one particularly large
gem, from a rich man in Jallenheim named Suoibud. The thief fled north,
spending the gold wildly, as thieves generally do, for all sorts of illicit
pleasures, which would no doubt disturb the gentleman or lady reading this, so
I will not go into detail.
The one thing he held onto was the gem.
He didn't keep it because of any particular attachment, but because he did not
know anyone rich enough to buy it from him. And so he found himself in the
ironic situation of being penniless and having in his possession a gem worth
millions.
'Will you give me a room, some bread, and a flagon of beer in exchange for
this?' he asked a tavernkeep in the little village of Kravenswold, which was
so far north, it was half situated on the Sea of Ghosts.
The tavernkeep looked at it suspiciously.
'It's just crystal,' Eslaf said quickly. 'But isn't it pretty?'
'Let me see that,' said a young armor-clad woman at the end of the bar.
Without waiting permission, she picked up the gem, studied it, and smiled not
very sweetly at Eslaf. 'Would you join me at my table?'
'I'm actually in a bit of a hurry,' replied Eslaf, holding out his hand for
the stone. 'Another time?'
'Out of respect for my friend, the tavernkeep here, my men and I leave our
weapons behind when we come in here,' the woman said casually, not handing the
gem back, but picking up a broom that was sitting against the bar. 'I can
assure you, however, that I can use this quite effectively as a blunt
instrument. Not a weapon, of course, but an instrument to stun, medicinally
crush a bone or two, and then - once it is on the inside ...'
'Which table?' asked Eslaf quickly.
The young woman led him to a large table in the back of the tavern where ten
of the biggest Nord brutes Eslaf had ever seen were sitting. They looked at
him with polite disinterest, as if he were a strange insect, worth briefly
studying before crushing.
'My name is Laicifitra,' she said, and Eslaf blinked. That was the name
Suoibud had uttered before Eslaf had made his escape. 'And these are my
lieutenants. I am the commander of a very large independent army of noble
knights. The very best in Skyrim. Most recently we were given a job to attack
a vineyard in The Aalto to force its owner, a man named Laernu, to sell to our
employer, a man named Suoibud. Our payment was to be a gem of surpassing size
and quality, quite famous and unmistakable.
'We did as we were asked, and when we went to Suoibud to collect our fee, he
told us he was unable to pay, due to a recent burglary. In the end, though, he
saw things our way, and paid us an amount of gold almost equal to the worth of
the prize jewel … It did not empty out his treasury entirely, but it meant he
was unable to buy the land in the Aalto after all. So we were not paid enough,
Suoibud has taken a heavy financial blow, and Laernu's prize crop of Jazbay
has been temporarily destroyed for naught,' Laicifitra took a long, slow drink
of her mead before continuing. 'Now, I wonder, could you tell me, how came you
in the possession of the gem we were promised?'
Eslaf did not answer at once.
Instead, he took a piece of bread from the plate of the savage bearded
barbarian on his left and ate it.
'I'm sorry,' he said, his mouth full. 'May I? Of course, I couldn't stop you
from taking the gem even if I wanted to, and as a matter of fact, I don't mind
at all. It's also useless to deny how it came into my possession. I stole it
from your employer. I certainly didn't mean you or your noble knights any harm
by it, but I can understand why the word of a thief is not suitable for one
such as yourself.'
'No,' replied Laicifitra, frowning, but her eyes showing amusement. 'Not
suitable at all.'
'But before you kill me,' Eslaf said, grabbing another piece of bread. 'Tell
me, how suitable is it for noble knights such as yourself to be paid twice for
one job? I have no honor myself, but I would have thought that since Suoibud
took a profit loss to pay you, and now you have the gem, your handsome profit
is not entirely honorable.'
Laicifitra picked up the broom and looked at Eslaf. Then she laughed, 'What is
your name, thief?'
'Eslaf,' said the thief.
'We will take the gem, as it was promised to us. But you are right. We should
not be paid twice for the same job. So,' said the warrior woman, putting down
the broomstick. 'You are our new employer. What would you have your own army
do for you?'
Many people could find quite a few good uses for their own army, but Eslaf was
not among them. He searched his brain, and finally it was decided that it was
a debt to be paid later. For all her brutality, Laicifitra was an simple
woman, raised, he learned, by the very army she commanded. Fighting and honor
were the only things she knew.
When Eslaf left Kravenswold, he had an army at his beck and call, but not a
coin to his name. He knew he would have to steal something soon.
As he wandered the woods, scrounging for food, he was beset with a strange
feeling of familiarity. These were the very woods he had been in as a child,
also starving, also scrounging. When he came out on the road, he found that he
had come back on the kingdom where he had been raised by the dear, stupid, shy
maid Drusba.
He was in Erolgard.
It had fallen even deeper into despair since his youth. The shops that had
refused him food were boarded up, abandoned. The only people left were hollow,
hopeless figures, so ravaged by taxation, despotism, and barbaric raids that
they were too weak to flee. Eslaf realized how lucky he was to have gotten out
in his youth.
There was, however, a castle and a king. Eslaf immediately made plans to raid
the treasury. As usual, he watched the place carefully, taking note of the
security and the habits of the guards. This took some time. In the end, he
realized there was no security and no guards.
He walked in the front door, and down the empty corridors to the treasury. It
was full of precisely nothing, except one man. He was Eslaf's age, but looked
much older.
'There's nothing to steal,' he said. 'Would that there was.'
King Ynohp, though prematurely aged, had the same white blond hair and blue
eyes like broken glass that Eslaf had. In fact, he resembled Suoibud and
Laicifitra as well. And though Eslaf had never met the ruined landlord of the
Aalto, Laernu, he looked him too. Not surprisingly, since they were
quintuplets.
'So, you have nothing?' asked Eslaf, gently.
'Nothing except my poor kingdom, curse it,' the King grumbled. 'Before I came
to the throne, it was powerful and rich, but I inherited none of that, only
the title. For my entire life, I've had responsibility thrust on my shoulders,
but never had the means to handle it properly. I look over the desolation
which is my birthright, and I hate it. If it were possible to steal a kingdom,
I would not lift a finger to stop you.'
It was, it turned out, quite possible to steal a kingdom. Eslaf became known
as Ynohp, a deception easily done given their physical similarities. The real
Ynohp, taking the name of Ylekilnu, happily left his demesne, becoming
eventually a simple worker in the vineyards of The Aalto. For the first time
free of responsibility, he fell into his new life with gusto, the years
melting off him.
The new Ynohp called in his favor with Laicifitra, using her army to restore
peace to the kingdom of Erolgard. Now that it was safe, business and commerce
began to return to the land, and Eslaf reduced the tyrannical taxes to
encourage it to grow. Upon hearing that, Suoibud, ever nervous about losing
his money, elected to return to the land of his birth. When he died years
later, out of greed, he had refused to name someone an heir, so the kingdom
received its entire fortune.
Eslaf used part of the gold to buy the vineyards of The Aalto, after hearing
great things of it from Ynohp.
And so it was that Erolgard was returned to its previous prosperity by the
fifth born child of King Ytluaf - Eslaf Erol, beggar, thief, warrior (of
sorts), and king.
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(Search Code: LOLZ38)
~~The Legendary Sancre Tor~~
Matera Chapel
Item ID: 00073A62
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During the Skyrim Conquests [1E 240 - 415], ambitious Highland earls, envious
of the conquests and wealth of their northern cousins in High Rock and
Morrowind, looked south over the ramparts of the Jerall Mountains for their
opportunities. The Jerall Mountains proved to be too great a barrier, and
northern Cyrodiil too poor a prize, to reward full scale Nord invasions.
However, Alessia hired many ambitious Nord and Breton warbands as mercenaries
with the promises of rich lands and trade concessions. Once settled among the
victorious Alessian Cyrodiils, the Nord and Breton warriors and battlemages
were quickly assimilated into the comfortable and prosperous Nibenean culture.
Alessia received the divine inspiration for her Slave Rebellion at Sancre Tor,
and here she founded her holy city. Sancre Tor's mines provided some wealth,
but the poor soils and harsh climate of the remote mountain site meant it must
be supplied with food and goods from the Heartlands. Further, located on one
of the few passes through the Jeralls, its fortunes were subject to the
instability of relations with Skyrim. When relations were good with Skyrim, it
prospered through trade and alliance. When relations were bad with Skyrim, it
was vulnerable to siege and occupation by the Nords.
With the decline of the Alessian Order [circa 1E2321], the seat of religious
rule of Cyrodiil moved south to the Imperial City, but Sancre Tor remained a
mountain fortress and major religious center until the rise of the Septim
Dynasty. In 2E852, the city was suffering under one of the periodic
occupations by Skyrim and High Rock invaders. King Cuhlecain sent his new
general, Talos, to recapture the city and expel the northern invaders. During
his siege, Sancre Tor was destroyed and abandoned. Realizing the strategic
weakness of the site, General Talos -- later Tiber Septim -- resolved to
abandon Sancre Tor, and during his reign, no effort was made to rebuild the
city or citadel.
Alessian historians asserted that Sancre Tor was magically concealed and
defended by the gods. Records of Sancre Tor's repeated defeats and occupations
by northern invaders gives the lie to this assertion. The entrance to the
citadel was indeed concealed by sorcery, and the citadel and its labyrinthine
subterranean complex were defended by magical traps and illusions, but their
secrets were betrayed to besieging Nords by the Breton enchanters who crafted
them.
One enduring feature of the legend of Sancre Tor is the ancient tombs of the
Reman emperors. Following the defeat of the Akaviri invaders, Sancre Tor
enjoyed a brief resurgence of wealth and culture under Reman Cyrodiil and his
descendants, Reman II and Reman III. Tracing his ancestry to St. Alessia, and
following the tradition that St. Alessia was buried in the catacombs beneath
Sancre Tor [1], Reman built splendid funerary precincts in the depths of the
ancient citadel underpassages. Here the last Reman emperor, Reman III, was
buried in his tomb with the Amulet of Kings.
During the Sack of Sancre Tor, General Talos is said to have recovered the
Amulet of Kings from the tomb of Reman III. Theologians ascribe the long
centuries of political and economic turmoil following the collapse of the
Reman dynasty to the loss of the Amulet of Kings, and associate the
renaissance of the Cyrodilic empire in the Third Era with Tiber Septim's
recovery of the Amulet from Reman III's tomb.
Sancre Tor has lain in ruins since the beginning of the Third Age, and the
surrounding region is virtually uninhabited. Now all communications with the
north are through the passes at Chorrol and Bruma, and Sancre Tor's citadel
and underpassages have become the refuge of various savage goblin tribes.
[1] The is a competing tradition that St. Alessia is buried on the site of the
Temple of the One in the Imperial City. The actual resting place of St.
Alessia is unknown.
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(Search Code: LOLZ39)
~~Mace Etiquette~~
Item ID: 00073A66
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Warriors sometimes make the mistake of thinking that there are no tactics with
a mace. They assume that the sword is all about skill and the mace is only
about strength and stamina. As a veteran instructor of mace tactics, I can
tell you they are wrong.
Wielding a mace properly is all about timing and momentum. Once the swing of
the mace has begun, stopping it or slowing it down is difficult. The fighter
is committed to not just the blow, but also the recoil. Begin your strike when
the opponent is leaning forward, hopefully off balance. It is completely
predictable that he will lean backward, so aim for a point behind his head. By
the time the mace gets there, his head will be in it's path.
The mace should be held at the ready, shoulder high. The windup should not
extend past the shoulders by more than a hand's width. When swinging, lead
with the elbow. As the elbow passes the height of your collarbone, extend the
forearm like a whip. The extra momentum will drive the mace faster and harder,
causing far more damage.
At the moment of impact, let the wrist loosen. The mace will bounce and hurt a
stiff wrist. Allow the recoil of the blow to drive the mace back into the
ready position, thereby preparing the warrior for a quicker second strike.
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(Search Code: LOLZ40)
~~Night Falls on Sentinel~~
Boali
Item ID: 000243EF
</pre><pre id="faqspan-7">
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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..."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
~~CONJURATION BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ41)
~~2920, Frostfall (V10)~~
Carlovac Townway
Item ID: 000243F5
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ42)
~~2920, Hearth Fire (V9)~~
Carlovac Townway
Item ID: 000243F4
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ43)
~~The Door of Oblivion~~
Seif-ij Hidja
Item ID: 000243F2
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
'When thou enterest into Oblivion, Oblivion entereth into thee.'
-- Nai Tyrol-Llar
The greatest mage who ever lived was my master Morian Zenas. You have heard of
him as the author of the book 'On Oblivion,' the standard text for all on
matters Daedric. Despite many entreaties over the years, he refused to update
his classic book with his new discoveries and theories because he found that
the more one delves into these realms, the less certain one is. He did not
want conjecture, he wanted facts.
For decades before and after the publication of 'On Oblivion,' Zenas compiled
a vast personal library on the subject of Oblivion, the home of the Daedra. He
divided his time between this research and personal magickal growth, on the
assumption that should he succeed in finding a way into the dangerous world
beyond and behind ours, he would need much power to wander its dark paths.
Twelve years before Zenas began the journey he had prepared his life to make,
he hired me as his assistant. I possessed the three attributes he required for
the position: I was young and eager to help without question; I could read any
book once and memorize its contents; and, despite my youth, I was already a
Master of Conjuration.
Zenas too was a Master of Conjuration - indeed, a Master at all the known and
unknown Schools - but he did not want to rely on his ability alone in the most
perilous of his research. In an underground vault, he summoned Daedra to
interview them on their native land, and for that he needed another Conjurer
to make certain they came, were bound, and were sent away again without
incident.
I will never forget that vault, not for its look which was plain and
unadorned, but for what you couldn't see. There were scents that lingered long
after the summoned creatures had left, flowers and sulfur, sex and decay,
power and madness. They haunt me still to this very day.
Conjuration, for the layman unacquainted with its workings, connects the
caster's mind with that of the summoned. It is a tenuous link, meant only to
lure, hold, and dismiss, but in the hands of a Master, it can be much
stronger. The Psijics and Dwemer can (in the Dwemer's case, perhaps I should
say, could) connect with the minds of others, and converse miles apart - a
skill that is sometimes called telepathy.
Over the course of my employment, Zenas and I developed such a link between
one another. It was accidental, a result of two powerful Conjurers working
closely together, but we decided that it would be invaluable should he succeed
in traveling to Oblivion. Since the denizens of that land could be touched
even by the skills of an amateur Conjurer, it was possible we could continue
to communicate while he was there, so I could record his discoveries.
The 'Doors to Oblivion,' to use Morian Zenas's phrase, are not easily found,
and we exhausted many possibilities before we found one where we held the key.
The Psijics of Artaeum have a place they call The Dreaming Cave, where it is
said one can enter into the Daedric realms and return. Iachesis, Sotha Sil,
Nematigh, and many others have been recorded as using this means, but despite
many entreaties to the Order, we were denied its use. Celarus, the leader of
the Order, has told us it has been sealed off for the safety of all.
We had hopes of using the ruins of the Battlespire to access Oblivion. The
Weir Gate still stands, though the old proving grounds of the Imperial
Battlemages itself was shattered some years ago in Jagar Tharn's time. Sadly,
after an exhaustive search through the detritus, we had to conclude that when
it was destroyed, all access to the realms beyond, the Soul Cairn, the Shade
Perilous, and the Havoc Wellhead, had been broken. It was probably for the
good, but it frustrated our goal.
The reader may have heard of other Doors, and he may be assured we attempted
to find them all.
Some are pure legend, or at any rate, not traceable based on the information
left behind. There are references in lore to Marukh's Abyss, the Corryngton
Mirror, the Mantellan Crux, the Crossroads, the Mouth, a riddle of an
alchemical formula called Jacinth and Rising Sun, and many other places and
objects that are said to be Doors, but we could not find.
Some exist, but cannot be entered safely. The whirlpool in the Abecean called
the Maelstrom of Bal can make ships disappear, and may be a portal into
Oblivion, but the trauma of riding its waters would surely slay any who tried.
Likewise, we did not consider it worth the risk to leap from the Pillar of
Thras, a thousand foot tall spiral of coral, though we witnessed the
sacrifices the sloads made there. Some victims were killed by the fall, but
some, indeed, seemed to vanish before being dashed on the rocks. Since the
sload did not seem certain why some were taken and some died, we did not favor
the odds of the plunge.
The simplest and most maddeningly complex way to go to Oblivion was simply to
cease to be here, and begin to be there. Throughout history, there are
examples of mages who seemed to travel to the realms beyond ours seemingly at
will. Many of these voyagers are long dead, if they ever existed, but we were
able to find one still living. In a tower off Zafirbel Bay on the island of
Vvardenfell in the province of Morrowind there exists a very old, very
reclusive wizard named Divayth Fyr.
He was not easy to reach, and he was reluctant to share with Morian Zenas the
secret Door to Oblivion. Fortunately, my master's knowledge of lore impressed
Fyr, and he taught him the way. I would be breaking my promise to Zenas and
Fyr to explain the procedure here, and I would not divulge it even if I could.
If there is dangerous knowledge to be had, that is it. But I do not reveal too
much to say that Fyr's scheme relied on exploiting a series of portals to
various realms created by a Telvanni wizard long missing and presumed dead.
Against the disadvantage of this limited number of access points, we weighed
the relative reliability and security of passage, and considered ourselves
fortunate in our informant.
Morian Zenas then left this world to begin his exploration. I stayed at the
library to transcribe his information and help him with any research he
needed.
'Dust,' he whispered to me on the first day of his voyage. Despite the
inherent dreariness of the word, I could hear his excitement in his voice,
echoing in my mind. 'I can see from one end of the world to the other in a
million shades of gray. There is no sky or ground or air, only particles,
floating, falling, whirling about me. I must levitate and breathe by magickal
means …'
Zenas explored the nebulous land for some time, encountering vaporous
creatures and palaces of smoke. Though he never met the Prince, we concluded
that he was in Ashpit, said to be the home of Malacath, where anguish,
betrayal, and broken promises like ash filled the bitter air.
'The sky is on fire,' I heard him say as he moved on to the next realm. 'The
ground is sludge, but traversable. I see blackened ruins all around me, like a
war was fought here in the distant past. The air is freezing. I cast blooms of
warmth all around me, but it still feels like daggers of ice stabbing me in
all directions.'
This was Coldharbour, where Molag Bal was Prince. It appeared to Zenas as if
it were a future Nirn, under the King of Rape, desolate and barren, filled
with suffering. I could hear Morian Zenas weep at the images he saw, and
shiver at the sight of the Imperial Palace, spattered with blood and
excrement.
'Too much beauty,' Zenas gasped when he went to the next realm. 'I am half
blind. I see flowers and waterfalls, majestic trees, a city of silver, but it
is all a blur. The colors run like water. It's raining now, and the wind
smells like perfume. This surely is Moonshadow, where Azura dwells.'
Zenas was right, and astonishingly, he even had audience with the Queen of
Dusk and Dawn in her rose palace. She listened to his tale with a smile, and
told him of the coming of the Nevevarine. My master found Moonshadow so
lovely, he wished to stay there, half-blind, forever, but he knew he must move
on and complete his journey of discovery.
'I am in a storm,' he told me as he entered the next realm. He described the
landscape of dark twisted trees, howling spirits, and billowing mist, and I
thought he might have entered the Deadlands of Mehrunes Dagon. But then he
said quickly, 'No, I am no longer in a forest. There was a flash of lightning,
and now I am on a ship. The mast is tattered. The crew is slaughtered.
Something is coming through the waves … oh, gods … Wait, now, I am in a dank
dungeon, in a cell …'
He was not in the Deadlands, but Quagmire, the nightmare realm of Vaernima.
Every few minutes, there was a flash of lightning and reality shifted, always
to something more horrible and horrifying. A dark castle one moment, a den of
ravening beasts the next, a moonlit swamp, a coffin where he was buried alive.
Fear got the better of my master, and he quickly passed to the next realm.
I heard him laugh, 'I feel like I'm home now.'
Morian Zenas described to me an endless library, shelves stretching on in
every direction, stacks on top of stacks. Pages floated on a mystical wind
that he could not feel. Every book had a black cover with no title. He could
see no one, but felt the presence of ghosts moving through the stacks, rifling
through books, ever searching.
It was Apocrypha. The home of Hermaeus-Mora, where all forbidden knowledge can
be found. I felt a shudder in my mind, but I could not tell if it was my
master's or mine.
Morian Zenas never traveled to another realm that I know of.
Throughout his visits to the first four realms, my master spoke to me
constantly. Upon entering the Apocrypha, he became quieter, as he was lured
into the world of research and study, the passions that had controlled his
heart while on Nirn. I would frantically try to call to him, but he closed his
mind to me.
Then he would whisper, 'This cannot be …'
'No one would ever guess the truth …'
'I must learn more …'
'I see the world, a last illusion's shimmer, it is crumbling all around us …'
I would cry back to him, begging him to tell me what was happening, what he
was seeing, what he was learning. I even tried using Conjuration to summon him
as if he were a Daedra himself, but he refused to leave. Morian Zenas was
lost.
I last received a whisper from him six months ago. Before then, it had been
five years, and three before that. His thoughts are no longer intelligible in
any language. Perhaps he is still in Apocrypha, lost but happy, in a trap he
refuses to escape.
Perhaps he slipped between the stacks and passed into the Madhouse of
Sheogorath, losing his sanity forever.
I would save him if I could.
I would silence his whispers if I could.
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(Search Code: LOLZ44)
~~Liminal Bridges~~
Camilonwe of Alinor
Item ID: 00073A60
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Transliminal passage of quickened objects or entities without the persistent
agency of hyperagonal media is not possible, and even if possible, would
result in instantaneous retromission of the transported referents. Only a
transpontine circumpenetration of the limen will result in transits of greater
than infinitessimal duration.
Though other hyperagonal media may exist in theory, the only known
transliminal artifact capable of sustained transpontine circumpenetration is
the sigil stone. A sigil stone is a specimen of pre-Mythic quasi-crystalline
morpholith that has been transformed into an extra-dimensional artifact
through the arcane inscription of a daedric sigil. Though some common
morpholiths like soul gems may be found in nature, the exotic morpoliths used
to make sigil stones occur only in pocket voids of Oblivion, and cannot be
prospected or harvested without daedric assistance.
Therefore, since both the morpholiths and the daedric sigils required for
hyperagonal media cannot be obtained without traffic and commerce with Daedra
Lords, it is necessary that a transliminal mechanic cultivate a working
knowledge of conjuration — though purpose-built enchantments may be
substituted if the mechanic has sufficient invocatory skill. Traffic and
commerce with Daedra Lords is an esoteric but well-established practice, and
lies outside the compass of this treatise. (1)
Presuming a sigil stone has been acquired, the transliminal mechanic must
first prepare the morpholith to receive the daedric sigil.
Let the mechanic prepare a chamber, sealed against all daylight and
disturbances of the outer air, roofed and walled with white stone and floored
with black tiles. All surfaces of this chamber must be ritually purified with
a solution of void salts in ether solvent.
A foursquare table shall be placed in the center of the room, with a dish to
receive the morpholith. Four censers shall be prepared with incense compounded
from gorvix and harrada. On the equinox, the mechanic shall then place the
morpolith in the dish and intone the rites of the Book of Law, beginning at
dawn and continuing without cease until the sunset of the same day.
The mechanic may then present the purified morpholith to the Daedra Lord for
his inscription. Once inscribed with the Daedra Lord's sigil, the morpholith
becomes a true sigil stone, a powerful artifact that collects and stores
arcane power — similar in many respects to a charged soul gem, but of a much
greater magnitude. And it is this sigil stone that is required to provide the
tremendous arcane power necessary to sustain the enchantment that supports the
transpontine circumpenetration of the limen.
To open a gate to Oblivion, the mechanic must communicate directly, by spell
or enchantment, with the Daedra Lord who inscribed the sigil stone in
question. The Daedra Lord and the mechanic jointly invoke the conjurational
charter (2), and the mechanic activates the charged sigil stone, which is
immediately transported through the liminal barrier to the spot where its
sigil was inscribed, thus opening a temporary portal between Mundus and
Oblivion. This portal may only remain open for a brief period of time,
depending on the strength of the liminal barrier at the chosen spots, several
minutes being the longest ever reported, so the usefulness of such a gate is
quite limited.
1 — Interested students are invited to consult the works of Albrecht
Theophannes Bombidius and Galerion The Mystic for the fundaments of this
discipline.
2 — Recommended examples of the conjurational charter may be found in
Therion's Book of Most Arcane Covenants or Ralliballah's Eleven Ritual Forms.
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~~Mythic Dawn Commentaries 1~~
Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes Book One
The first book read by initiates to the Mythic Dawn cult.
This is Book One of Mythic Dawn Commentaries
The daedric title reads DAGON
Mankar Camoran
Item ID: 00022B04
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Greetings, novitiate, and know first a reassurance: Mankar Camoran was once
like you, asleep, unwise, protonymic. We mortals leave the dreaming-sleeve of
birth the same, unmantled save for the symbiosis with our mothers, thus to
practice and thus to rapprochement, until finally we might through new eyes
leave our hearths without need or fear that she remains behind. In this moment
we destroy her forever and enter the demesne of Lord Dagon.
Reader, this book is your door to that demesne, and though you be a destroyer
you must still submit to locks. Lord Dagon would only have those clever enough
to pause; all else the Aurbis claims in their fool running. Walk first. Heed.
The impatience you feel is your first slave to behead.
Enter as Lord Dagon has written: come slow and bring four keys. Know that then
you are royalty, a new breed of destroyer, whose garden shall flood with
flowers known and unknown, as it was in the mythic dawn. Thus shall you return
to your first primal wail and yet come out different. It shall this time be
neonymbiosis, master akin to Master, whose Mother is miasma.
Every quarter has known us, and none bore our passing except with trembling.
Perhaps you came to us through war, or study, or shadow, or the alignment of
certain snakes. Though each path matters in its kind, the prize is always
thus: welcome, novitiate, that you are here at all means that you have the
worthiness of kings. Seek thy pocket now, and look! There is the first key,
glinting with the light of a new dawn.
Night follows day, and so know that this primary insight shall fall alike unto
the turbulent evening sea where all faiths are tested. Again, a reassurance:
even the Usurper went under the Iliac before he rose up to claim his fleet.
Fear only for a second. Shaken belief is like water for a purpose: in the
garden of the Dawn we shall breathe whole realities.
Enter as Lord Dagon has written: come slow and bring four keys. Our Order is
based on the principles of his mighty razor: Novitiate, Questing Knight,
Chaplain, and Master. Let the evil ones burn in its light as if by the excess
of our vision. Then shalt our Knowledge go aright. However, recall that your
sight is yet narrow, and while you have the invitation, you have not the
address.
My own summons came through a book Lord Dagon wrote himself in the deserts of
rust and wounds. Its name is the 'Mysterium Xarxes', Aldmeretada aggregate,
forefather to the wife of all enigma. Each word is razor-fed and secret,
thinner than cataclysms, tarnished like red-drink. That I mention it at all is</pre><pre id="faqspan-8">
testament to your new rank, my child. Your name is now cut into its weight.
Palace, hut, or cave, you have left all the fog worlds of conception behind.
Nu-mantia! Liberty! Rejoice in the promise of paradise!
Endlessly it shall form and reform around you, deeds as entities, all-systems
only an hour before they bloom to zero sums, flowering like vestments, divine
raiment worn to dance at Lord Dagon's golden feet. In his first arm, a storm,
his second the rush of plagued rain, the third all the tinder of Anu, and the
fourth the very eyes of Padhome. Feel uplifted in thine heart that you have
this first key, for it shall strike high and low into the wormrot of false
heavens.
Roaring I wandered until I grew hoarse with the gospel. I had read the
mysteries of Lord Dagon and feeling anew went mad with the overflow. My words
found no purchase until I became hidden. These were not words for the common
of Tamriel, whose clergy long ago feigned the very existence of the Dawn.
Learn from my mistake; know that humility was Mankar Camoran's original
wisdom. Come slow, and bring four keys.
Offering myself to that daybreak allowed the girdle of grace to contain me.
When my voice returned, it spoke with another tongue. After three nights I
could speak fire.
Red-drink, razor-fed, I had glimpsed the path unto the garden, and knew that
to inform others of its harbor I had to first drown myself in search's sea.
Know ye that I have found my fleet, and that you are the flagship of my hope.
Greetings, novitiate, Mankar Camoran was once you, asleep, unwise, protonymic,
but Am No More. Now I sit and wait to feast with thee on all the worlds of
this cosmos. Nu-mantia! Liberty!
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~~The Warrior's Charge~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 000243F6
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An old poem of the Redguards
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
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~~DESTRUCTION BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ47)
~~The Art of War Magic~~
Zurin Arctus, with Commentary By Other Learned Masters
Item ID: 000243FA
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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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(Search Code: LOLZ48)
~~The Horrors of Castle Xyr~~
Baloth-Kul
Item ID: 000243F7
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A One Act Play
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
Act I
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ49)
~~A Hypothetical Treachery~
Anthil Morvir
Item ID: 000243F9
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ50)
~~Mystery of Talara, v3~~
Anthil Morvir
Item ID: 00243FB
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ51)
~~Mythic Dawn Commentaries 2~~
Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes Book Two
The second book read by initiates to the Mythic Dawn cult.
This is Book Two of Mythic Dawn Commentaries
The daedric title reads ALTADOON
Mankar Camoran
Item ID: 00022B05
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Whosoever findeth this document, I call him brother.
Answers are liberations, where the slaves of Malbioge that came to know
Numantia cast down their jailer king, Maztiak, which the Xarxes Mysterium
calls the Arkayn. Maztiak, whose carcass was dragged through the streets by
his own bone-walkers and whose flesh was opened on rocks thereon and those
angels who loved him no longer did drink from his honeyed ichors screaming
"Let all know free will and do as they will!"
Your coming was foretold, my brother, by the Lord Dagon in his book of razors.
You are to come as Idols drop away from you one by one. You are exalted in
eyes that have not yet set on you; you, swain to well-travelled to shatterer
of mantles. You, brother, are to sit with me in Paradise and be released of
all unknowns. Indeed, I shall show you His book and its foul-and-many-
feathered rubric so that you can put into symbols what you already know: the
sphere of destruction is but the milk of the unenslaved. I fault not your
stumbling, for they are expected and given grace by the Oils. I crave not your
downfalls, though without them you might surpass me even in the coming Earth
of all infinities. Lord Dagon wishes you no ills but the momentous. And as He
wants, you must want, and so learn from the pages of God this: the Ritual of
Want:
Whisper to earth and earth, where the meddlers take no stones except to blood,
as blood IS blood, and to the cracking of bone, as bone IS bone, and so to
crack and answer and fall before the one and one, I call you Dragon as brother
and king.
Hides of dreugh: 7 and 7, draught of Oil, 1 and 1, circles drawn by wet
Dibellites: three concentric and let their lower blood fall where it may, a
birth watched by blackbirds: Hearthfire 1st. Incant the following when your
hearing becomes blurred:
Enraptured, he who finally goes unrecorded.
Recorded, the slaves that without knowing turn the Wheel.
Enslaved, all the children of the Aurbis As It Is."
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(Search Code: LOLZ52)
~~Response to Bero's Speech~~
Malviser, Battlemage
Item ID: 000243F8
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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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
~~HAND TO HAND BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ53)
~~Ahzirr Traajijazeri~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 000243FE
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is an absurd book. But like all things Khajiiti, as the expression goes,</pre><pre id="faqspan-9">
"gzalzi vaberzarita maaszi", or "absurdity has become necessity." Much of what
I have to say has probably never been written before, and if it has, no one
has read it. The Imperials feel that everything must be written down for
posterity, but every Khajiiti kitten born in Elsweyr knows his history, he
drinks it in with his mother's milk.
Fairly recently, however, our struggles to win back our homeland from the
rapacious Count of Leyawiin have attracted sympathetic persons, even
Imperials, who wish to join our cause, but, it seems, do not understand our
ways. Our enemies, of course, do not understand us either, but that is as we
wish it, a weapon in our arsenal. Our non-Khajiiti friends, however, should
know who we are, why we are, and what we are doing.
The Khajiit mind is not engineered for self-reflection. We simply do what we
do, and let the world be damned. To put into words and rationalize our
philosophy is foreign, and I cannot guarantee that even after reading this,
you will understand us. Grasp this simple truth -- "q'zi no vano thzina
ualizz" -- "When I contradict myself, I am telling the truth."
We are the Renrijra Krin. "The Mercenary's Grin¸" "The Laugh of the
Landless," and "The Smiling Scum" would all be fair translations. It is a
derogatory expression, but it is amusing so we have adopted it.
We have anger in our hearts, but not on our faces. We fight for Elsweyr, but
we do not ally ourselves with the Mane, who symbolizes our land. We believe in
justice, but do not follow laws.
"Q'zi no vano thzina ualizz."
These are not rules, for there is no word for "rules" in Ta'agra. Call them
our "thjizzrini" -- "foolish concepts."
1. "Vaba Do'Shurh'do": "It Is Good To Be Brave"
We are struggling against impossible odds, against the very Empire of Tamriel.
Our cause is the noblest cause of all: defense of home. If we fail, we betray
our past and our future. Our dead are "Ri'sallidad", which may be interpreted
as "martyrs" in the truest, best sense of that word which is so often misused.
We honor their sacrifice and, beneath our smiles, mourn them deeply.
Our bravery most obviously shows in the smile that is the "Krin" part of our
name. This does not mean that we walk about grinning like the idiotic
baboonish Imga of Valenwood. We simply are entertained by adversary. We find
an equal, fair fight tiresome in the extreme. We confidently smile because we
know our victory in the end is assured. And we know our smiles drive our
enemies insane.
2. "Vaba Maaszi Lhajiito": "It Is Necessary To Run Away"
We are struggling against impossible odds, against the very Empire of Tamriel.
Honor is madness. Yes, we loved the Renrijra Krin who died in brave battle
against the forces of the Empire, but I guarantee you that each of those
Ri'sallidad had an escape route he or she failed to use, and died saying,
"Damn."
When the great Senche-Raht comes to the Saimisil Steppes, he will find himself
unable to hunt, unable to sleep, as the tiny Alfiq leap onto his back, biting
him, and running off before he has a chance to turn his great body to face
them. Eventually, though he may stubbornly hope to catch the Alfiq, the
Senche-Raht always leaves. They are our cousins, the Alfiq, and we have
adopted their strategy against the great tiger of Leyawiin.
Do not ally yourself with the Renrij if you yearn to be part of a mighty army,
marching resolutely forth, for whom retreat is anathema. We will laugh at your
suicidal idiocy as we slip into the reeds of the river, and watch the
inevitable slaughter.
3. "Fusozay Var Var": "Enjoy Life"
Life is short. If you have not made love recently, please, put down this book,
and take care of that with all haste. Find a wanton lass or a frisky lad, or
several, in whatever combination your wise loins direct, and do not under any
circumstances play hard to get. Our struggle against the colossal forces of
oppression can wait.
Good. Welcome back.
We Renrijra Krin live and fight together, and know that Leyawiin and the
Empire will not give way very soon, likely not in our lifetimes. In the time
we have, we do not want our closest comrades to be dour, dull, colorless,
sober, and virginal. If we did, we would have joined the Emperor's Blades.
Do not begrudge us our lewd jokes, our bawdy, drunken nights, our moonsugar.
They are the pleasures that Leyawiin denies us, and so we take our good humor
very seriously.
4. "Fusozay Var Dar": "Kill Without Qualm"
Life is short. Very short, as many have learned when they have crossed the
Renrijra Krin.
We fight dirty. If an enemy is facing us, we might consider our options, and
even slip away if his sword looks too big. If his back is to us, however, I
personally favor knocking him down, and then jumping on his neck where the
bones snap with a gratifying crunch. Of course, it is up to you and your
personal style.
5. "Ahzirr Durrarriss": "We Give Freely To The People"
Let us not forget our purpose. We are fighting for our families, the Khajiiti
driven from the rich, fertile shores of Lake Makapi and the River Malapi,
where they and their ancestors lived since time immemorial. It is our battle,
but their tragedy. We must show them, lest they are swayed by other rhetoric,
that we are fighting for them.
The Mane, The Emperor, and The Count can give speeches, pass laws, and, living
life in the open, explain their positions and philosophies to their people to
stave off the inevitable revolution. Extralegal entities, such as the Renrijra
Krin, must make our actions count for our words. This means more than fighting
the good fight, and having a laugh at our befuddled adversaries. It means
engaging and seducing the people. Ours is not a military war, it is a
political war. If the people rise up against our oppressors, they will
retreat, and we will win.
Give to these people, whenever possible, gold, moonsugar, and our strong arms,
and though they hide, their hearts will be with us.
6. "Ahzirr Traajijazeri": "We Justly Take By Force"
Let us not forget our purpose. We are thieves and thugs, smugglers and
saboteurs. If we cannot take a farm, we burn it to the ground. If the
Imperials garrisoned in a glorious ancient stronghold, beloved by our
ancestors, will not yield, we tear the structure apart. If the only way to
rescue the land from the Leyawiin misappropriation is to make it uninhabitable
by all, so be it.
We want our life and our home back as it was twenty years ago, but if that is
not realistic, then we will accept a different simple, pragmatic goal.
Revenge. With a smile.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ54)
~~Immortal Blood~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 000243FC
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The moons and stars were hidden from sight, making that particular quiet night
especially dark. The town guard had to carry torches to make their rounds; but
the man who came to call at my chapel carried no light with him. I came to
learn that Movarth Piquine could see in the dark almost as well as the light —
an excellent talent, considering his interests were exclusively nocturnal.
One of my acolytes brought him to me, and from the look of him, I at first
thought he was in need of healing. He was pale to the point of opalescence
with a face that looked like it had once been very handsome before some
unspeakable suffering. The dark circles under his eyes bespoke exhaustion, but
the eyes themselves were alert, intense, almost insane.
He quickly dismissed my notion that he himself was ill, though he did want to
discuss a specific disease.
"Vampirism," he said, and then paused at my quizzical look. "I was told that
you were someone I should seek out for help understanding it."
"Who told you that?" I asked with a smile.
"Tissina Gray."
I immediately remembered her. A brave, beautiful knight who had needed my
assistance separating fact from fiction on the subject of the vampire. It had
been two years, and I had never heard whether my advice had proved effective.
"You've spoken to her? How is her ladyship?" I asked.
"Dead," Movarth replied coldly, and then, responding to my shock, he added to
perhaps soften the blow. "She said your advice was invaluable, at least for
the one vampire. When last I talked to her, she was tracking another. It
killed her."
"Then the advice I gave her was not enough," I sighed. "Why do you think it
would be enough for you?"
"I was a teacher once myself, years ago," he said. "Not in a university. A
trainer in the Fighters Guild. But I know that if a student doesn't ask the
right questions, the teacher cannot be responsible for his failure. I intend
to ask you the right questions."
And that he did. For hours, he asked questions and I answered what I could,
but he never volunteered any information about himself. He never smiled. He
only studied me with those intense eyes of his, commiting every word I said to
memory.
Finally, I turned the questioning around. "You said you were a trainer at the
Fighters Guild. Are you on an assignment for them?"
"No," he said curtly, and finally I could detect some weariness in those
feverish eyes of his. "I would like to continue this tomorrow night, if I
could. I need to get some sleep and absorb this."
"You sleep during the day," I smiled.
To my surprise, he returned the smile, though it was more of a grimace. "When
tracking your prey, you adapt their habits."
The next day, he did return with more questions, these ones very specific. He
wanted to know about the vampires of eastern Skyrim. I told him about the most
powerful tribe, the Volkihar, paranoid and cruel, whose very breath could
freeze their victims' blood in the veins. I explained to him how they lived
beneath the ice of remote and haunted lakes, never venturing into the world of
men except to feed.
Movarth Piquine listened carefully, and asked more questions into the night,
until at last he was ready to leave.
"I will not see you for a few days," he said. "But I will return, and tell you
how helpful your information has been."
True to his word, the man returned to my chapel shortly after midnight four
days later. There was a fresh scar on his cheek, but he was smiling that grim
but satisfied smile of his.
"Your advice helped me very much," he said. "But you should know that the
Volkihar have an additional ability you didn't mention. They can reach through
the ice of their lakes without breaking it. It was quite a nasty surprise,
being grabbed from below without any warning."
"How remarkable," I said with a laugh. "And terrifying. You're lucky you
survived."
"I don't believe in luck. I believe in knowledge and training. Your
information helped me, and my skill at melee combat sealed the bloodsucker's
fate. I've never believed in weaponry of any kind. Too many unknowns. Even the
best swordsmith has created a flawed blade, but you know what your body is
capable of. I know I can land a thousand blows without losing my balance,
provided I get the first strike."
"The first strike?" I murmured. "So you must never be surprised."
"That is why I came to you," said Movarth. "You know more than anyone alive
about these monsters, in all their cursed varieties across the land. Now you
must tell me about the vampires of northern Valenwood."
I did as he asked, and once again, his questions taxed my knowledge. There
were many tribes to cover. The Bonsamu who were indistinguishable from Bosmer
except when seen by candlelight. The Keerilth who could disintegrate into
mist. The Yekef who swallowed men whole. The dread Telboth who preyed on
children, eventually taking their place in the family, waiting patiently for
years before murdering them all in their unnatural hunger.
Once again, he bade me farewell, promising to return in a few weeks, and once
again, he returned as he said, just after midnight. This time, Movarth had no
fresh scars, but he again had new information.
"You were wrong about the Keerilth being unable to vaporize when pushed
underwater," he said, patting my shoulder fondly. "Fortunately, they cannot
travel far in their mist form, and I was able to track it down."
"It must have surprised it fearfully. Your field knowledge is becoming
impressive," I said. "I should have had an acolyte like you decades ago."
"Now, tell me," he said. "Of the vampires of Cyrodiil."
I told him what I could. There was but one tribe in Cyrodiil, a powerful clan
who had ousted all other competitors, much like the Imperials themselves had
done. Their true name was unknown, lost in history, but they were experts at
concealment. If they kept themselves well-fed, they were indistinguishable
from living persons. They were cultured, more civilized than the vampires of
the provinces, preferring to feed on victims while they were asleep, unaware.
"They will be difficult to surprise," Movarth frowned. "But I will seek one
out, and tell you what I learn. And then you will tell me of the vampires of
High Rock, and Hammerfell, and Elsweyr, and Black Marsh, and Morrowind, and
the Sumurset Isles, yes?"
I nodded, knowing then that this was a man on an eternal quest. He wouldn't be
satisfied with but the barest hint of how things were. He needed to know it
all.
He did not return for a month, and on the night that he did, I could see his
frustration and despair, though there were no lights burning in my chapel.
"I failed," he said, as I lit a candle. "You were right. I could not find a
single one."
I brought the light up to my face and smiled. He was surprised, even stunned
by the pallor of my flesh, the dark hunger in my ageless eyes, and the teeth.
Oh, yes, I think the teeth definitely surprised the man who could not afford
to be surprised.
"I haven't fed in seventy-two hours," I explained, as I fell on him. He did
not land the first blow or the last.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ55)
~~Master Zoaraym's Tale~~
Tavi Dromio
Item ID: 00024400
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“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.”
“Now, that's skill,” said Garaz.
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(Search Code: LOLZ56)
~~Way of the Exposed Palm~~
Item ID: 00073A6A
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Untrained pugiliists are known to make a club of the hand and beat on their
opponents like a drum. It is a truly uncouth way to victory. The way of the
exposed palm is far more sophisticated and far more deadly.
Consider this question. A man is struck in the chest by the flat of a plate.
There is a small bruise but he is otherwise unharmed. Now break the plate and
strike him in the chest with a shard using the same force. Now the man is dead
or grievously wounded. How can this be? How can a small object harm more than
a larger?
This essential point is the first finger of the way of the exposed palm. The
five part way is concentration, reaction, equiplibrium, speed, breath control.
To master unarmed combat all five digits must be mastered.
The parable of the man and the plate is concentration. All of the blow is
concentrateded into a small point. Therefore it is more potent. To strike with
just the thumb can be more deadly that to strike with the whole fist. However,
only the highly trained fighter can do this.
The second aspect of concentration is the mental discipline to think hard
about what is being done. Distractions are ignored as the will maintains the
ultimate goal. The truly deadly fighter can even block out his own pain in
this manner.
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(Search Code: LOLZ57)
~~The Wolf Queen, V2~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 000243FD
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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."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
~~HEAVY ARMOR BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ58)
~~2920, MidYear (v6)~~
Carlovac Townway
Item ID: 00024402
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ59)
~~Chimarvamidium~~
Marobar Sul
Item ID: 00024403
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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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ60)
~~Fighters Guild History, 1st Edition~~
Unknown Author
Item ID: 000A915C (1st edition) Item ID: 00024405 (Normal)
Note: Fighters Guild, 1st Edition and The History of the Fighters
Guild are the same book, the only differences are the 1st Edition
version is rarer and worth more.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the 283rd year of the 2nd Era, Potentate Versidue-Shaie was faced with a
disintegrating empire. The vassal kingdoms throughout Tamriel had reached a
new height of rebellion, openly challenging his rule. They refused his taxes
and led sorties against the Imperial garrisons throughout the land. At the
destruction of his fortress in Dawnstar, he gathered the Imperial Council in
what would be called the Council of Bardmont, after the town south of Dawnstar
where they met. There the Potentate declared catholic and universal martial
law. The princes of Tamriel would dissolve their armies or face his wrath.
The next thirty-seven years were perhaps the bloodiest in the violent history
of Tamriel.
In order to crush the last of the royal armies, Versidae-Shaie had to
sacrifice many of his best legions, as well as spend nearly every last piece
of gold in the Imperial treasury. But he accomplished the unthinkable. For the
first time in history, there was but one army in the land, and it was his own.
The problems that immediately surfaced were almost as staggering as the
triumph itself. The Potentate had impoverished the land by his war, for the
vanquished kingdoms had also spent the last of their gold in defense. Farmers
and merchants alike had their livelihood ruined. Before the princes of Tamriel
would not pay his taxes — now, they could not.
The only persons who benefited from the war were criminals, who preyed upon
the ruins of the lawless land, without fear of arrest now that all the local
guards and militia were gone. It was a crisis the Akavir had seen coming long
before he destroyed the last of his subjects' armies, but for which he had no
solution. He could not allow his vassals their own armies again, but the land
was deeper into the stew of anarchy that it had ever been before. His army
sought to fight the rise of crime, but a central authority was no threat
against the local underworld.
In the dawn of the year 320, a kinsman of Versidae-Shaie, Dinieras-Ves "the
Iron", presented himself with a host of companions before the Potentate. It
was he who suggested an order of mercantile warriors-for-hire, who could be
hired by nobility in lieu of a standing army. The employment would be
temporary, and a percentage of the fee would go to the Potentate's government,
thus putting salve on two of Versidae-Shaie's greatest pains.
Though it was then called The Syffim, after the Tsaesci word for 'soldiers,'
the organization that was to be known as the Fighters Guild had been born.
Dinieras-Ves "the Iron" initially believed that the entirety of the order
should be composed of Akaviri. This belief of his is not disputed by any
historian, though his motivation is often debated. The traditional, simple
explanation is that he knew his countrymen well, trusted them, and felt that
their tradition of fighting for profit would be of use. Others believe, with
reason, that he and the Potentate sought to use the order to effectively
complete the conquest of Tamriel begun over five hundred years earlier. When </pre><pre id="faqspan-10">
Akavir attacked Tamriel in the 2703rd year of the 1st era, they had been
beaten back by the Reman Dynasty. Now they had a Potentate on the throne, and
with Dinieras-Ves's machinations, the local armies would also be Akaviri. What
they had failed to do by combat, they would have successfully accomplished by
patience. A traditional strategem, many scholars suggest, of the immortal
snake men, the Tsaesci of Akavir, who always had time on their side.
The point, however, is largely academic. Though the Syffim did establish
themselves in some kingdoms neighboring Cyrodiil, it became quickly apparent
that local warriors were needed. Part of the problem was simply that there
were not enough Akaviri for the work that needed to be done. Another part was
that the snake men did not understand the geography and politics of the
regions they were assigned.
It was evident that some non-Akaviri were needed in the Syffim, and by the mid
point of the year, three Nords, a warrior-sorceress, a rogue, and a knight
were admitted into the order.
The knight, whose name has been lost in the sands of time, was also a great
armorer, and probably did more to strengthen the organization than anyone but
Dinieras-Ves himself. As has often been stated, the Akaviri, particularly the
Tsaesci, understood weaponry better than armor. Even if they could not wear it
themselves, the knight was able to explain to the other Syffim what the
weaknesses were in their opponent's armor, explaining to them how many joints
there were in a pauldon and a grieve, and the differences between Aketons and
Armkachens, Gorgets and Gliedshrims, Palettes and Pasguards, Tabards and
Tassettes.
With this knowledge, they made long strides in defeating the brigands, doing
far better than their meager numbers would suggest. It is a joke among
historians that if Akavir had a Nord armorer in their employ in the first era,
they would have won the invasion.
The success of these first three outsiders to the Syffim opened the door for
more local members. Before the year was through, Dinieras-Ves had spread his
business throughout the Empire. Young men and women, for a variety of reasons
— because of desperate poverty, for love of action and adventure, in order to
aid their crime-stricken neighbors — joined his new order en masse. They
received training, and were immediately put to work helping the aristocracy's
problems, assuming the roles of guards and soldiers within their locality.
The early success of the Syffim in combating crime and defeating local
monsters so inspired Potentate Versidae-Shaie that he entertained
representatives from other organizations interested in Imperial sanction.
Though formed much earlier, the Mages Guild had always been viewed with
suspicion by the government. In the 321st year of the 2nd Era, the Potentate
gave his approval to the Guilds Act, officially sanctioning the Mages,
together with the Guilds of Tinkers, Cobblers, Prostitutes, Scribes,
Architects, Brewers, Vintners, Weavers, Ratcatchers, Furriers, Cooks,
Astrologers, Healers, Tailors, Minstrals, Barristers, and the Syffim. In the
charter, they were no longer called the Syffim, however: bowing to the name it
had become known as by the people, they were to be called the Fighters Guild.
All the Guilds, and those that followed by later sanctions throughout the
second and third eras, would be protected and encouraged by the Empire of
Cyrodiil, recognizing their value to the people of Tamriel. All would be
required to pay to expand their influence throughout the land. The Empire was
strengthened by their presence, and the Imperial coffers were filled once
again.
Shortly after Versidae-Shaie's death, only three years after the Guild Act,
his heir Savirien-Chovak, allowed the reforming of local armies. The Fighters
Guild was no longer the principal arm of the local aristocracy, but their
worth had already been established. Though there were certainly strong
individuals who sought their own fortunes in the past, many historians have
suggested that Dinieras-Ves was the ancestor in spirit of the modern
phenomenon of the Adventurer, those men and women who dedicate their lives to
questing for fame and fortune.
Thus, all owe a debt of gratitude to the Fighters Guild — not only its
members, and the people who have been helped by its neutral policy of offering
strong arms for a fee within the boundaries of the law. Without them, there
would be no guilds of any kind, and it may be argued, no model for even the
independent Adventurer.
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(Search Code: LOLZ61)
~~Hallgerd's Tale~~
Tavi Dromio
Item ID: 00024401
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
“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.”
“Now, that's skill,” said Garaz.
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(Search Code: LOLZ62)
~~How Orsinium Passed to Orcs~~
Menyna Gsost
Item ID: 00024404
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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.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
~~ILLUSION BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ63)
~~The Argonian Account, Book 3~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 00024407
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Decumus Scotti was supposed to be in Gideon, a thoroughly Imperialized city in
southern Black Marsh, arranging business dealings to improve commerce in the
province on behalf of Lord Vanech's Building Commission and its clients.
Instead, he was in a half-submerged, rotten little village called Hixinoag,
where he knew no one. Except for a drug smuggler named Chaero Gemullus.
Gemullus was not at all perturbed that the merchant caravan had gone north
instead of south. He even let Scotti share his bucket of trodh, tiny little
crunchy fish, he had bought from the villagers. Scotti would have preferred
them cooked, or at any rate, dead, but Gemullus blithely explained that dead,
cooked trodh are deadly poison.
"If I were where I was supposed to be," Scotti pouted, putting one of the
wriggling little creatures in his mouth. "I could be having a roast, and some
cheese, and a glass of wine."
"I sell moon sugar in the north, and buy it in the south," he shrugged. "You
have to be more flexible, my friend."
"My only business is in Gideon," Scotti frowned.
"Well, you have a couple choices," replied the smuggler. "You could just stay
here. Most villages in Argonia don't stay put for very long, and there's a
good chance Hixinoag will drift right down to the gates of Gideon. Might take
you a month or two. Probably the easiest way."
"That'd put me far behind schedule."
"Next option, you could join up with the caravan again," said Gemullus. "They
might be going in the right direction this time, and they might not get stuck
in the mud, and they might not be all murdered by Naga highwaymen."
"Not tempting," Scotti frowned. "Any other ideas?"
"Ride the roots. The underground express," Gemullus grinned. "Follow me."
Scotti followed Gemullus out of the village and into a copse of trees shrouded
by veils of wispy moss. The smuggler kept his eye on the ground, poking at the
viscuous mud intermittently. Finally he found a spot which triggered a mass of
big oily bubbles to rise to the surface.
"Perfect," he said. "Now, the important thing is not to panic. The express
will take you due south, that's the wintertide migration, and you'll know
you're near Gideon when you see a lot of red clay. Just don't panic, and when
you see a mass of bubbles, that's a breathing hole you can use to get out."
Scotti looked at Gemullus blankly. The man was talking perfect gibberish.
"What?"
Gemullus took Scotti by the shoulder and positioning him on top of the mass of
bubbles. "You stand right here …"
Scotti sank quickly into the mud, staring at the smuggler, horror-struck.
"And remember to wait 'til you see the red clay, and then the next time you
see bubbles, push up …"
The more Scotti wriggled to get free, the faster he sunk. The mud enveloped
Scotti to his neck, and he continued staring, unable to articulate anything
but a noise like "Oog."
"And don't panic at the idea that you're being digested. You could live in a
rootworm's belly for months."
Scotti took one last panicked gasp of air and closed his eyes before he
disappeared into the mud.
The clerk felt a warmth he hadn't expected all around him. When he opened his
eyes, he found that he was entirely surrounded by a translucent goo, and was
traveling rapidly forward, southward, gliding through the mud as if it were
air, skipping along an intricate network of roots. Scotti felt confusion and
euphoria in equal measures, madly rushing forward through an alien environment
of darkness, spinning around and over the thick fibrous tentacles of the
trees. It was if he were high in the sky at midnight, not deep beneath the
swamp in the Underground Express.
Looking up slightly at the massive root structure above, Scotti saw something
wriggle past. A eight-foot-long, armless, legless, colorless, boneless,
eyeless, nearly shapeless creature, riding the roots. Something dark was
inside of it, and as it came closer, Scotti could see it was an Argonian man.
He waved, and the disgusting creature the Argonian was in flattened slightly
and rushed onward.
Gemullus's words began to reappear in Scotti's mind at this sight. "The
wintertide migration," "air hole," "you're being digested," -- these were the
phrases that danced around as if trying to find some place to live in a brain
which was highly resistant to them coming in. But there was no other way to
look at the situation. Scotti had gone from eating living fish to being eaten
alive as a way of transport. He was in one of those worms.
Scotti made an executive decision to faint.
He awoke in stages, having a beautiful dream of being held in a woman's warm
embrace. Smiling and opening his eyes, the reality of where he really was
rushed over him.
The creature was still rushing madly, blindly forward, gliding over roots, but
it was no longer like a flight through the night sky. Now it was like the sky
at sunrise, in pinks and reds. Scotti remembered Gemullus telling him to look
for the red clay, and he would be near Gideon. The next thing he had to find
was the bubbles.
There were no bubbles anywhere. Though the inside of the worm was still warm
and comfortable, Scotti felt the weight of the earth all around him. "Just
don't panic" Gemullus had said, but it was one thing to hear that advice, and
quite another to take it. He began to squirm, and the creature began to move
faster at the increased pressure from within.
Suddenly, Scotti saw it ahead of him, a slim spire of bubbles rising up
through the mud from some underground stream, straight up, through the roots
to the surface above him. The moment the rootworm went through it, Scotti
pushed with all of his might upward, bursting through the creature's thin
skin. The bubbles pushed Scotti up quickly, and before he could blink, he was
popping out of the red slushy mud.
Two gray Argonians were standing under a tree nearby, holding a net. They
looked in Scotti's direction with polite curiosity. In their net, Scotti
noticed, were several squirming furry rat-like creatures. While he addressed
them, another fell out of the tree. Though Scotti had not been educated in
this practice, he recognized fishing when he saw it.
"Excuse me, lads," Scotti said jovially. "I was wondering if you'd point me in
the direction of Gideon?"
The Argonians introduced themselves as Drawing-Flame and Furl-Of-Fresh-Leaves,
and looked at one another, puzzling over the question.
"Who you seek?" asked Furl-of-Fresh-Leaves.
"I believe his name is," said Scotti, trying to remember the contents of his
long gone file of Black Marsh contacts in Gideon. "Archein Right-Foot … Rock?"
Drawing-Flame nodded, "For five gold, show you way. Just east. Is plantation
east of Gideon. Very nice."
Scotti thought that the best business he had heard of in two days, and handed
Drawing-Flames the five septims.
The Argonians led Scotti onto a muddy ribbon of road that passed through the
reeds, and soon revealed the bright blue expanse of Topal Bay far to the west.
Scotti looked around at the magnificent walled estates, where bright crimson
blossoms sprang forth from the very dirt of the walls, and surprised himself
by thinking, "This is very pretty."
The road ran parallel to a fast-moving stream, running eastward from Topal
Bay. It was called the Onkobra River, he was told. It ran deep into Black
Marsh, to the very dark heart of the province.
Peeking past the gates to the plantations east of Gideon, Scotti saw that few
of the fields were tended. Most had rotten crops from harvests past still
clinging to wilted vines, orchards of desolate, leafless trees. The Argonian
serfs who worked the fields were thin, weak, near death, more like haunting
spirits than creatures of life and reason.
Two hours later, as the three continued their trudge east, the estates were
still impressive at least from a distance, the road was still solid if weedy,
but Scotti was irritated, horrified by the field workers and the agricultural
state, and no longer charitable towards the area. "How much further?"
Furl-of-Fresh-Leaves and Drawing-Flame looked at one another, as if that
question was something that hadn't occurred to them.
"Archein is east?" Furl-of-Fresh-Leaves pondered. "Near or far?"
Drawing-Flame shrugged noncommittally, and said to Scotti, "For five gold,
show you way. Just east. Is plantation. Very nice."
"You don't have any idea, do you?" Scotti cried. "Why couldn't you tell me
that in the first place when I might have asked someone else?"
Around the bend up ahead, there was the sound of hoofbeats. A horse coming
closer.
Scotti began to walk towards the sound to hail the rider, and didn't see
Drawing-Flame's taloned claws flash out and cast the spell at him. He felt it
though. A kiss of ice along his spine, the muscles along his arms and legs
suddenly immobile as if wrapped in rigid steel. He was paralyzed.
The great curse of paralysis, as the reader may be unfortunate enough to know,
is that you continue to see and think even though your body does not respond.
The thought that went through Scotti's mind was, "Damn."
For Drawing-Flame and Furl-of-Fresh-Leaves were, of course, like most simple
day laborers in Black Marsh, accomplished Illusionists. And no friend of the
Imperial.
The Argonians shoved Decumus Scotti to the side of the road, just as the horse
and rider came around the corner. He was an impressive figure, a nobleman in a
flashing dark green cloak the exact same color as his scaled skin, and a
frilled hood that was part of his flesh and sat upon his head like a horned
crown.
"Greetings, brothers!" the rider said to the two.
"Greetings, Archein Right-Foot-Rock," they responded, and then Furl-of-Fresh-
Leaves added. "What is milord's business on this fine day?"
"No rest, no rest," the Archein sighed regally. "One of my she-workers gave
birth to twins. Twins! Fortunately, there's a good trader in town for those,
and she didn't put up too much of a fuss. And then there's a fool of an
Imperial from Lord Vanech's Building Commission I am supposed to meet with in
Gideon. I'm sure he'll want the grand tour before he opens up the treasury for
me. Such a lot of fuss."
Drawing-Flame and Furl-of-Fresh-Leaves sympathesized, and then, as Archein
Right-Foot-Rock rode off, they went to look for their hostage.
Unfortunately for them, gravity being the same in Black Marsh as elsewhere in
Tamriel, their hostage, Decumus Scotti, had continued to roll down from where
they left him, and was, at that moment, in the Onkobra River, drowning.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ64)
~~Incident in Necrom~~
Jonquilla Bothe
Item ID: 00024408
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“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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ65)
~~Mystery of Talara, v4~~
Item ID: 0002440A
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ66)
~~Mythic Dawn Commentaries 3~~
Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes Book Three
The third book read by initiates to the Mythic Dawn cult.
This is Book Three of Mythic Dawn Commentaries
The daedric title reads CHIM
Mankar Camoran
</pre><pre id="faqspan-11">
Item ID: 00022B06
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The Tower touches all the mantles of Heaven, brother-noviates, and by its apex
one can be as he will. More: be as he was and yet changed for all else on that
path for those that walk after. This is the third key of Nu-mantia and the
secret of how mortals become makers, and makers back to mortals. The Bones of
the Wheel need their flesh, and that is mankind's heirloom.
Oath-breakers beware, for their traitors run through the nymic-paths, runner
dogs of prolix gods. The Dragon's Blood have hidden ascension in six-thousands
years of aetherial labyrinth, which is Arena, which they yet deny is
Oathbound. By the Book, take this key and pierce the divine shell that
encloses the mantle-takers! The skin of gold! SCARAB AE AURBEX!
Woe to the Oath-breakers! Of the skin of gold, the Xarxes Mysteriuum says "Be
fooled not by the forlorn that ride astray the roadway, for they lost faith
and this losing was caused by the Aedra who would know no other planets."
Whereby the words of Lord Dagon instructs us to destroy these faithless. "Eat
or bleed dry the gone-forlorn and gain that small will that led them to walk
the path of Godhead at the first. Spit out or burn to the side that which made
them delay. Know them as the Mnemoli."
Every new limb is paid for by the under-known. See, brother, and give not more
to the hydra.
Reader, you will sense a shadow-choir soon. The room you are in right now will
grow eyes and voices. The candle or spell-light you read this by will become
gateways for the traitors I have mentioned. Scorn them and fear not. Call them
names, call out their base natures. I, the Mankar of stars, am with you, and I
come to take you to my Paradise where the Tower-traitors shall hang on glass
wracks until they smile with the new revolution.
That is your ward against the Mnemoli. They run blue, through noise, and shine
only when the earth trembles with the eruption of the newly-mantled. Tell them
"Go! GHARTOK AL MNEM! God is come! NUMI MORA! NUM DALAE MNEM!"
Once you walk in the Mythic it surrenders its power to you. Myth is nothing
more than first wants. Unutterable truth. Ponder this while searching for the
fourth key.
Understood laws of the arcanature will fall away like heat. "First Tower
Dictate: render the mutant bound where he may do no more harm. As God of the
Mundus, alike shall be his progeny, split from their divine sparks. We are
Eight time eight Exarchs. Let the home of Padomay see us as sole exit."
CHIM. Those who know it can reshape the land. Witness the home of the Red King
Once Jungled.
He that enters Paradise enters his own Mother. AE ALMA RUMA! The Aurbis endeth
in all ways.
Endeth we seek through our Dawn, all endeth. Falter now and become one with
the wayside orphans that feed me. Follow and I shall adore you from inside. My
first daughter ran from the Dagonite road. Her name was Ruma and I ate her
with no bread, and made another, which learned, and I loved that one and
blackbirds formed her twin behind all time.
Starlight is your mantle, brother. Wear it to see by and add its light to
Paradise.
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(Search Code: LOLZ67)
~~Palla, Volume 1~~
Vojne Mierstyyd
Item ID: 00024409
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ68)
~~The Wolf Queen, v3~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 00024406
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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."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
~~LIGHT ARMOR BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ69)
~~Ice and Chitin~~
Pletius Spatec
Item ID: 0002440C
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ70)
~~Lord Jornibret's Last Dance~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0002440D
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(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
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ71)
~~The Rear Guard~~
Tenace Mourl
Item ID: 0002440B
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ72)
~~The Refugees~~
Geros Albreigh
Item ID: 0002440E
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The smell of the bay oozed through the stones of the cellar, salt and brined
decay. The cellar itself had its own scents of old wine turned to vinegar,
mildew, and the more exotic spices of herbs the healers had brought with them
to tend to the wounded. There were more than fifty people squeezed into the
big earthen room which had once been forgotten storage for the brothel above.
The groaning and whimpering had ceased for now, and all was still, as if the
hospital had turned into a mass grave.
"Mother," a Redguard boy whispered. "What was that?"
The boy's mother was about to answer him when there was another rolling roar
from outside, which grew louder and louder, as if some great but incorporeal
beast had come into the cellar. The walls trembled and dust burst from the
ceiling in a rain of powder.
Unlike the last time, no one screamed. They waited until the weird, haunting
sound had past, and then was replaced by the soft rumble of the distant
battle.
A wounded soldier began whispering Mara's Prayer from the Doomed.
"Mankar," a Bosmer woman curled up in a cot hissed, her eyes feverish, flesh
white and wet with sweat. "He is coming!"
"Who is coming?" asked the boy, grasping his mother's skirt tight.
"Who do you think, lad? The sweets monger?" a grizzled one-armed Redguard
growled. "The Camoran Usurper."
The boy's mother shot an angry look at the old warrior. "She doesn't know what
she's saying. She's sick."
The boy nodded. His mother was usually right. He had not yet even been born
when people began whispering that the Camoran Usurper was coming towards her
little village, and she had packed up their belongings to flee. Their
neighbors had laughed at her, she said, saying that Rihad and Taneth would
handily defeat him. Her husband, Lukar's father who he was never to meet, had
also laughed at her. It was the harvest time, and she would miss out on the
celebrations. But his mother, Miak-I, was right. Two weeks after she fled the
village, she heard the tale that it had been obliterated during the night with
no survivors. Rihad and Taneth had both fallen. The Usurper was unstoppable.
Lukar had been born and grown up in refugee camps throughout Hammerfell. He
had never known a friend for more than a few days. He knew that when the sky
burned red to the west, they would pack up and move east. When it burned to
the south, they moved north. At last, after twelve years of moving from camp
to camp, they had taken passage across the Iliac Bay to the province of High
Rock and the barony of Dwynnen. There Miak-I had promised, and hoped, that
they would have a peaceful, permanent home.
It was so green there, it blinded him. Unlike Hammerfell, which was only green
in certain seasons and in certain places, Dwynnen was verdant year round.
Until wintertide, when it began to snow, and Lukar had been frightened of it
at first. He was ashamed to think of it now, when there was real danger, but
the red clouds of war, the stink and pain of the refugee camp, that was
familiar.
Now, the red sky was on the horizon of the bay and coming closer, and he
longed for the days when a scattering of white made him cry.
"Mankar!" the Bosmer woman cried out again. "He is coming, and he will bring
death!"
"No one is coming," said a pretty young Breton healer, coming to the woman's
side. "Hush now."
"Hello?" came a voice from above.
</pre><pre id="faqspan-12">
The whole room, almost together as one gasped. A Bosmer limped down the shoddy
wooden stairs, his friendly face very obviously not that of the Camoran
Usurper.
"Sorry if I frightened you," he said. "I was told there were healers here, and
I could use a little help."
Rosayna hurried to take a look at the Bosmer's wounds on his leg and chest.
Dishelved but still beautiful, she was one of the favorites at the brothel,
who had learned her healing skill along with her more vocational skills at the
House of Dibella. She carefully but quickly pulled the rent leather cuirass,
chausses, tassets, grieves, and boots off him, and placed them to the side
while she examined the injuries.
The old Redguard warrior picked them up and studied them. "You were in the
war?"
"Next to it is probably a better way to put it," the Bosmer smiled, wincing
slightly at Rosayna's touch. "Behind it, beside it, in front of it. My name's
Orben Elmlock. I'm a scout. I try to avoid the real battle, so I can get back
and report what I see. A good job for people who don't like the color of their
own blood very much."
"Hzim," said the warrior, shaking Orben's hand. "I can't fight anymore, but I
can fix up this armor if you're going to return."
"You're a leathersmith?"
"Naw, just a jack of all trades," replied Hzim, opening up a small canister of
wax to prep the hard but flexible leather. "I could tell you were a scout from
the armor, though. Can you tell us what you've been spying on? We've been down
in here for half a day now, with no word from the outside."
"The entire Iliac Bay is one great battlefield on the waves," said Orben and
sighed as Rosayna's spell began to close his jagged but shallow wounds. "We've
shut off the invasion from the mouth of the bay, but I was coming from the
coast, and the enemy's army is marching over the Wrothgarian Mountains. That's
where I had my little scuffle. It's not too surprising, moving the flank in
from the side while the front battle is occupied. It's a play right out of
Camoran Kaltos's book of tricks the Hart-King borrowed."
"The Hart-King?" Lukar asked. He had been listening quietly, understanding
everything except that.
"Haymon Camoran, the Camoran Usurper, Haymon Hart-King, they're all the same,
lad. He's a complicated fellow, and needs more than one name."
"You know him?" Miak-I asked, stepping forward.
"Near on twenty years, before this whole black, bloody business. I was Camoran
Kaltos's chief scout, and Haymon was his sorcerer and advisor. I helped them
both, when they were vying for the Camoran throne, and began the conquest of -
Ouch!"
Rosayna has ceased her healing. With eyes of fury, she had reversed her spell,
and the closed, mended wounds were opening again, dark infections returning.
She held him with surprising strength when Orben tried to pull back.
"You bastard," the healer courtesan hissed. "I have a cousin in Falinesti, a
priestess."
"She's fine!" Orben yelped. "Lord Kaltos was very adamant about not harming
anyone who did not pose a threat …"
"I think the people of Kvatch would disagree with that assessment," said Hzim,
coldly.
"That was horrible, the worst thing I have ever seen," Orben nodded. "Kaltos
wept when he saw what Haymon had done. My master did everything he could to
stop it, begging the Hart-King to return to Valenwood. But he turned on
Kaltos, and we fled. We are not your enemy, and we have never been. Kaltos
could do nothing to prevent the horror that the Usurper has brought to the
Colovian West and Hammerfell, and he has fought for fifteen years to prevent
more."
The frightening bestial roar passed through the cellar again, even louder than
before. The wounded could not help groaning in helpless terror.
"And what is that?" Miak-I sneered. "Another of Camoran Kaltos's tricks that
the Usurper picked up?"
"It is indeed a trick, as a matter of fact," Orben yelled, above the screech.
"It's a phastasm he employs to scare people. He had to use fear tactics in the
beginning when his power was ascending, and he has to fall back on them now
for his power is waning. That is why it took him two years to conquer
Valenwood, and another thirteen to half-conquer Hammerfell. No offense to you
Redguards, but it isn't only your battle prowess that has been holding him
back. He does not have the support he used to have from his Master -"
The echoing roar increased in intensity before once again falling silent.
"Mankar!" the Bosmer woman groaned. "He comes, and he will destroy all!"
"His Master?" asked Lukar, but Orben's eyes had gone to the Bosmer woman,
curled up in her blood-soaked cot.
"Who is she?" Orben asked Rosayna.
"One of the refugees, of course, from your friendly little war in Valenwood
before you and your Kaltos changed sides," the healer replied. "I think her
name is Kaalys."
"By Jephre," Orben whispered under his breath, limping over to the woman's cot
and wiping the sweat and blood streaked hair from her pallid face. "Kaalys,
it's Orben. Do you remember me? How did you get here? Did he hurt you?"
"Mankar!" Kaalys moaned.
"That's all she says," said Rosayna.
"I don't know what that it is," Orben frowned. "Not the Usurper, though she
knew him too. Very well. She was a favorite of his."
"His favorites, you, Kaltos, her, all seem to turn against him," said Miak-I.
"That is why he will fall," replied Hzim.
Armored footfall rang along the ceiling, and the cellar door burst open. It
was the captain of Baron Othrok's castle guards. "The docks are on fire! If
you want to live, you'll need to take refuge at Castle Wightmoor!"
"We need help!" Rosayna called back, but she knew that the guards were needed
for defense, not to help carry the sick to safety.
With ten guards who could be spared and the most able-bodied of the wounded
assisting, the cellar was emptied as the streets of Dwynnen filled with smoke,
and fire began to spread through the chaos. It had been a single fireball
miscast out at sea striking the docks, but the damage would be tremendous.
Some hours later, in the courtyard of the mighty castle, the healers were able
to set up the cots and begin to tend once again to the suffering of the
innocent. The first person Rosayna found was Orben Elmlock. Even with his
wounds reopened, he had helped carry two of the patients into the castle.
"I'm sorry," she said as she pressed her healing hands onto his wounds. "I
lost my temper. I forgot that I am a healer."
"Where is Kaalys?" Orben asked.
"She's not here?" Rosayna said, looking around. "She must have run away."
"Run away? But wasn't she injured?"
"It was not a healthy situation, but new mothers can surprise you with what
they can do when it's all over."
"She was pregnant?" Orben gasped
"Yes. It wasn't such a difficult birth in the end. She was holding the boy in
her arms when I saw her last. She said she had done it herself."
"She was pregnant," Orben murmured again. "The mistress of the Camoran Usurper
was pregnant."
Word quickly spread throughout the castle that the battle was over, and more
than that, the war was over. Haymon Camoran's forces had been defeated at sea,
and in the mountains. The Hart-King was dead.
Lukar watched down from the battlements into the dark woods that surrounded
Dwynnen. He had heard about Kaalys, and he imagined a desperate woman fleeing
with her newborn baby in her arms into the wilderness. Kaalys would have
nowhere to go, no one to protect them. She and her baby would be a refugee,
like Miak-I and him had been. Reflecting back, he remembered her words.
He is coming. He is coming, and he will bring death. He will destroy all.
Lukar remembered her eyes. She was sick, but not afraid. Who was this "He" who
was coming if the Camoran Usurper was dead?
"Did she say nothing else?" asked Orben.
"She told me the baby's name," Rosayna replied. "Mankar."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ73)
~~Rislav The Righteous~~
Sinjin
Item ID: 0002440F
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Like all true heroes, Rislav Larich had inauspicious beginnings. We are told
by chroniclers that the springtide night in the 448th year of the first era on
which he was born was unseasonably cold, and that his mother Queen Lynada died
very shortly after setting eyes upon her son. If he were much beloved of his
father, King Mhorus of Skingrad, who already had plenty of heirs, three sons
and four daughters before him, the chroniclers make no mention of it.
His existence was so very undistinguished that we hear virtually nothing of
him for the first twenty years of his life. His schooling, we can suppose, was
similar to that of any "spare prince" in the Colovian West, with Ayleid tutors
to teach him the ways of hunting and battle. Etiquette, religious instruction,
and even basic statecraft were seldom a part of the training of a prince of
the Highlands, as it was in the more civilized valley of Nibenay.
There is a brief reference to him, together with his family, as part of the
rolls of honor during the coronation of the Emperor Gorieus on the 23rd of
Sun's Dawn 1E 461. The ceremony, of course, held during the time of the
Alessian Doctrines of Marukh, and so was without entertainment, but the
thirteen-year-old Rislav was still witness to some of the greatest figures of
legend. The Beast of Anequina, Darloc Brae, represented his kingdom, giving
honor to the Empire. The Chieftain of Skyrim Kjoric the White and his son Hoag
were in attendance. And despite the Empire's intolerance of all elves, chimer
Indoril Nerevar and dwemer Dumac Dwarfking were evidently there as well,
diplomatically representing Resdayn, all in relative peace.
Also mentioned on the rolls was a young mer in service to the Imperial court
of High Rock, who was to have a great history with Rislav. Ryain Direnni.
Whether the two young men of about the same age met and conversed is entirely
the stuff of historian's fancy. Ryain is spoken of in praising words as a
powerful land-owner, eventually buying the island of Balfiera in the Iliac Bay
and gradually conquering all of High Rock and large parts of Hammerfell and
Skyrim, but Rislav is not heard of again in history's books for another
seventeen years. We can only offer supposition based on the facts that follow.
Children of kings are, of course, married to the children of other kings to
bind alliances. The kingdoms of Skingrad and Kvatch skirmished over common
territory throughout the fifth century, until they reached a peace in the year
472. The details of this accord are not recorded, but since we know that
Prince Rislav was in the court of Kvatch six years later, as husband to
Belene, the daughter of King Justinius, it is fair to make an educated guess
that they were married then to make peace.
This brings us to the year 478, when a great plague swept through all of
Cyrodiil and seemed particularly concentrated in the independent Colovian
West. Among the victims were King Mhorus and the rest of the entire royal
family in Skingrad. Rislav's only surviving elder brother, Dorald, survived,
being in the Imperial City as a priest of Marukh. He returned to his homeland
to assume the throne.
Of Dorald, we have some history. The King's second son, he was slightly
simple-minded and evidently very pious. All the chroniclers spoke of his
sweetness and decency, how he saw a vision in his early years that brought him
- with his father's blessing - from Skingrad to the Imperial City and the
priesthood. The priesthood of Marukh, of course, saw no difference between
spiritual and political matters. It was the religion of the Alessian Empire,
and it taught that to resist the Emperor was to resist the Gods. Given that,
it is scarcely a surprise what Dorald did when he became King of the
independent kingdom of Skingrad.
His first edict, on his very first day, was to cede the kingdom to the Empire.
The reaction throughout the Colovian Estates was shock and outrage, nowhere
more so than in the court of Kvatch. Rislav Larich, we are told, rode forth to
his brother's kingdom, together with his wife and two dozen of his father-in-
law's cavalry. It was surely not an impressive army, no matter how the
chroniclers embellish it, but they had little trouble defeating all the guards
Dorald sent to stop them. In truth, there was no actual battling, for the
soldiers of Skingrad resented their new king's decision to give up their
autonomy.
The brothers faced one another in the castle courtyard where they had grown
up.
In typical Colovian fashion, there was no trial, no accusations of treason, no
jury, no judge. Only an executioner.
"Thou art no brother of mine," Rislav Larich said, and struck Dorald's head
from his shoulders in one blow. He was crowned King of Skingrad still holding
the same bloody axe in his arms.
If King Rislav had no battle experience beforehand, that was shortly to
change. Word spread quickly to the Imperial City that Skingrad, once offered,
was now being taken back. Gorieus was an accomplished warrior even before
taking the throne, and the seventeen years he had as Emperor were scarcely
peaceful. Only eight months before Dorald's assassination and Rislav's
ascendancy, Gorieus and the Alessian army had faced another of his coronation
guests, Kjoric the White, on the fields of the frozen north. The High
Chieftain of Skyrim lost his life in the Battle of Sungard. While the pact of
chieftains was selecting a new leader, Cyrodiil was busily grabbing back the
land of southern Skyrim that it had lost.
In short, Emperor Gorieus knew how to deal with rebellious vassals.
The Alessian army poured westward "like a flood of death," to borrow the
chronicler's phrase, in numbers far exceeding what would be required to
conquer Skingrad. Gorieus could not have thought actual battle was likely.
Rislav, as we said, had little to no experience at warfare, and only a few
days' practice at kingcraft. His kingdom and all of the Colovian West had just
been ravaged by plague. The Alessians anticipated that a mere show of arms,
and a surrender.
Rislav instead prepared for battle. He quickly inspected his troops and drew
up plans.
The chroniclers who had heretofore ignored the life of Rislav now devote verse
after verse describing the king's aspect with fetishistic delight. While it
may lack literary merit and taste, we are at least given some details at last.
Not surprisingly, the king wore the finest armor of his era, as the Colovian
Estates then had the finest leathersmiths - the only type of armor available -
in all of Tamriel. The king's klibanion mail, boiled and waxed for hardness,
and studded with inch-long spikes, was a rich chestnut red, and he wore it
over his black tunic but under his black cloak. The statue of Rislav the
Righteous which now stands in Skingrad is a romanticized version of king, but
not inaccurate except in the armor represented. No bard of the Colovian West
would have gone to the market so lightly protected. But it does, as we will
see, include the most important accouterments of Rislav: his trained hawk and
his fast horse.
The winter rains had washed through the roads to the south, sending much of
the West Weald spilling into Valenwood. The Emperor took the northern route,
and King Rislav with a small patrol of guards met him at a low pass on what is
now the Gold Road. The Emperor's army, it is said, was so large that the Beast
of Anequina could hear its march from hundreds of miles away, and despite
himself, the chroniclers say, he quaked in fear.
Rislav, it was said, did not quake. With perfect politeness, he told the
Emperor that his party was too large to be accommodated in the tiny kingdom of
Skingrad.
"Next time," Rislav said. "Write before you come."
The Emperor was, like most Alessian Emperors, not a man of great humor, and he
thought Rislav touched by Sheogorath. He ordered his personal guards to arrest
the poor madman, but at that moment, the King of Skingrad raised his arm and
sent his hawk flying into the sky. It was a signal his army had been waiting
for. The Alessian were all within the pass and the range of their arrows.
King Rislav and his guard began riding westward as fast as if they had been
"kissed by wild Kynareth," as the chroniclers said. He did not dare to look
behind him, but his plan went faultlessly. The far eastern end of the pass was
sealed by rolling boulders, giving the Alessian no direction to go but
westward. The Skingrad archers rained arrows down upon the Imperial army from
far above on the plateaus, remaining safe from reprisal. The furious Emperor
Gorieus chased Rislav from the Weald to the Highlands, leaving Skingrad far
behind, all the while his army growing steadily smaller and smaller.
In the ancient Highland forest, the Imperial army met the army of Rislav's
father-in-law, the King of Kvatch. The Alessian army likely still outnumbered
their opponents, but they were exhausted and their morale had been obliterated
by the chase amid a sea of arrows. After an hour's battle, they retreated
north into what is now the Imperial Reserve, and from there, further north and
east, to slip back to nurse their wounds and pride in Nibenay.
It was the beginning of the end of the Alessian hegemony. The Kings of the
Colovian West joined with Kvatch and Skingrad to resist Imperial incursions.
The Clan Direnni under Ryain was inspired to outlaw the religion of the
Alessian Reform throughout his lands in High Rock, and began pushing into
Imperial territories. The new High Chief of Skyrim, Hoag, now called Hoag
Merkiller, though sharing the Emperor's official xenophobia, also joined the
resistance. His heir, King Ysmir Wulfharth of Atmora, helped continue the
struggle upon Hoag's death in battle, and also insured his place in history.
The heroic King of Skingrad, who faced the Emperor's army virtually alone, and
triggered its end, justly deserves his sobriquet of Rislav the Righteous.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
~~MARKSMAN BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ74)
~~A Dance in Fire, v5~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 00024411
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 5
"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.
"You bloody, callous bastards!" Scotti howled. "Knaves! Hooligans! Apenecks!
Scoundrels!"
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ75)
~~The Black Arrow, v2~~
Gorgic Guine
Item ID: 00024531
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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."
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(Search Code: LOLZ76)
~~Father of the Niben~~
Item ID: 00024530
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Introduction:
Writing the biography of anyone is a challenge. Usually the problem lies in
assessing one's sources, comparing the prejudices of one chronicle versus
another versus another. Waughin Jarth, I have been told, in writing his well-
regarded series on the Wolf Queen of Solitude used over a hundred contemporary
narratives. I cannot complain about my task having a similar issue.
There is but one record of the man called Topal the Pilot, the earliest known
Aldmer explorer of Tamriel. Only four short verse fragments of the epic
"Father of the Niben" have survived to present day, but they offer an
interesting if controversial look at the Middle Merethic Era when Topal the
Pilot may have sailed the seas around Tamriel.
Though "Father of the Niben" is the only written record of Topal the Pilot's
voyages, it is not the only proof of his existence. Among the treasures of the
great Crystal Tower of Summerset Isle are his crude but fascinating maps, his
legacy to all Tamriel.
The translation of the Aldmeri Udhendra Nibenu, "Father of the Niben," is my
own, and I accept that other scholars may disagree with some of my choice of
words. I cannot promise my translation lives up to the beauty of the original:
I have only strived for simple coherence.
Fragment One:
Second ship, the Pasquiniel, manned by pilot
Illio, was to follow the southern pointing
Waystone; and the third, the Niben, manned
By pilot Topal, was to follow the north-east
Pointing waystone; the orders from the
Crystal Tower, they were to sail forth for
Eighty moons and then return to tell.
Only Niben returned to Firsthold, laden high with
Gold and spice and fur and strange creatures,
Dead and live.
Though, alas, Old Ehlnofey Topal never found, he
Told the tales of the lands he had visited to the
Wonderment of all.
For sixty-six days and nights, he sailed, over crashing
Waves of dire intent, past whirlpools, through
Mist that burned like fire, until he reached the
Mouth of a great bay and he landed on a
Sun-kissed meadow of gentle dells.
As he and his men rested, there came a fearsome howl,
And hideous orcs streamed forth from the murky
Glen, cannibal teeth clotted with gore
For centuries, strange crystalline balls were unearthed at the sites of
ancient Aldmer shipwrecks and docks, peculiar artifacts of the Merethic and
Dawn Eras that puzzled archeologists until it was demonstrated that each had a
tendency to rotate on its axis in a specific direction. There were three
varieties, one that pointed southward, one that pointed northeast, and one
that point northwest.
It is not understood how they work, but they seemed attuned to particular
lines of power. These are the "waystones" of the fragment, which each of the
pilots used to point their craft in the direction they were assigned to go. A
ship with a name not mentioned in the fragment took his vessel north-west,
towards Thras and Yokuda. The Pasquiniel took the southern waystone, and must
have sailed down toward Pyandonea. Topal and his north-east waystone found the
mainland of Tamriel.
It is clear from this fragment what the three ships were assigned to do - find
a passage back to Old Ehlnofey so that the Aldmer now living in Summerset
could learn what became of their old homeland. As this book is intended to be
a study of Topal the Pilot, there is scarcely room to dedicate to different
theories of the Aldmeri exodus from Old Ehlnofey.
If I were using this poem as my only source, I would have to agree with the
scholars who believe in the tradition that several ships left Old Ehlnofey and
were caught in a storm. Those who survived found their way to Summerset Isle,
but without their waystones, they did not know what direction their homeland
was. After all, what other explanation is there for three ships heading in
three opposite directions to find a place?
Naturally, only one of the ships returned, and we do not know if either or
both of the other two found Old Ehlnofey, or perished at sea or at the hands
of the ancient Pyandoneans, Sload, or Yokudans. We must assume, unless we
think the Aldmer particularly idiotic, that at least one of them must have
been pointing in the right direction. It may well have even been Topal, and he
simply did not go north-east far enough.
So, Topal setting sail from Firsthold heads north-east, which coincidentally
is the longest one can travel along the Abecean Sea without striking land of
any kind. Had he traveled straight east, he would have struck the mainland
somewhere in what is now the Colovian West of Cyrodiil in a few weeks. Had he
traveled south-east, he might have reached the hump of Valenwood in a few
days. But our pilot, judging by his own and our modern maps, sailed in a
straight line north-east, through the Abecean sea, and into the Iliac Bay,
before touching ground somewhere near present day Anticlere in two months
time.
The rolling verdant hills of southern High Rock are unmistakable in this
verse, recognizable to anyone who has been there. The question, of course, is
what is to be made of this apparent reference to orcs occupying the region?
Tradition has it that the orcs were not born until after the Aldmer had
settled the mainland, that they sprung up as a distinct race following the
famous battle between Trinimac and Boethiah at the time of Resdayn.
It is possible that the tradition is wrong. Perhaps the orcs were an
aboriginal tribe predating the Aldmeri colonization. Perhaps these were a
cursed folk -- "Orsimer" in the Aldmeris, the same word for "Orc" - of a
different kind, whose name was to be given the orcs in a different era. It is
regrettable that the fragment ends here, for more clues to the truth are
undoubtedly lost.
What's missing between the first fragment and the second is appreciable. It
must be more than eighty months that have passed, because Topal is on the
opposite side of mainland Tamriel now, attempting to sail south-west to return
to Firsthold, after his failure at finding Old Ehlnofey.
Fragment Two:
No passage westward could be found in the steely cliffs
That jutted up like giant's jaw, so the Niben
Sailed south.
As it passed an sandy, forested island that promised
Sanctuary and peace, the crew cheered in joy.
Then exultation turned to terror as a great shadow rose
From the trees on leathered wings like a unfurling Cape.
The great bat lizard was large as the ship, but good pilot
Topal merely raised his bow, and struck it in its Head.
As it fell, he asked his Bo 'sun, "Do you think it's dead?"
And before it struck the white-bearded waves, he
Shot once more its heart to be certain.
And so for another forty days and six, the Niben sailed south
We can see that in addition to Topal's prowess as a navigator, cartographer,
survivalist, and raconteur, he is a master of archery. It may be poetic
license, of course, but we do have archeological proof that the Merethic
Aldmer were sophisticated archers. Their bows of layers of wood and horn drawn
by silver silk thread are beautiful, and still, I have heard experts say,
millennia later, very deadly.
It is tempting to imagine it a dragon, but the creature that Topal faces at </pre><pre id="faqspan-13">
the beginning of this fragment sounds like an ancestor of the cliffracer of
present day Morrowind. The treacherous cliff coastline sounds like the region
around Necrom, and the island of Gorne may be where the nest of the "bat
lizard" is. No creatures like that exist in eastern Morrowind to my knowledge
at the present day.
Fragment Three:
The fetid, evil swamp lands and their human lizards
Retreated to the east, and Topal and his men's
Hearts were greatly gladdened by the sight of
Diamond blue, pure, sweet ocean.
For three days, they sailed in great cheer north-west
Where Firsthold beckoned them, but hope died
In horror, as land, like a blocking shield rose
Before them.
Topal the Pilot was sore wroth, and consulted he
The maps he had faithfully drawn, to see
Whether best to go south where the
Continent must end, or take the river that
Snaked through a passage north.
"North!" cried he to his sad men. "North we go
Now! Fear not, north!"
Tracing Topal's movements, we see that he has skirted the edge of Morrowind
and delved into southern Blackmarsh, seemingly determined to follow his
waystone as best as he can. The swamp he is leaving is probably near present
day Gideon. Knowing what we now know about Topal's personality, we can
understand his frustration in the bay between Black Marsh and Elsweyr.
Here is a man who follows his orders explicitly, and knows that he should have
been going south-east through river ways to reach Firsthold. Looking at his
maps, we can see that he attempted to find passages through, as he has mapped
out the Inner Sea of Morrowind, and several of the swampy tributaries of Black
Marsh, no doubt being turned away by the disease and fierce Argonian tribes
that dissuaded many other explorers after him.
With a modern map of Tamriel in hand, we can see that he makes the wrong
choice in electing to go north-east instead of pushing southward. He could not
have known then that what he perceived to be the endless mainland was only a
jutting peninsula. He only knew that he had traveled too far southward
already, and so he made a smart but incorrect decision to go up the river.
It is ironic that this great miscalculation would today bear his mark of
history. The bay he thought was an endless ocean is now known as Topal Bay,
and the river that took him astray shares the name of his boat, the Niben River.
Fragment Four:
The cat demons of four legs and two ran the river's
Length, always keeping the boat in their
Green-eyed sight, hissing, and spitting, and
Roaring with rage.
But the sailors never had to brave the shores, for
Fruit trees welcomed them, dropping their
Arms down to the river's edge as if to
Embrace the mer, and the men took the
Fruit quickly before the cats could pounce.
For eleven days, they traveled north, until they came
To a crystalline lake, and eight islands of
Surpassing beauty and peace.
Brilliant flightful creatures of glorious colors
Greeted them in Aldmeri language,
Making the mer wonder, until they
Understood they were only calling back
The word they were speaking without
Understanding it, and then the sailors
Laughed.
Topal the Pilot was enchanted with the islands
And the feathered men who lived there.
There the Niben stayed for a moon, and the bird
Men learned how to speak their own words,
And with taloned feet, to write.
In joy for their new knowledge, they made Topal
Their lord, giving him their islands for the
Gift.
Topal said he would return someday, but first he
Must find the passage east to Firsthold, so
Far away.
This last fragment is bittersweet for a number of reasons.
We know that this strange, friendly feathered people the Pilot encounters will
be lost - in fact, this poem is the only one where mention is made of the bird
creatures of Cyrodiil. The literacy that Topal gives them is evidently not
enough to save them from their eventual fate, likely at the hands of the "cat
demons," who we may assume are ancient Khajiiti.
We know that Topal and his crew never find a route from the eight islands
which are the modern day Imperial City through to the Iliac Bay. His maps tell
the tale where this lost poem cannot.
We see his hand as he traces his route up the Niben to Lake Rumare; and, after
attempting a few tributaries which do not lead him where he wants to go, we
can imagine Topal's frustration -- and that of his long-suffering crew -- as
they return back down the Niben to Topal Bay.
There, they evidently discovered their earlier mistake, for we see that they
pass the peninsula of Elsweyr. Eventually they traveled along its coastline,
past the shores of Valenwood, and eventually home. Usually epic tales end with
a happy ending, but this one begins with one, and the means to which it was
accomplished is lost.
Besides the extraordinary bird creatures of present day Cyrodiil, we have
caught glimpses of ancient orcs (perhaps), ancient cliff-racers, ancient
Argonians, and in this fragment, ancient Khajiit. Quite a history in a few
lines of simple verse, all because a man failed to find his home, and took all
the wrong turns to retrace his steps back.
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(Search Code: LOLZ77)
~~The Gold Ribbon of Merit~~
Ampyrian Brum
Item ID: 00024410
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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 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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ78)
~~Vernaccus and Bourlor~~
Tavi Dromio
Item ID: 0002452F
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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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
~~MERCANTILE BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ79)
~~2920, Sun's Height (v7)~~
Carlovac Townway
Item ID: 00024534
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ80)
~~The Buying Game~~
Ababael Timsar-Dadisun
Item ID: 00024532
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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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ81)
~~A Dance in Fire, v6~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 00024535
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ82)
~~A Dance in Fire, v7~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 00024536
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
</pre><pre id="faqspan-14">
"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.
Decumus Scotti's adventures continue in The Argonian Account.
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(Search Code: LOLZ83)
~~Wolf Queen, v4~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 00024533
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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 ."
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~MYSTICISM~
(Search Code: LOLZ84)
~~2920, Sun's Dawn (v2)~~
Item ID: 00024538
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ85)
~~Before the Ages of Man~~
Aicantar of Shimerene
Item ID: 00073A63
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Timeline Series - Vol 1
Before man came to rule Tamriel, and before the chronicles of the historians
recorded the affairs of the rulers of Tamriel, the events of our world are
known only through myths and legends, and through the divinely inspired
teachings of the Nine Divines.
For convenience, historians divide the distant ages of prehistory into two
broad periods of time -- the Dawn Era, and the Merethic Era.
* The Dawn Era *
The Dawn Era is that period before the beginning of mortal time, when the
feats of the gods take place. The Dawn Era ends with the exodus of the gods
and magic from the World at the founding of the Adamantine Tower.
The term 'Merethic' comes from the Nordic, literally, "Era of the Elves." The
Merethic Era is the prehistoric time after the exodus of the gods and magic
from the World at the founding of the Adamantine Tower and before the arrival
of Ysgramor the Nord in Tamriel.
The following are the most notable events of the Dawn Era, presented roughly
in sequence as it must be understaoo by creatures of time such as ourselves.
The Cosmos formed from the Aurbis [chaos, or totality] by Anu and Padomay.
Akatosh (Auriel) formed and Time began. The Gods (et'Ada) formed. Lorkhan
convinced -- or tricked -- the Gods into creating the mortal plane, Nirn. The
mortal plane was at this point highly magical and dangerous. As the Gods
walked, the physical make-up of the mortal plane and even the timeless
continuity of existence itself became unstable.
When Magic (Magnus), architect of the plans for the mortal world, decided to
terminate the project, the Gods convened at the Adamantine Tower [Direnni
Tower, the oldest known structure in Tamriel] and decided what to do. Most
left when Magic did. Others sacrificed themselves into other forms so that
they might Stay (the Ehlnofey). Lorkhan was condemned by the Gods to exile in
the mortal realms, and his heart was torn out and cast from the Tower. Where
it landed, a Volcano formed. With Magic (in the Mythic Sense) gone, the Cosmos
stabilized. Elven history, finally linear, began (ME2500).
* The Merethic Era *
The Merethic Era was figured by early Nord scholars as a series of years
numbered in reverse order backward from the their 'beginning of time' -- the
founding of the Camoran Dynasty, recorded as Year Zero of the First Era. The
prehistoric events of the Merethic Era are listed here with their traditional
Nordic Merethic dates. The earliest Merethic date cited by King Harald's
scholars was ME2500 -- the Nordic reckoning of the first year of time. As
such, the Merethic Era extends from ME2500 in the distant past to ME1 -- the
year before the founding of the Camoran Dysnasty and the establishment of the
White gold Tower as an indepenent city-state.
According to King Harald's bards, ME2500 was the date of construction of the
Adamantine Tower on Balfiera Island in High Rock, the oldest known structure
of Tamriel. (This corresponds roughly to the earliest historical dates given
in various unpublished Elvish chronicles.)
During the early Merethic Era, the aboriginal beastpeoples of Tamriel -- the
ancestors of the Khajiit, Argonian, Orcish, and other beastfolk -- lived in
preliterate communities throughout Tamriel.
In the Middle Merethic Era, the Aldmeri (mortals of Elven origin) refugees
left their doomed and now-lost continent of Aldmeris (also known as 'Old
Ehlnofey') and settled in southwestern Tamriel. The first colonies were
distributed at wide intervals on islands along the entire coast of Tamriel.
Later inland settlements were founded primarily in fertile lowlands in
southwest and central Tamriel. Wherever the beastfolk encountered the Elves,
the sophisticated, literate, technologically advanced Aldmeri cultures
displaced the primitive beastfolk into the jungles, marshes, mountains, and
wastelands. The Adamantine Tower was rediscovered and captured by the Direnni,
a prominent and powerful Aldmeri clan. The Crystal Tower was built on
Summerset Isle and, later, White Gold Tower in Cyrodiil.
During the Middle Merethic Era, Aldmeri explorers mapped the coasts of
Vvardenfel, building the First Era High Elven wizard towers at Ald Redaynia,
Bal Fell, Tel Aruhn, and Tel Mora in Morrowind. It was also during this period
that Ayleid [Wild Elven] settlements flourished in the jungles surrounding
White Gold Tower (present day Cyrodiil). Wild Elves, also known as the
Heartland High Elves, preserved the Dawn Era magics and language of the
Ehlnofey. Ostensibly a tribute-land to the High King of Alinor, the
Heartland's long lines of communication from the Summerset Isles' sovereignty
effectively isolated Cyrodill from the High Kings at Crystal Tower.
The Late Middle Merethic Era is the period of the High Velothi Culture. The
Chimer, ancestors of the modern Dunmer, or Dark Elves, were dynamic,
ambitious, long-lived Elven clans devoted to fundamentalist ancestor worship.
The Chimer clans followed the Prophet Veloth out of the ancestral Elven
homelands in the southwest to settle in the lands now known as Morrowind.
Despising the secular culture and profane practices of the Dwemer, the Chimer
also coveted the lands and resources of the Dwemer, and for centuries provoked
them with minor raids and territorial disputes. The Dwemer (Dwarves), free-
thinking, reclusive Elven clans devoted to the secrets of science,
engineering, and alchemy, established underground cities and communities in
the mountain range (later the Velothi Mountains) separating modern Skyrim and
Morrowind.
The Late Merethic Era marks the precipitous decline of Velothi culture. Some
Velothi settled in villages near declining and abandoned ancient Velothi
towers. During this period, Velothi high culture disappeared on Vvardenfell
Island. The earliest Dwemer Freehold colonies date from this period.
Degenerate Velothi devolved into tribal cultures which, in time, evolved into
the modern Great Houses of Morrowind, or persisted as the barbarian Ashlander
tribes. The only surviving traces of this tribal culture are scattered Velothi
towers and Ashlander nomads on Vvardenfell Island. The original First Era High
Elven wizard towers along the coasts of Tamriel were also abandoned about this
time.
It was in the Late Merethic Era that the pre-literate humans, the so-called
"Nedic Peoples", from the continent of Atmora (also 'Altmora' or 'the Elder
Wood' in Aldmeris) migrated and settleed in northern Tamriel. The Nord culture
hero Ysgramor, leader of a great colonizing fleet to Tamriel, is credited with
developing a runic transcription of Nord speech based on Elvish principles,
and so Ysgramor is considered the first human historian. Ysgramor's fleet
landed at Hsaarik Head at the extreme northern tip of Skyrim's Broken Cape.
The Nords built there the legendary city of Saarthal. The Elves drove the Men
away during the Night of Tears, but Ysgramor soon returned with his Five
Hundred Companions.
Also during the Late Merethic Era the legendary immortal hero, warrior,
sorceror, and king variously known as Pelinal Whitestrake, Harrald Hairy
Breeks, Ysmir, Hans the Fox, etc., wandered Tamriel, gathering armies,
conquering lands, ruling, then abandoning his kingdoms to wander again.
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(Search Code: LOLZ86)
~~The Black Arts On Trial~~
Hannibal Traven, Archmagister of the Mages Guild
Item ID: 00024539
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HISTORY
Necromancy, commonly called the Black Arts, has a history that dates back
before recorded time. Virtually all the earliest laws of the land make mention
of it as expressly forbidden on pain of death. Independent practitioners of
the arts of sorcery, however, continued its study.
The Psijic Order of the Isle of Artaeum, precursor to our own Mages Guild,
also forbade its use, not only because it was dangerous, but their belief in
the holy and unholy ancestor spirits made it heretical. Again, despite this,
we hear many stories of students and masters who ignored this stricture. When
Vanus Galerion left Artaeum, he may have disagreed with the Psijics on much,
but he also refused to allow Necromancy to be taught in the Guild.
Almost 1100 years have passed since the time of Vanus Galerion, and there have
been many archmagisters to lead his guild. The question of Necromancy has
continued to be asked. The strictures against it in the Guild have never been
lifted, but attitudes about it have shifted back and forth over the years.
Some archmagisters have been inclined to ignore it entirely, some have fought
very actively against it, and still other archmagisters have been rumored to
be Necromancers themselves.
In my new role as Archmagister of the Mages Guild, it is my duty to set policy
on this matter. Though I have my own opinions on the Black Arts, I took
counsel with two of the most learned mages in the Empire, Magister Voth
Karlyss of Corinth and Magister Ulliceta gra-Kogg of Orsinium, and we debated
for two days.
What follows are summaries of the salient points of the debate, arguments and
counter-arguments, which led to the resolution of the Mages Guild on the
subject of Necromancy.
ARGUMENT
Argument by Master gra-Kogg: Necromancy is poorly understood. We will not make
it disappear by ignoring it. As an intellectual institution dedicated to the
study of the magickal arts and sciences, we have obligations to the truth.
Censoring ourselves in our scholarship is antithetical to our mission of
neutrality and objectivity.
Counter-Argument by Master Karlyss: The Mages Guild must balance its quest for
knowledge with responsible caution and ethical standards. It is not
'censoring' a student's course of study to have him proceed cautiously and
with purity of purpose. It is not limiting a student's freedom to set rules
and boundaries - indeed, it is essential.
Argument by Master Karlyss: Necromancy is an anathema throughout the civilized
world. To embrace it publicly, the Mages Guild would inspire fear and
hostility in the populace at large. Vanus Galerion wanted this institution to
be unlike the Psijic Order, which was elitist and separatist. We ignore public
opinion at our own risk. We will certainly lose our charters in many places
including, very likely, the whole of Morrowind, where sentiment against
Necromancy is very strong.
Counter-Argument by Master gra-Kogg: Yes, we should be sensitive to the
concerns of the community, but they should not and must not dictate our
scholarship. 'Necromancer' to many uneducated persons simply means an evil
mage. It is madness to limit our work because of prejudices and half-formed
understanding. It is an affront to the purpose of objective study to turn our
back on a subject merely because of public opinion.
Argument by Master gra-Kogg: Necromancers are the scourge of Tamriel. Whether
operating independently or in concert with the sloads or King of Worms,
Mannimarco, they are responsible for many horrors, animated zombies and
skeletons and other forms of the undead. To best combat this menace, we must
understand the powers of the Necromancer, and we cannot do that by restricting
our study of the Black Arts.
Counter-Argument by Master Karlyss: No one is disputing the threat of the
Black Arts - in fact, that is the very essence of my argument against the
Mages Guild making it a School to be taught to our initiates. We can and
should know what our enemy is capable of, but we must be careful not to step
into a trap of looking too deep into his ways, and making those ways our own.
We do no one any good if by studying the evil ways, we become evil ourselves.
Argument by Master Karlyss: Necromancy is inherently dangerous. One cannot
'dabble' in it. The simplest spell requires the spilling of blood, and
immediately begins to corrupt the caster's soul. This is not conjecture, but
simple fact. It is irresponsible of the Guild to teach and thereby encourage a
sort of magickal study which has proven itself, time and time again, to bring
nothing but terror and misery on the practitioner and world.
Counter-Argument by Master gra-Kogg: All Schools of magicka are dangerous to
the uninitiated. A simple fireball spell from the School of Destruction can
cause great harm when cast by a novice, not only to others but to the mage
himself. The School of Mysticism by its very nature forces the practitioner to
divorce his mind from logic, to embrace a temporary sort of insanity, which
one might argue is very like corrupting one's soul.
Argument by Master gra-Kogg: The Guild already permits some forms of
Necromancy. The 'Schools' of magicka are, as we know, artificial constructs,
originally formulated by Vanus Galerion to divide and thereby simplify study.
They have changed many times throughout the years, but at their heart, every
Master knows, they are all linked together. When a student of Conjuration
summons a guardian ghost, he is touching on the School of Necromancy. When a
student of Enchantment uses a trapped soul, he too may be considered guilty of
a Black Art. The School of Mysticism, as I have stated before, has some
kinship with Necromancy as well. To state that students may not learn the ways
of Necromancy is to stifle common skills in the other, more historically
legitimate Schools of the Guild.
Counter-Argument by Master Karlyss: Yes, the Schools are intertwined, but the
standard spells of each School have passed the proof of time. We know that a
student of Mysticism, properly instructed, will not be permanently harmed by
his experience. In many ways, it is a question of extremes - how far we would
permit our studies to take us. Necromancy by its nature relies on the
practitioner going further into the darkness than is wise, virtually
guaranteeing his destruction. It has no place in the Mages Guild.
CONCLUSION
The risks of studying Necromancy outweigh its usefulness. The Guild does not
wish to censor the study of any of its members, but it will not tolerate
studies in the Black Arts, except in limited form for the purpose of combating
its evil adherents. This may only been done by rare individuals who have
proven themselves both highly skilled and highly cautious, and then only with
my express permission and supervision.
AFTERWORD
I regret to acknowledge the truth behind the rumor that Master Ulliceta gra-
Kogg was more than an apologist for Necromancy, she was a Necromancer herself.
Upon this revelation, the Knights of the Lamp attempted to arrest her at the
Guildhouse in Orsinium, but she made good her escape. We have every confidence
in the replacement Magister in Orsinium.
Though I disagreed, I respected her logical reasoning enough to include her
arguments in this book, and I see no reason to remove them. It is
disappointing, however, to see that her interest in 'the truth' was nothing
more than a euphemism for her slavery to the Black Arts.
This unfortunate situation merely illustrates how essential it is for
Guildmembers to be wary of the lure of Necromancy, and be vigilant to its
practitioners' infiltration in our Mages Guild.
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(Search Code: LOLZ87)
~~The Firsthold Revolt~~
Maveus Cie
Item ID: 00024537
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“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 </pre><pre id="faqspan-15">
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ88)
~~Mythic Dawn Commentaries 4~~
Mankar Camoran
Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes Book Four
Item ID: 00022B07
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May the holder of the fourth key know the heart thereby: the Mundex Terrene
was once ruled over solely by the tyrant dreugh-kings, each to their own
dominion, and borderwars fought between their slave oceans. They were akin to
the time-totems of old, yet evil, and full of mockery and profane powers. No
one that lived did so outside of the sufferance of the dreughs.
I give my soul to the Magna Ge, sayeth the joyous in Paradise, for they
created Mehrunes the Razor in secret, in the very bowels of Lyg, the domain
of the Upstart who vanishes. Though they came from diverse waters, each Get
shared sole purpose: to artifice a prince of good, spinning his likeness in
random swath, and imbuing him with Oblivion's most precious and scarce asset:
hope.
Deathlessly I intone from Paradise: Mehrunes the Thieftaker, Mehrunes
Godsbody, Mehrunes the Red Arms That Went Up! Nu-Mantia! Liberty!
Deny not that these days shall come again, my novitiates! For as Mehrunes
threw down Lyg and cracked his face, declaring each of the nineteen and nine
and nine oceans Free, so shall he crack the serpent crown of the Cyrodiils
and make federation!
All will change in these days as it was changed in those, for with by the
magic word Nu-Mantia a great rebellion rose up and pulled down the towers of
CHIM-EL GHARJYG, and the templars of the Upstart were slaughtered, and blood
fell like dew from the upper wards down to the lowest pits, where the slaves
with maniacal faces took chains and teeth to their jailers and all hope was
brush-fire.
Your Dawn listens, my Lord! Let all the Aurbis know itself to be Free!
Mehrunes is come! There is no dominion save free will!
Suns were riven as your red legions moved from Lyg to the hinterlands of
chill, a legion for each Get, and Kuri was thrown down and Djaf was thrown
down and Horma-Gile was crushed with coldsalt and forevermore called Hor and
so shall it be again under the time of Gates.
Under the mires, Malbioge was thrown down, that old City of Chains, slaked in
newbone-warmth and set Free. Galg and Mor-Galg were thrown down together in a
single night of day and shall it be again under the time of Gates.
Nothing but woe for NRN which has become The Pit and seven curses on its
Dreugh, the Vermae NI-MOHK! But for it the Crusades would be as my lord's
Creation, Get by the Ge and do as thou wilt, of no fetters but your own
conscience! Know that your Hell is Broken, people of the Aurbis, and praise
the Nu-Mantia which is Liberty!
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(Search Code: LOLZ89)
~~Souls, Black and White~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00073A6B
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The nature of the soul is not knowable. Every wizard that has attempted it
vanishes without a trace. What can be known is that souls are a source of
mystic energy that can be harvested.
Every creature, living or dead, is powered by a soul. Without it, they are
just lumps of flesh or piles of bones. This animating force can be contained
within a soul gem, if the soul gem has the capacity. From the gem, the power
can be used to power magical items.
Centuries of experimentation has demonstrated that there are black souls and
white souls. Only the rare black soul gem can hold the soul of a higher
creature, such as a man or an elf. While the souls of lesser creatures can be
captured by gems of many colors, they are all categorized as white soul gems.
Hence the division of souls into black and white.
White souls are far safer than black souls, although not as powerful.
Beginning students of Mysticism should not dabble in black souls or black
soul gems. Even if one were to ignore the guild strictures against the
necromatic arts used to power black soul gems, it is dangerous to the caster
to handle them for long. If the gem is not precisely the size of the encased
soul, small bits of the caster's soul may leak into the gem when it is
touched.
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~RESTORATION~
(Search Code: LOLZ90)
~~2920, Rain's Hand (v4)~~
Carlovac Townway
Item ID: 0002453F
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ91)
~~The Exodus~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 0002453E
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Vralla was a little girl, beautiful and sweet-natured, beautiful and smart,
beautiful and energetic. Everything that her parents had dreamed she would
be. As perfect as she was, they could not help but have dreams for her. Her
father, a bit of a social climber named Munthen, thought she would marry
well, perhaps become a Princess of the Empire. Her mother, an insecure woman
named Cinneta, thought she would reach greatness on her own, as a knight or a
sorceress. As much as they wanted the very best for their daughter, they
argued about what her fate would be, but both were wrong. Instead of growing
up, she grew very ill.
The Temples told them to give up hope, and The Mages Guild told them that
what afflicted Vralla was so rare, so deadly, that there was no cure. She was
doomed to die, and soon.
When the great institutions of the Empire failed them, Munthen and Cinneta
sought out the witches, the sorcerer hermits, and the other hidden, secret
powers that lurk in the shadows of civilization.
'I can think of only one place you can go,' said an old herbalist they found
in the most remote peaks of the Wrothgarian Mountains. 'The Mages Guild at
Olenveld.'
'But we have already been to the Mages Guild,' protested Munthen. 'They
couldn't help us.'
'Go to Olenveld," the herbalist insisted. "And tell no one that you're going
there.'
It was not easy to find Olenveld, as it did not appear on any modern map. In
a bookseller's in Skyrim, however, they found it in a historic book of
cartography from the 2nd Era. In the yellowed pages, there was Olenveld, a
city on an island in the northern coast, a day's sail in summertide from
Winterhold.
Bundling their pale daughter against the chill of the ocean wind, the couple
set sail, using the old map as their only guide. For nearly two days, they
were at sea, circling the same position, wondering if they were the victim of
a cruel trick. And then they saw it.
In the mist of crashing waves were twin crumbled statues framing the harbor,
long forgotten Gods or heroes. The ships within were half-sunk, rotten shells
along the docks. Munthen brought his ship in, and the three walked into the
deserted island city.
Taverns with broken windows, a plaza with a dried-up well, shattered palaces
and fire-blackened tenements, barren shops and abandoned stables, all
desolate, all still, but for the high keening ocean wind that whistled
through the empty places. And gravestones. Every road and alley was lined,
and crossed, and crossed again with memorials to the dead.
Munthen and Cinneta looked at one another. The chill they felt had little to
do with the wind. Then they looked at Vralla, and continued on to their goal
- the Mages Guild of Olenveld.
Candlelight glistened through the windows of the great dark building, but it
brought them little relief to know that someone was alive in the island of
death. They knocked on the door, and steeled themselves against whatever
horror they might face within.
The door was opened by a rather plump middle-aged Nord woman with frizzy
blond hair. Standing behind her, a meek-looking bald Nord about her age, a
shy teenage Breton couple, still very pimply and awkward, and a very old,
apple-cheeked Breton man who grinned with delight at the visitors.
'Oh, my goodness,' said the Nord woman, all afluster. 'I thought my ears must
be fooling me when I heard that door a-knockin'. Come in, come in, it's so
cold!'
The three were ushered in the door, and they were relieved to find that the
Guild did not look abandoned in the least. It was well swept, well lit, and
cheerfully decorated. The group fell into introductions. The inhabitants of
the Guildhouse in Olenveld were two families, the Nords Jalmar and Nette, and
the Bretons Lywel, Rosalyn, and old Wynster. They were friendly and
accommodating, immediately bringing some mulled wine and bread while Munthen
and Cinneta explained to them what they were doing there, and what the
healers and herbalists had said about Vralla.
'So, you see,' said Cinneta, tearfully. 'We didn't think we'd find the Mages
Guild in Olenveld, but now that we have, please, you're our last hope.'
The five strangers also had tears in their eyes. Nette wept particularly
noisily.
'Oh, you've been through too, too much,' the Nord woman bawled. 'Of course,
we'll help. Your little girl will be right as rain.'
'It is fair to tell you,' said Jalmar, more stoically, though he clearly was
also touched by the tale. 'This is a Guildhouse, but we are not Mages. We
took this building because it was abandoned and it serves our purposes since
the Exodus. We are Necromancers.'
'Necromancers?' Cinneta quivered. How could these nice people be anything so
horrible?
'Yes, dear,' Nette smiled, patting her hand. 'I know. We have a bad
reputation, I'm afraid. Never was very good, and now that well-meaning but
foolish Archmagister Hannibal Traven -'
'May the Worm King eat his soul!' cried the old man quite suddenly and very
viciously.
'Now, now, Wynster,' said the teenage girl Rosalyn, blushing and smiling at
Cinneta apologetically. 'I'm sorry about him. He's usually very sweet-
natured.'
'Well, of course, he's right, Mannimarco will have the last say in the
matter,' Jalmar said. 'But right now, it's all very, well, awkward. When
Traven officially banned the art, we had to go into hiding. The only other
option was to abandon it altogether, and that's just foolish, though there
are many who have done it.'
'Not many people know about Olenveld anymore since Tiber Septim used it as
his own personal graveyard,' said Lywel. 'Took us a week to find it again.
But it's perfect for us. Lots of dead bodies, you know …'
'Lywel!' Rosalyn admonished him. 'You're going to scare them!'
'Sorry,' Lywel grinned sheepishly.
'I don't care what you do here,' said Munthen sternly. 'I just want to know
what you can do for my daughter.'
'Well,' said Jalmar with a shrug. 'I guess we can make it so she doesn't die
and is never sick again.'
Cinneta gasped, 'Please! We'll give you everything we have!'
'Nonsense,' said Nette, picking up Vralla in her big, beefy arms. 'Oh, what a
beautiful girl. Would you like to feel better, little sweetheart?'
Vralla nodded, wearily.
'You stay here,' Jalmar said. 'Rosalyn, I'm sure we have something better
than bread to offer these nice folks.'
Nette started to carry Vralla away, but Cinneta ran after her. 'Wait, I'm
coming too.'
'Oh, I'm sure you would, but it'd ruin the spell, dear,' Nette said. 'Don't
worry about a thing. We've done this dozens of times.'
Munthen puts his arms around his wife, and she relented. Rosalyn hurried off
to the kitchen and brought some roast fowl and more mulled wine for them.
They sat in silence and ate.
Wynster shuddered suddenly. 'The little girl has died.'
'Oh!' Cinneta gasped.
'What in Oblivion do you mean?!' Munthen cried.
'Wynster, was that really necessary?' Lywel scowled at the old man, before
turning to Munthen and Cinneta. 'She had to die. Necromancy is not about
curing a disease, it's about resurrection, total regeneration, transforming
the whole body, not just the parts that aren't working now.'
Munthen stood up, angrily. 'If those maniacs killed her -'
'They didn't,' Rosalyn snapped, her shy eyes now showing fire. 'Your daughter
was on her last breath when she came in here, anyone could see that. I know
that this is hard, horrible even, but I won't have you call that sweet couple
who are only trying to help you, 'maniacs.
Cinneta burst into tears, 'But she's going to live now? Isn't she?'
'Oh yes,' Lywel said, smiling broadly.
'Oh, thank you, thank you,' Cinneta burst into tears. 'I don't know what we
would have done -'
'I know how you feel,' said Rosalyn, patting Wynster's hand fondly. 'When I
thought we were going to lose him, I was willing to do anything, just like
you.'
Cinneta smiled. 'How old is your father?'
'My son,' Rosalyn corrected her. 'He's six.'
From the other room came the sound of tiny footsteps.
'Vralla, go give your parents a big hug,' said Jalmar.
Munthen and Cinneta turned, and the screaming began.
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(Search Code: LOLZ92)
~~Mystery of Talara, v2~~
Mera Llykith
Item ID: 00024540
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ93)
~~Notes on Racial Phylogeny~~
Council of Healers, Imperial University
Item ID: 0002453D
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ94)
~~Withershins~~
Yaqut Tawashi
Item ID: 0002453C
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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
lewd intent, 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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
~SECURITY~
(Search Code: LOLZ95)
~~Advances in Lock Picking~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00073A65
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I am not a writer. I am a thief. I am a good thief. I am not such a good
writer. Anyway, I want to write about picking locks. I read a book about
designing locks once. It was good. It gave me lots of ideas.
Some guys make locks with angled keyholes. Always carry a bent lockpick. They
will work good in these locks. I do, and I open lots of locks. Sometimes I
carry copper lockpicks. Copper bends easy. That way I can bend it right
there. Copper lockpicks break easy too. Be careful.
Sometimes the locks have weird spings. They all spring differently, which </pre><pre id="faqspan-16">
makes picking it hard. I hold my torch close to the lock. This makes it hot.
When it's hot, the springs are all the same. They don't bounce so differently
any more. Be careful not to burn yourself.
Some thieves can't read. If you can't read, get someone to read this book to
you. It will make more sense then.
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(Search Code: LOLZ96)
~~The Locked Room~~
Porbert Lyttumly
Item ID: 00024541
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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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ97)
~~Proper Lock Design~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00073A64
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Proper Lock Design and Construction
I have encountered many thieves whose sole interest in locks is how to open
them and thereby pilfer the protected contents of the room or chest. I have
taken it upon myself to devise a system of locks that can defeat such
villianous intent.
The materials used to create a lock are of utmost importance. Shoddy brass or
copper will give way to a well placed kick, thereby rendering the lock itself
useless. I recommend steel over iron when choosing a material. More robust
materials tend to be prohibitively expensive and necessitate the door being
made of similar metals. I have been chagrined to stumble across the shattered
shell of a wooden chest, it's dwarven lock intact and still locked.
Once these basics are settled, pay particular attention to the offset of the
tumblers. A seven degree offset to the keyhole will allow a torque style key
to work smoothly, while at the same time causing numerous headaches for the
thief attempting to insert non-torque lockpicks.
In similar fashion, the springs of the tumblers should be made by different
smiths. Each smith will unknowingly create a spring with different tension
than his fellow smiths. This variance will also create difficulties for
anyone attempting to pick the lock.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ98)
~~Surfeit of Thieves~~
Aniis Noru
How a busted robbery gets even worse
Item ID: 00024545
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ99)
~~The Wolf Queen, v1~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 00024542
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
~SNEAK~
(Search Code: LOLZ100)
~~2920, Last Seed (v8)~~
Carlovac Townway
Item ID: 00024547
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ101)
~~Legend of Krately House~~
Baloth-Kul
Item ID: 00024549
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
THEOPHON - Imperial man, 24, thief
NIRIM - Bosmer man, 20, thief
SILANUS KRATELY - Imperial man, 51, merchant
DOMINITIA KRATELY - His wife, 40
AELVA KRATELY - Their daughter, 16
MINISTES KRATELY - Their son, 11
Setting: The famous haunted Krately House in Cheydinhal, first and second
floors, requiring a stage with a second story where most of the action takes
place.
The stage is dark.
There is a CREAKING noise, footsteps on the stairs, the sound of a man
breathing, but still we see nothing.
Then, a voice calls from above.
AELVA (off stage): Hello? Is someone down there?
MINESTES (off stage): Should I wake up Papa?
AELVA (off stage): No... Maybe I was imagining it...
A light from a lantern can be seen coming from the upstairs, and the slim
form of a beautiful young girl, AELVA, descends the staircase at stage right,
nervously.
From the light of the lantern, we can see that we are looking at the
second floor of a dusty old house, with a set of stairs going up and another
one going down on stage right. An unlit stone fireplace sits at stage left. A
table, a locked chest, and a wardrobe complete the furnishings.
MINESTES (off stage): Aelva, what are you doing?
AELVA: I'm just making certain... Go back to bed, Minestes.
As the girl passes the table, we see a Bosmer NIRIM slide gracefully up
from behind and around her field of sight, carefully avoiding the pool of
light. She doesn't appear to see him as he creeps closer to her, his
footsteps silent on the hard wooden floor.
When he is almost on her, there is a sudden CRASH from down below. This
causes the Bosmer to leap away, hiding again behind the table.
The girl does not seem to notice the sound, and Nirim, peeking out from
behind the table, watches her.
MINESTES (off stage): Found anything?
AELVA: No. Probably just my imagination, but I'm just going to check
downstairs.
MINESTES (off stage): Is there a fire? I'm cold...
Aelva looks towards the long dead fireplace, and so does Nirim.
AELVA: Of course there is. Can't you hear it crackling?
MINESTES (off stage): I guess so...
Aelva suddenly jumps as if she heard something which we do not. She turns
her attention down the stairs to the first floor.
AELVA: Hello?
Aelva, lantern ahead of her, begins the descent. She does not seem to
notice as an Imperial, THEOPHON, carrying a big bag of loot and a lantern of
his own, calmly walks up right past her.
THEOPHON: Excuse me, young lady. Just robbing you.
Aelva continues her slow, nervous walk downstairs, which we can now see
thanks to her light. She looks around the low-ceilinged, thoroughly looted
room as the action continues upstairs
Theophon's lantern provides the dim light for the second floor.
THEOPHON: Why are you hiding, Nirim? I told you. They can't see you, and they
can't hear you.
Nirim sheepishly steps out from behind the table.
NIRIM: I can't believe they're all ghosts. They seem so alive.
THEOPHON: That's what spooks them superstitians. But they ain't going to hurt
us. Just reliving the past, the way ghosts do.
NIRIM: The night they was murdered.
THEOPHON: Stop thinking about that or you'll get yourself all willy spooked.
I got all kinds of stuff on the first floor - silver candlesticks, silk, even
some gold... What'd you get?
Nirim holds up his empty bag.
NIRIM: Sorry, Theophon, I was just about to start...
THEOPHON: Get to work on that chest then. That's what you're here for.
NIRIM: Oh yeah. I got the talent, you got the ideas... and the equipment. You
refilled that lantern before we came here, right? I can't work in the dark...
THEOPHON: Don't worry, Nirim. I promise. No surprises.
Nirim jumps when a young boy, MINESTES, appears on the stairs. The lad
creeps down quietly and goes to the fire. He acts as if he's stoking a fire,
feeding it wood, poking at the embers, though there is no wood, no poker, no
fire.:
THEOPHON: We got all the time in the world, friend. No one comes near this
house. If they sees our lantern light, they'll just assume it's the ghosts.
Nirim begins picking the lock on a chest of drawers, while Theophon opens
a wardrobe and begins going through the contents, which are mostly rotten
cloth.
Nirim is distracted, looking at the young boy.
NIRIM: Hey, Theophon, how long ago did they die?
THEOPHON: About five years ago. Why you asking?
NIRIM: Just making conversation.
As they talk, Aelva, downstairs, finally having searched the small room,
acts as if she's locking the front door.
THEOPHON: Didn't I already tell you the story?
NIRIM: No, you just said, hey, I know a place we can burgle where no one's at
home, except for the ghosts. I thought you was joking.
THEOPHON: No joking, partner. Five years ago, the Kratelys lived here. Nice
people. You seen the daughter Aelva and the boy Minestes. The parents were
Silenus and Dominitia, if I remembers rightly.
Nirim successfully unlocks the chest and begins rummaging through it.
While he does so, Ministes gets up from the ‘fire,' apparently warmed up, and
stands at the top of the stairs down.
MINISTES: Hey!
The boy's voice causes Nirim, Theophon, and Aelva to all jump.
AELVA: Why aren't you in bed? I'm just going to check the cellar.
MINISTES: I'll wait for you.
NIRIM: So, what happened?
THEOPHON: Oh, they was rip to piece. Halfway eaten. No one ever knew who or
what did it neither. Though there was rumors...
Aelva opens the door to the cellar, and goes in. The light disappears
from the first floor. Ministes patiently waits at the top of the stairs,
humming a little song to himself.
NIRIM: What kind of rumors?
Theophon, having exhausted the possibilities in the wardrobe, helps Nirim
sort through the gold in the chest.
THEOPHON: Pretty good haul, eh? Oh, the rumors. Well, they says old lady
Dominitia was a witch before she married Silenus. Gave it all up for him, to
be a good wife and mother. But the witches didn't take too kindly to it. They
found her and sent some kind of creature here, late at night. Something
horrible, right out of a nightmare.
MINISTES: Aelva? Aelva, what's taking you so long?
NIRIM: Ye Gods, are we going to watch them get killed, right in front of us?
MINISTES: Aelva!
SILENUS (off stage): What's happening down there? Stop playing around, boy,
and go to sleep.
MINISTES: Papa!
Ministes, frightened, runs to the stairs up. Along the way, he bumps into
Nirim, who falls down. The boy does not seem to notice but continues on up to
the dark third floor sleeping porch, off-stage.
THEOPHON: Are you all right?
Nirim jumps to his feet, white-faced.
NIRIM: Never mind that! He touched me?! How can a ghost touch me?!
THEOPHON: Well... Of course they can. Some anyhow. You heard of ancestor
spirits guarding tombs, and that ghost of the king they had in Daggerfall. If
they don't touch you, what good are they ? Why you so surprised? You thought
he'd move right through you, I figger.
NIRIM: Yes!
SILENUS, the man of the house, comes down the stairs, cautiously.
DOMINITIA (off stage): Don't leave us alone, Silenus! We're coming with you!
SILENUS: Wait, it's dark. Let me get some light.
Silenus goes to the cold fireplace, sticks his hand forward, and suddenly
in his arm, there's a lit, burning torch. Nirim scrambles back, horrified.
NIRIM: I felt that! I felt the heat of the fire!
SILENUS: Come on down. It's all right.
Ministes leads his mother DOMINITIA down the stairs where they join
Silenus.
THEOPHON: I don't know why you so scared, Nirim. I must say I'm disappointed.
I didn't figger you for a supersitionalist.
Theophon goes for the stairs up.
NIRIM: Where are you going?
THEOPHON: One more floor to search.
NIRIM: Can't we just go?
Nirim watches as the family of three, following Silenus and his torch,
walk down towards the first floor.
SILENUS: Aelva? Say something, Aelva.
THEOPHON: There, you see? If you don't like ghosts, third floor's the place
to be. All four of em are downstairs now.
Theophon goes upstairs, off-stage, but Nirim stands at the top of the
stairs, looking down at the family. The three look around the first floor as
Aelva did, finally turning towards the cellar door.
NIRIM: All... four?
Silenus opens the cellar door.
SILENUS: Aelva? What are you doing down in the cellar, girl?
DOMINITIA: You see her?
NIRIM: All four, Theophon?
SILENUS: I think so... I see someone... Hello?
NIRIM: What if there's five ghosts, Theophon?!
</pre><pre id="faqspan-17">
Silenus thrusts his torch in through the cellar door, and it is suddenly
extinguished. The first floor falls into darkness.
Ministes, Dominitia, and Silenus SCREAM, but we cannot see what is
happening to them.
Nirim is nearly hysterical, screaming along with them. Theophon runs
downstairs from the third floor.
THEOPHON: What is it?!
NIRIM: What if there is five ghosts?! The man, the wife, the girl, the boy...
and what killed them?!
THEOPHON: And what killed them?
NIRIM: And what if it's a ghost that can touch us too?! Just like the others!
From the darkened first floor, there is a CREAK of a door opening, though
we cannot see it. And then, there is a heavy, clawed footfall. One step at a
time, coming towards the stairs.
THEOPHON: Don't get so upset. If it can touch us, what'd make you think it'd
wants to? All the others didn't even notice we was here.
Theophon's lantern dims slightly. He adjusts it carefully.
NIRIM: Only... only what if it ain't a ghost, Theophon. What if it's the same
creature, and it's still alive... and it ain't ate nothing since five years
ago...
The footsteps begin the slow, heavy stomp up the stairs, though whatever
it is, we cannot see it. Nirim notices the light beginning to dim from the
lantern despite Theophon frantically trying to fix it.
NIRIM: You said you refilled the lamp!
The light goes out entirely, and the stage is filled with darkness.
NIRIM: You promised me you refilled the lamp!
More footsteps and a horrible, horrible HOWL. The men SCREAM.
The curtain falls.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ102)
~~Purloined Shadows~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 0002454A
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Chapter One *
The candle was lit, and the thief was standing there, blinking, caught. She
was young, rather dirty, wearing ragged black clothes that were surely quite
smart and expensive weeks ago when she had stolen them from one of the city's
best tailors. The look of surprise slipped from her face, and she took on a
blank expression as she put the gold back on the table.
"What are you doing here?" the man with the candle asked, stepping from the
shadows.
"That's a stupid question," the girl replied, frowning. "I'm obviously
robbing you."
"Since nothing I have is missing," the man smiled, glancing at the gold on
the table. "I would have to say that you're not robbing me. Attempting to rob
me perhaps. The question I have is, why? You know who I am, I assume. You
didn't just come in through an unlocked door."
"I've stolen from everyone else. I've taken soul gems from the Mages Guild,
I've robbed the treasury of the most secure fortress, I cheated the
Archbishop of Julianos … I even pickpocketed the Emperor Pelagius at his
coronation. I thought it was your turn."
"I'm flattered," the man nodded. "Now that your ambition has been thwarted,
what will you do? Flee? Perhaps retire?"
"Teach me," the girl replied, a little grin finding its way unconsciously on
her face. "I picked all your locks, I slipped past all your wards … You
designed them, you know how difficult that was for someone without training.
I didn't come here for six gold pieces. I came here to prove myself. Make me
your student."
The Master of Stealth looked at the little girl burglar. "Your skill is not
in need of training. Your planning is adequate, but I can help you with that.
What is without hope is your ambition. You are past stealing for your
livelihood, now you steal for the pleasure of it, for the challenge. That's a
personality trait which is incurable, and will lead you to an early grave."
"Haven't you ever wanted to steal that which can't be stolen?" the girl
asked. "Something that would make your name known forever?"
The Master did not answer: he only frowned.
"Clearly I was fooled by your reputation," she shrugged, and opened a window.
"I thought you might want a willing accomplice on some great act of thievery
which would go down in history. Like you said, my skill at planning is only
adequate. I didn't have in mind an escape route, but this will have to do."
The burglar slipped down the sheer wall, dashed across the shadowy courtyard,
and within a few minutes was back at her room in the run-down tavern. The
Master was waiting for her there, in the dark.
"I didn't see you go past me," she gasped.
"You turned on the street when you heard the owl call," he replied. "The most
important tool in the thieves' repertoire is distraction, either planned or
improvised. I suppose your lessons have begun."
"And what is the final test?" the girl smiled.
When he told her, she could only stare. She had, it seemed, not misunderstood
his reputation for daring. Not at all.
* Chapter Two *
For the week leading up to the Eighth of Hearthfire, the skies above Rindale
were dark and alive as clouds of crows blotted out the sun. Their guttural
squawks and groans deafened all. The peasants wisely bolted their doors and
windows, praying to survival that most unholy of days.
On the night of the summoning, the birds fell silent, their black unblinking
eyes following the witches' march into the glen. There were no moons to light
the way, only the leader's single torch in the gloom. Their white robes
appeared as indistinct shapes, like the faintest of ghosts.
A single tall tree stood in the middle of the clearing, every branch thick
with crows, watching the procession without moving. The lead witch placed the
torch at the base of the tree, and her seventeen followers formed a circle
and began their slow, strange, wailing chant.
As they sang, the glow of the torch began to change. It did not diminish at
all, but its color became more and more grey, so it seemed a pulsating wave
of ash had fallen on the witches. Then it grew darker still, so that for a
moment, though the fire yet burned, it was darkest night in the forest. The
penumbra continued until the torch was burning with a color without a name,
emptiness beyond mere blackness. It cast a glow, but it was an unnatural
scintillation falling on the witches. Their robes of white became black. The
Dunmer among them had eyes of green, and ivory white flesh. The Nords
appeared black as coal. The crows watching overhead were as pure white as the
witches' cloaks.
The Daedra Princess Nocturnal stepped out of the pit of uncolor.
She stood in the center of the circle, the tree of pallid crows her throne,
aloof, as the witches continued their chanting, dropping their robes to
prostrate themselves naked before their great mistress. Wrapping her night
cloak around her, she smiled at their song. It spoke of her mystery, of
veiled beauty, of eternal shadows and a divine future when the sun burns no
more.
Nocturnal let her cloak slide from her shoulders and was naked. Her witches
did not raise their head from the ground, but continued their hymn of
darkness.
"Now," said the girl to herself.
She had been up in the tree all day, dressed in a ridiculous suit of mock
crows. It was uncomfortable, but when the witches had arrived, she forgot all
her aches, and concentrated on being perfectly still, like the other crows in
the tree. It had taken considerable planning and study between her and the
Master of Stealth to find the glen, and to learn what to expect in the
summoning of Nocturnal.
Gently, silently, the burglar eased herself down the branches of the tree,
coming closer and closer to the Daedra Princess. She let herself break her
concentration for just a moment, and wondered where the Master was. He had
been confident in the plan. He said that when Nocturnal dropped her cloak,
there would be a distraction, and it could be quickly taken in that instant
provided the girl was in position at the precise right moment.
The girl climbed along the lowest of the branches, carefully pushing aside
the crows that were, as the Master said, transfixed by the Princess in her
naked beauty. The girl was now close enough, if she only reached out her arm,
to touch Nocturnal's back.
The song was rising to a crescendo, and the girl knew that the ceremony would
soon be over. Nocturnal would clothe herself before the witches ended the
chant, and the chance to take the cloak would be over. The girl gripped the
tree branch tightly as her mind raced. Could it be that the Master was not
here at all? Was this, was this conceivably the entire test? Was it only to
show that it could be done, not to do it?
The girl was furious. She had done everything perfectly, but the so-called
Master of Stealth had proven himself a coward. Perhaps he had taught her a
little in the months that it took to plan this, but what was it worth? Only
one thing made her smile. On that night when she had stolen into his
stronghold, she had kept one single gold piece, and he had never suspected
it. It was symbolic, as symbolic as stealing the cloak of Nocturnal in its
way, proving that the Master Thief could be robbed.
The girl was so lost on her mind that she thought she imagined it for a
moment when a man's voice yelled out from the darkness, "Mistress!"
The next words she knew she didn't imagine: "Mistress! A thief! Behind you!"
The witches raised their heads, and screamed, ruining the sanctity of the
ceremony, as they charged forward. The crows awoke and burst from the tree in
an explosion of feathers and toad-like cries. Nocturnal herself whirled
around, affixing the girl with her black eyes.
"Who art thee who dares profane?" The Princess hissed, as the pitch shadows
flew from her body enveloping the girl in their lethal chill.
In the last instant before she was swallowed alive by darkness, the girl
looked to the ground and saw that the cloak was gone, and she answered, as
she understood, "Oh, who am I? I'm the distraction."
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(Search Code: LOLZ103)
~~Sacred Witness~~
Enric Milres
Item ID: 00024548
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I have met countesses and courtesans, empresses and witches, ladies of war
and slatterns of peace, but I have never met a woman like The Night Mother.
And I never will again.
I am a writer, a poet of some small renown. If I told you my name, you may
have heard of me, but very likely, not. For decades until very recently, I
had adopted the city of Sentinel on the coast of Hammerfell as my home, and
kept the company of other artists, painters, tapestrists, and writers. No one
I knew would have known an assassin by sight, least of all the queen of them,
the Blood Flower, the Lady Death, the Night Mother.
Not that I had not heard of her.
Some years ago, I had the good fortune of meeting Pelarne Assi, a respected
scholar, who had come to Hammerfell to do research for a book about the Order
of Diagna. His essay, 'The Brothers of Darkness' together with Ynir Gorming's
'Fire and Darkness: The Brotherhoods of Death' are considered to be the canon
tomes on the subject of Tamriel's orders of assassins. By luck, Gorming
himself was also in Sentinel, and I was priveleged to sit with the two in a
dark skooma den in the musty slums of the city, as we smoked and talked about
the Dark Brotherhood, the Morag Tong, and the Night Mother.
While not disputing the possibility that the Night Mother may be immortal or
at least very long-lived, Assi thought it most likely that several women -
and perhaps some men - throughout the ages had assumed the honorary title. It
was no more logical to say there was only one Night Mother, he asserted, than
to say there was only one King of Sentinel.
Gorming argued that there never was a Night Mother, at least no human one.
The Night Mother was Mephala herself, whom the Brotherhood revered second
only to Sithis.
'I don't suppose there's any way of knowing for certain,' I said, in a note
of diplomacy.
'Certainly there is,' whispered Gorming with a grin. 'You could talk to that
cloaked fellow in the corner.'
I had not noticed the man before, who sat by himself, eyes hidden by his
cloak, seemingly as much a part of the dingy place as the rough stone and
unswept floor. Turning back to Ynir, I asked him why that man would know
about the Night Mother.
'He's a Dark Brother,' hissed Pellarne Assi. 'That's as plain as the moons.
Don't even joke about speaking with him about Her.'
We moved on to other arguments about the Morag Tong and the Brotherhood, but
I never forgot the image of the lone man, looking at nothing and everything,
in the corner of the dirty room, with fumes of skooma smoke floating around
him like ghosts. When I saw him weeks later on the streets of Sentinel, I
followed him.
Yes, I followed him. The reader may reasonably ask 'why' and 'how.' I don't
blame you for that.
'How' was simply a question of knowing my city as well as I do. I'm not a
thief, not particularly sure-footed and quiet, but I know the alleys and
streets of Sentinel intimately from decades worth of ambling. I know which
bridges creak, which buildings cast long irregular shadows, the intervals at
which the native birds begin the ululations of their evening songs. With
relative ease, I kept pace with the Dark Brother and out of his sight and
hearing.
The answer to 'Why' is even simpler. I have the natural curiosity of the born
writer. When I see a strange new animal, I must observe. It is the writer's
curse.
I trailed the cloaked man deeper into the city, down an alleyway so narrow it
was scarcely a crack between two tenements, past a crooked fence, and
suddenly, miraculously, I was in a place I had never seen before. A little
courtyard cemetery, with a dozen old half-rotted wooden tombstones. None of
the surrounding buildings had windows that faced it, so no one knew this
miniature necropolis existed.
No one, except the six men and one woman standing in it. And me.
The woman saw me immediately, and gestured for me to come closer. I could
have run, but - no, I couldn't have. I had pierced a mystery right in my
adopted Sentinel, and I could not leave it.
She knew my name, and she said it with a sweet smile. The Night Mother was a
little old lady with fluffy white hair, cheeks like wrinkled apples that
still carried the flush of youth, friendly eyes, blue as the Iliac Bay. She
softly took my arm as we sat down amidst the graves and discussed murder.
She was not always in Hammerfell, not always available for direct assignment,
but it seemed she enjoyed actually talking to her clientele.
'I did not come here to hire the Brotherhood,' I said respectfully.
'Then why are you here?' the Night Mother asked, her eyes never leaving mine.
I told her I wanted to know about her. I did not expect an answer to that,
but she told me.
'I do not mind the stories you writers dream up about me,' she chuckled.
'Some of them are very amusing, and some of them are good for business. I
like the sexy dark woman lounging on the divan in Carlovac Townway's fiction
particularly. The truth is that my history would not make a very dramatic
tale. I was a thief, long, long ago, back when the Thieves Guild was only
beginning. It's such a bother to sneak around a house when performing a
burglary, and many of us found it most efficacious to strangle the occupant
of the house. Just for convenience. I suggested to the Guild that a segment
of our order be dedicated to the arts and sciences of murder.
'It did not seem like such a controversial idea to me,' the Night Mother
shrugged. 'We had specialists in catburglary, pick-pocketing, lock-picking,
fencing, all the other essential parts of the job. But the Guild thought that
encouraging murder would be bad for business. Too much, too much, they
argued.
'They might have been right,' the old woman continued. 'But I discovered
there is a profit to be made, just the same, from sudden death. Not only can
one rob the deceased, but, if your victim has enemies, which rich people
often do, you can be paid for it even more. I began to murder people
differently when I discovered that. After I strangled them, I would put two
stones in their eyes, one black and one white.'
'Why?' I asked.
'It was a sort of calling card of mine. You're a writer - don't you want your
name on your books? I couldn't use my name, but I wanted potential clients to
know me and my work. I don't do it anymore, no need to, but at the time, it
was my signature. Word spread, and I soon had quite a successful business.'
'And that became the Morag Tong?' I asked.
'Oh, dear me, no,' the Night Mother smiled. 'The Morag Tong was around long
before my time. I know I'm old, but I'm not that old. I merely hired on some
of their assassins when they began to fall apart after the murder of the last
Potentate. They did not want to be members of the Tong anymore, and since I
was the only other murder syndicate of any note, they just joined on.'
I phrased my next question carefully. 'Will you kill me now that you've told
me all this?'
She nodded sadly, letting out a little grandmotherly sigh. 'You are such a
nice, polite young man, I hate to end our acquaintanceship. I don't suppose
you would agree to a concession or two in exchange for your life, would you?'
To my everlasting shame, I did agree. I said I would say nothing about our
meeting, which, as the reader can see, was a promise I eventually, years
later, chose not to keep. Why have I endangered my life thus?
Because of the promises I did keep.
I helped the Night Mother and the Dark Brotherhood in acts too despicable,
too bloody for me to set to paper. My hand quivers as I think about the
people I betrayed, beginning with that night. I tried to write my poetry, but
ink seemed to turn to blood. Finally, I fled, changing my name, going to a
land where no one would know me.
And I wrote this. The true history of the Night Mother, from the interview
she gave me on the night we met. It will be the last thing I ever write, this
I know. And every word is true.
Pray for me.
Editor's Note: Though originally published anonymously, the identity of the
author has never been in serious doubt. Any layman familiar with the work of
the poet Enric Milnes will recognize Sacred Witness's familiar cadence and
style in such books of his as 'The Alik'r.' Shortly after publication, Milnes
was murdered, and his killer was never found. He had been strangled, and two
stones, a black one and a white one, crushed into his eyesockets. Very
brutally.
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(Search Code: LOLZ104)
~~The Wolf Queen, v6~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 00024546
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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."
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~SPEECHCRAFT~
(Search Code: LOLZ105)
~~2920, Second Seed (v5)~~
Carlovac Townway
Item ID: 0002454D
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ106)
~~Biography of the Wolf Queen~~
Katar Eriphanes
Item ID: 0002454B
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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
heir 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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ107)
~~The Wolf Queen, v5~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 0002454C
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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."
</pre><pre id="faqspan-18">
"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."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ108)
~~The Wolf Queen, v7~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 0002454E
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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~MARKER BOOKS~
(Search Code: LOLZ109)
~~Agnar's Journal~~
Agnar the Unwavering
Item ID: 000C55DF
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Entry 1:
When I took on the role of Chieftain of Thirsk, when I accepted the beautiful
Svenja Snow-Song as my advisor, and then my bride, I never imagined how
quickly my life would change.
I went to the isle of Solstheim for some much needed rest, and found it in
the mead-soaked halls of Thirsk. But when I met Svenja, my sweet Svenja, I
became entangled in an epic story the likes of which I had only read about in
fables and childrens' tales.
Svenja told me of the fateful night when a hideous creature known as the
Uderfrykte attacked the mead hall, killing rampantly, leaving her the only
survivor. The creature was slain by a champion, and Thirsk had its new
chieftain, but it wasn't long before they moved on to some new challenge,
some new adventure.
And that's where I entered the tale. Svenja Snow-Song, with her ice-blue eyes
and flaxon hair, gained my love. Soon after, I became her husband...and the
mead hall's new chieftain. In truth, I had never been happier. But Svenja, my
dear wife, existed in quiet misery, constantly haunted by the memory of the
Uderfrykte, and the damage it had wrought on the mead hall, and the people
she had loved. Night after night, my dear woke up screaming, her face etched
in horror and a single word issuing from her lips -- "Uderfrykte!"
I feared for my wife's sanity and happiness, but it was she who found a
solution to her problem. As a warrior, she told me, she must confront her
fear. She must defeat it. The Uderfrykte was dead, yes, but where did it come
from? Was it unique? Would more of the creatures come, and wreak havoc once
again? Would I, her loving husband, be killed? And so she corresponded with
explorers and researchers all across Tamriel, until she found the answer she
had been looking for. The Uderfrykte was in fact NOT unique, but the
offspring of an ancient Uderfrykte Matron. In order to end the nightmares, in
order to prevent any more destruction, we would need to hunt down and kill
the Uderfrykte Matron, no matter where or how.
Entry 2:
By Ysmir, we've been searching. And searching. And searching some more. But
finally it came -- the lucky break we had been hoping for. The creature has
been spotted by a shepherd in the remote highlands of Skyrim!
Entry 3:
We found its trail and tracked it for days, crossing the border into the
Imperial Province. Here in the frigid mountains, we met with a local hunter
who tried to warn us away from the area, citing an old legend about a deadly
creature known as the Horror of Dive Rock -- a monster credited with the
slaying of over a dozen people, and just as much cattle. Could this creature
be the very Uderfrykte Matron we seek? Perhaps, unlike its child on
Solstheim, the Matron moves from location to location, and its this mobility
that has thus far prevented its killing or capture?
Entry 4:
we have made camp at Dive Rock, reportedly the highest natural observation
point in all of Cyrodiil. From here we can see for miles! So we'll keep
watch, night and day. We're close, so very close. Svenja and I can feel it in
our very bones. Indeed, Svenja has always been particularly in tune with such
things, and is convinced the Uderfrykte Matron is close.
Entry 5:
Svenja has grown tired of my constant writing, but this journal will serve as
a record of our travels and defeat against the Uderfrykte. She's staring at
me angrily, impatiently, right now as I write, but this entry is too
important -- finally, on this third day of watching, we've spotted it -- the
Uderfrykte Matron! It is unlike anything we have ever lain eyes on, a giant,
troll-like beast that seems to waver and shimmer in the cold -- like the
feral form of winter itself! We're off now to trudge down the mountain,
weapons in hand, and give the Horror of Dive Rock its due!
Entry 6:
Failure and horror! We engaged the monster with all the force we could
muster, but it was a travesty beyond comprehension. Svenja... My beautiful
Svenja! My dear wife was killed instantly, consumed by the beast nearly
whole! And though it shames me now to write these words, I could think of
nothing more at the time than escape. I took flight, returning here to our
camp on Dive Rock, to collect my thoughts and nerve.
I haven't much time. After this quick entry I will march out and meet the
Uderfrykte Matron once more -- it is sure to track me back to this campsite
anyway, so our confrontation is inevitable. Can I even hope to defeat this
monstrosity? One thing is certain -- Svenja and I came hastily, unprepared.
My steel axe? Useless. My dear wife's Frostwyrm Bow? Completely ineffective
(and swallowed whole, still in Svenja's hand...).
The beast appears to be a creature of the cold, and is likely nearly
completely resistant to it. I would attack with fire if I had any on hand.
But there is no time. No time to travel to a mages guild and procure an
enchanted blade, or hire the services of a sorceror. My steel axe will have
to do. And so I return to battle now, and hope beyond hope that I may slay
the wretched monster that has brought so much grief to so many people. And if
not, I take comfort in knowing I will soon rejoin my beautiful bride in the
gilded halls of Sovngarde.
If someone is reading this hastily written journal, I am likely dead, and
pray to Ysmir that you have had more luck against the creature than I.
Agnar the Unwavering,
Chieftain of Thirsk
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(Search Code: LOLZ110)
~~Cleansing of the Fane~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0002C8DD
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The Chronicles of the Holy Brothers of Marukh, Volume IV
Or, The Cleansing of the Fane
[Editor's Note: This is the only surviving fragment of the chronicle of this
First Era sect of the Alessian Order. It seems to have been kept at their
great monastic complex at Lake Canulus, which was razed during the War of
Righteousness (1E 2321) and its archives destroyed or dispersed.
Note also that Alessian scribes of this time customarily dated events from
the Apotheosis of Alessia (1E 266).]
Here is recorded the events of the Year 127 of the Blessed Alessia.
In this year was the day darkened over all lands, and the sun was all as it
were Masser but three days old, and the stars about him at midday. This was
on the fifth of First Seed. All who saw it were dismayed, and said that a
great event should come hereafter. So it did, for that same year issued forth
a great concourse of devils from the ancient Elvish temple Malada, such had
not been seen since the days of King Belharza. These devils greatly afflicted
the land such that no man could plow, or reap, or seed, and the people
appealed to the brothers of Marukh for succour. And then Abbot Cosmas
gathered all the brothers and led them to Malada, also known as the High Fane
in the Elvish tongue, and came against it with holy fire, and the foul demons
were destroyed, and many devilish relics and books found therein were burned.
And the land had peace for many years.
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(Search Code: LOLZ111)
~~Knightfall~~
Jaren Aethelweald, edited by Kirellian Odrenius
Item ID: 00022E65
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And so it came to pass, that on the first month before the harvest, nary a
decent crop could be found in the drought-ridden fields of Farmantle Glens.
Twenty-seven families, their bellies sunken and empty, turned to their
lordship who had been so fair to them in hard times before. The man ruled not
with an iron gauntlet, but with the soft touch of silken kindness: my lord,
Garridan Stalrous, Knight-Errant of Farmantle Glens.
I watched sadly as my lord Garridan looked out at the withered fields before
him from his meager stone keep and cursed the luck that tainted the skies and
stopped the rain from falling. The families in his charge would not last the
winter, which was always bitter and cold in the northern reaches of the
Jerals. His own supply of grain was already picked clean; there was barely
enough to sustain him for the months ahead. I know if my lord had the food
there, he would have shared it gladly, allowing his charges to pay him back
in whatever time or manner they could afford... and in some cases, to those
in dire need, give it to them without costs. Something had to be done; and it
had to be done soon.
Sparing not a drake, Garridan paid for the best sages he could find and used
the rest to buy as much surplus grain as he could wrest from the neighboring
domains. A month passed, and nothing surfaced. Winter's icy tendrils would
soon creep across Farmantle Glens, causing the green to disappear from the
landscape. Families would have to huddle close to their hearths, keeping warm
and rationing the bits of food Garridan had given them. I could see
Garridan's patience, which was immense mind you, wearing thin. He told me
he'd considered selling his keep... his belongings... anything to keep his
people alive. If only the harvest would yield more, they'd be saved.
Then, as if Mara herself had answered his prayers, a sage entered Garridan's
keep with the answer. Legend told of a vessel of sorts from which water would
pour endlessly known as the Everflow Ewer. Some said the Divines themselves
created it; others thought perhaps a powerful sorcerer enchanted it. Wherever
it was from, Garridan knew this could be his chance. Following the directions
from the sage, my lord and I set out to recover the Ewer and rid Farmantle
Glens of the drought.
It took days to reach the entrance to the place. After we passed through a
winding passage, we finally came to an odd door covered in mystical symbols.
As the sage instructed, my lord touched some Refined Frost Salts to the door.
The ancient stone door opened, and we proceeded into the glade. A cave cut
into a hillside led into a small glade of trees. In the center of the glade,
flanked by two standing stones, was a stone altar. On the altar, seemingly
glowing with inner light was the Ewer. Cut from crystal, the vessel was the
most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Water filled it to the very top, and as
legends held, would never diminish as the liquid decanted from it. Eager to
return to his domain, Garridan grasped the Ewer in hand.
Suddenly, the ground trembled as though the mountains themselves were
angered. The sky changed from sunlit blue to dreary grey. Even the ring of
trees forming the glade seemed to bend away slightly from the altar, as if
fearing what was to come. Then, with no warning, one of the standing stones
cracked and exploded! My gaze froze and my heart fell as I looked upon the
guardian of the glade. A huge creature seemingly cut from the very same
crystal as the Ewer stepped forth and growled menacingly at my master. The
air around it became very cold, as if it was born from the glaciers of the
northern mountains. This was a being of ice... living breathing ice!
Garridan shouted at me to run as he drew his blade. Still clutching the Ewer
in one hand, he gave a mighty swing at the ice creature. When the forged
steel struck home, it gave a resounding ring and merely chipped the beast as
a spike would when driven against the hardest of rocks. Never showing fear,
my lord swung again and again, each blow being harmlessly deflected away.
Then, a single and mighty blow from the ice creature knocked my lord down.
His blade slid away, and he lay on the forest floor looking up into the
crystalline eyes of his death. The ice creature raised its arm again for the
fatal blow, and brought it down hard at Garridan's prone form.
I don't know why he did it. Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps a moment's lapse
in judgment. But my lord lifted the Everflow Ewer defensively as he got up to
a kneeling position. The blow from the creature connected with the vessel,
creating an ear-splitting crash. There was the sound of water splashing and a
horrible cracking noise as the sundered pitcher sent waves of freezing water
in all directions. Even as I watched, the liquid covered the ice creature and
my poor master. They seemed suspended in place as if frozen solid. At the
time, I didn't know how true my thoughts had become. As I watched in horror,
they were encased in a tomb of pure ice. I could see Garridan's face as the
ice overtook him, and I could swear he was crying. A few of his tears froze
and fell to the ground at his feet like beautiful blue crystals. He knew he'd
failed his mission. His people would starve, and he was responsible. Frost
and ice covered everything in the glade now... the trees, the rocks, the
soil... everything.
It was then I became aware that the very air around me began to freeze. It
was like a cold winter's night at first, and then it rapidly became worse.
The cold was so bad, it turned into a sort of frozen heat... it began to
burn. My throat became tight and breathing became difficult. I began to lose
feeling in my arms and legs, and my vision was beginning to blur. I had to
escape this icy glade and tell Garridan's story. It was the least I could do
for such a noble man. With every bit of strength I could muster, I ran from
the frostfire and back through the cave. I barely escaped with my life.
My journey back to the domain of Garridan was a sad one. My heart was heavy,
my mind clouded with misery. He was a good man, the greatest I'd ever known.
To die like that was no way for such an honorable knight to end his life.
When I finally reached the outskirts of Farmantle Glen, the farmers were
waiting for me. I was ready to tell them the sad news, but they raised a
cheer of great joy! They told me that only a week ago, a strange, bluish
glowing rain fell on their fields and that the next day the crops began to
grow as if there had never been a drought. A week ago was exactly when my
master was frozen in that horrible glade... and his tears froze like bluish
raindrops frozen in time! I looked up at the heavens and the twinkling lights
suddenly gave me great comfort. I thanked Mara, and headed home.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ112)
~~Modern Heretics~~
Haderus of Gottlesfont
Item ID: 00026B1D
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Daedra worship is not prohibited by law in Cyrodiil. Primarily this is a
result of the Imperial Charter granted the Mages Guild permitting the
summoning of Daedra. Nonetheless, chapel and public opinion is so strongly
against Daedra worship that those who practice Daedric rituals do so in
secret.
However, opinions about Daedra worship differ widely in other provinces. Even
in Cyrodiil, traditional opinions have changed greatly over the years, and
some communities survive which worship Daedra. Some more traditional Daedra-
worshippers are motivated by piety and personal conviction; many modern
Daedra-worshippers are motivated by a lust for arcane power. In particular,
questing heroes of all stripes seek after the fabled Daedric artifacts for
their potent combat and magical benefits.
I personally have discovered one community worshipping the Daedra Lord Azura,
Queen of Dawn and Dusk. A researcher curious about Daedra worship might
research in several ways: through a study of the literature, through
exploration and discovery of ancient daedric shrines, through questioning
local informants, and through questioning worshippers themselves. I used all
these means to discover the shrine of Azura.
First I read books. References like this one may provide a helpful general
background concerning Daedric shrines. For example, my researches led me to
understand that, in Cyrodiil, Daedric shrines are generally represented by
statues of Daedra Lords, are generally situated in wilderness locations far
from settlements, that each shrine generally has associated with it a
community of worshippers, often referred to as a 'coven', that shrines have
associated with them a particular time -- often a day of the week -- when a
Daedra lord might be solicited, that Daedra Lord often will not deign to
respond unless they regard a petitioner of sufficient prowess or strength of
character, that they will only respond if given the proper offering [the
secret of which offering often known only to the community of worshippers],
and that, in return for the completion of some task or service, the Daedra
Lords will often undertake to offer an artifact of power to a successful
quester.
Then I questioned locals with an intimate knowledge of the wilderness. Two
classes of informants I found especially useful -- well-traveled hunters and
adventurers [who might come across shrines in their travels], and scholars of
the Mages Guild. In the case of the Shrine of Azura, both sources were
profitable. I discovered a Cheydinhal hunter who had chanced across a strange
epic statue in his travels. The statue was of a woman with outstretched arms;
in one hand she held a star; in the other hand, she held a crescent moon. He
had shunned the statue out of superstitious fear, but had marked the location
in memory --far north of Cheydinhal, northwest of Lake Arrius, high in the
Jerall Mountains. Then, proceeding to the local Mages Guild with a
description of the statue, I was able to confirm from its description the
identity of the Daedra Lord worshipped.
Having discovered the location of the shrine, I visited it, and discovered
there the community of worshippers. Because of the strength of opinion
against Daedra worship, the worshippers were, at first, reluctant to admit
their identity. But once I had won their trust, they were willing to divulge
to me the secrets of the times when Azura would hear petitions [from dusk to
dawn], and that the offering required by Azura was glow dust, a substance
obtained from the will-o-the-wisp.
I am, of course, nothing more than a chapelman and scholar, so it did not lie
within my power to find a will-o-the-wisp to obtain glow dust; nor am I
certain that Azura would have found me worthy to make such an offering, even
had I proffered it. But I was assured that if I had been able to make such an
offering, and if it had been accepted, Azura would have given me some sort of
quest, which, if completed, might have earned me the reward of Azura's Star,
a Daedric artifact of legendary magical powers.
I have since heard rumors of the existence in Cyrodiil of several other
Daedric shrines, of the Daedric Lords to which they are dedicated, and the
Daedric artifacts that might be won by questing heroes. Hircine the Huntsman,
for example, is linked in legend to the Savior's Hide, a powerful enchanted
armor. The sword Volendrung is associated with Malacath, Lord of Monsters,
and the eponymously named Mace of Molag Bal is also thought to be the object
of Daedra worship. Other Daedra Lords, their shrines and worshippers, remain
to be discovered in Cyrodiil by earnest and persistent researchers.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
~NONMAGIC BOOKS~
(Search Code: LOLZ113)
~~2920, First Seed (v3)~~
Carlovac Townway
Item ID: 000243D7
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ114)
~~2920, Sun's Dusk (v11)~~
Carlovac Townway
Item ID: 000243D3
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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</pre><pre id="faqspan-19">
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ115)
~~2920, Evening Star (v12)~~
Carlovac Townway
Item ID: 000243DB
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 Evening Star, 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 Evening Star, 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 Evening Star, 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 Evening Star, 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 Evening Star, 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 Evening Star, 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 Evening Star, 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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ116)
~~Aevar Stone-Singer~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024543
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Sit quietly, Child, and listen, for the story I tell you is a story of the
ages."
"But what is it, Grandfather? Is it a story of heroes and beasts?"
The Grandfather looked patiently at the Child. He was growing into a fine boy.
Soon he would see the value in the stories, the lessons that were taught to
each generation.
"Just listen, Child. Let the story take root in your heart."
---
In a time before now, long before now, when the Skaal were new, there was
peace in the Land. The sun was hot and the crops grew long, and the people
were happy in the peace that the All-Maker provided. But, the Skaal grew
complacent and lazy, and they took for granted the Lands and all the gifts the
All-Maker had given them. They forgot, or chose not to remember, that the
Adversary is always watching, and that he delights in tormenting the All-Maker
and his chosen people. And so it was that the Adversary came to be among the
Skaal.
The Adversary has many aspects. He appears in the unholy beasts and the
incurable plague. At the End of Seasons, we will know him as Thartaag the
World-Devourer. But in these ages he came to be known as the Greedy Man.
The Greedy Man (that is what we call him, for to speak his name would
certainly bring ruin on the people) lived among the Skaal for many months.
Perhaps he was once just a man, but when the Adversary entered into him, he
became the Greedy Man, and that is how he is remembered.
It came to be one day that the powers of the Skaal left them. The strength
left the arms of the warriors, and the shaman could no longer summon the
beasts to their side. The elders thought that surely the All-Maker was
displeased, and some suggested that the All-Maker had left them forever. It
was then that the Greedy Man appeared to them and spoke.
"You of the Skaal have grown fat and lazy. I have stolen the gifts of your
All-Maker. I have stolen the Oceans, so you will forever know thirst. I have
stolen the Lands and the Trees and the Sun, so your crops will wither and die.
I have stolen the Beasts, so you will go hungry. And I have stolen the Winds,
so you will live without the Spirit of the All-Maker.
"And until one of you can reclaim these gifts, the Skaal will live in misery
and despair. For I am the Greedy Man, and that is my nature."
And the Greedy Man disappeared.
The members of the Skaal spoke for many days and nights. They knew that one of
them must retrieve the Gifts of the All-Maker, but they could not decide who
it should be.
"I cannot go," said the Elder, "for I us must stay to lead the Skaal, and tell
our people what is the law."
"I cannot go," said the Warrior, "for I must protect the Skaal. My sword will
be needed in case the Greedy Man reappears."
"I cannot go," said the Shaman, "for the people need my wisdom. I must read
the portents and offer my knowledge."
It was then that a young man called Aevar lifted his voice. He was strong of
arm, and fleet of foot, though he was not yet a warrior of the Skaal.
"I will go," said Aevar, and the Skaal laughed.
"Hear me out," the boy continued. "I am not yet a warrior, so my sword will
not be needed. I cannot read the portents, so the people will not seek my
counsel. And I am young, and not yet wise in the ways of the law. I will
retrieve the Gifts of the All-Maker from the Greedy Man. If I cannot, I will
not be missed."
The Skaal thought on this briefly, and decided to let Aevar go. He left the
village the next morning to retrieve the Gifts.
Aevar first set out to retrieve the Gift of Water, so he traveled to the Water
Stone. It was there the All-Maker first spoke to him.
"Travel west to the sea and follow the Swimmer to the Waters of Life."
So Aevar walked to the edge of the ocean, and there was the Swimmer, a Black
Horker, sent from the All-Maker. The Swimmer dove into the waters and swam
very far, and far again. Aevar was strong, though, and he swam hard. He
followed the Swimmer to a cave, swimming deeper and deeper, his lungs burning
and his limbs exhausted. At last, he found a pocket of air, and there, in the
dark, he found the Waters of Life. Gathering his strength, he took the Waters
and swam back to the shore.
Upon returning to the Water Stone, the All-Maker spoke. "You have returned the
Gift of Water to the Skaal. The Oceans again will bear fruit, and their thirst
will be quenched."
Aevar then traveled to the Earth Stone, and there the All-Maker spoke to him
again.
"Enter the Cave of the Hidden Music, and hear the Song of the Earth."
So Aevar traveled north and east to the Cave of the Hidden Music. He found
himself in a large cavern, where the rocks hung from the ceiling and grew from
the ground itself. He listened there, and heard the Song of the Earth, but it
was faint. Grabbing up his mace, he struck the rocks of the floor in time with
the Song, and the Song grew louder, until it filled the cavern and his heart.
Then he returned to the Earth Stone.
"The Gift of the Earth is with the Skaal again," said the All-Maker. "The
Lands are rich again, and will bear life."
Aevar was tired, as the Sun burned him, the trees offered no shade, and there
was no wind to cool him. Still, he traveled on to the Beast Rock, and the All-
Maker spoke.
"Find the Good Beast and ease his suffering."
Aevar traveled through the woods of the Isinfier for many hours until he heard
the cries of a bear from over a hill. As he crested a hill, he saw the bear, a
Falmer's arrow piercing its neck. He checked the woods for the Falmer (for
that is what they were, though some say they are not), and finding none,
approached the beast. He spoke soothing words and came upon it slowly, saying,
"Good Beast, I mean you no harm. The All-Maker has sent me to ease your
suffering."
Hearing these words, the bear ceased his struggles, and laid his head at
Aevar's feet. Aevar grasped the arrow and pulled it from the bear's neck.
Using the little nature magic he knew, Aevar tended the wound, though it took
the last bit of his strength. As the bear's wound closed, Aevar slept.
When he awoke, the bear stood over him, and the remains of a number of the
Falmer were strewn about. He knew that the Good Beast had protected him during
the night. He traveled back to Beast Rock, the bear by his side, and the All-
Maker spoke to him again.
"You have returned the Gift of the Beasts. Once again, the Good Beasts will
feed the Skaal when they are hungry, clothe them when they are cold, and
protect them in times of need."
Aevar's strength had returned, so he traveled on to the Tree Stone, though the
Good Beast did not follow him. When he arrived, the All-Father spoke to him.
"The First Trees are gone, and must be replanted. Find the seed and plant the
First Tree."
Aevar traveled again through the Hirstaang Forest, searching for the seeds of
the First Tree, but he could find none. Then he spoke to the Tree Spirits, the
living trees. They told him that the seeds had been stolen by one of the
Falmer (for they are the servants of the Adversary), and this Falmer was
hiding them deep in the forest, so that none would ever find them.
Aevar traveled to the deepest part of the forest, and there he found the evil
Falmer, surrounded by the Lesser Tree Spirits. Aevar could see that the
Spirits were in his thrall, that he had used the magic of the Seeds and spoken
their secret name. Aevar knew he could not stand against such a force, and
that he must retrieve the seeds in secret.
Aevar reached into his pouch and drew out his flint. Gathering leaves, he
started a small fire outside the clearing where the Falmer and the ensorcelled
Spirits milled. All the Skaal know the Spirits' hatred of fires, for the fires
ravage the trees they serve. At once, the Nature of the Spirits took hold, and
they rushed to quell the flames. During the commotion, Aevar snuck behind the
Falmer and snatched the pouch of Seeds, stealing away before the evil being
knew they were gone.
When Aevar returned to the Tree Stone, he planted the tree in the ground, and
the All-Maker spoke to him.
"The Gift of Trees is restored. Once again, the Trees and Plants will bloom
and grow, and provide nourishment and shade."
Aevar was tired, for the Sun would only burn, and the Winds would not yet cool
him, but he rested briefly in the shade of the Trees. His legs were weary and
his eyes heavy, but he continued on, traveling to the Sun Stone. Again, the
All-Maker spoke.
"The gentle warmth of the Sun is stolen, so now it only burns. Free the Sun
from the Halls of Penumbra."
And so Aevar walked west, over the frozen lands until he reached the Halls of
Penumbra. The air inside was thick and heavy, and he could see no farther than
the end of his arm. Still, he felt his way along the walls, though he heard
the shuffling of feet and knew that this place held the Unholy Beasts who
would tear his flesh and eat his bones. For hours he crept along, until he saw
a faint glow far at the end of the hall.
There, from behind a sheet of perfect ice, came a glow so bright he had to
shut his eyes, lest they be forever blinded. He plucked the flaming eye from
one of the Unholy Beasts and threw it at the ice with all his might. A small
crack appeared in the ice, then grew larger. Slowly, the light crept out
between the cracks, widening them, splitting the ice wall into pieces. With a
deafening crack, the wall crumbled, and the light rushed over Aevar and
through the Halls. He heard the shrieks of the Unholy Beasts as they were
blinded and burned. He ran out of the Halls, following the light, and
collapsed on the ground outside.
When he was able to rise again, the Sun again warmed him, and he was glad for
that. He traveled back to the Sun Stone, where the All-Maker spoke to him.
"The Gift of the Sun is the Skaal's once again. It will warm them and give
them light."
Aevar had one final Gift he had to recover, the Gift of the Winds, so he
traveled to the Wind Stone, far on the western coast of the island. When he
arrived, the All-Maker spoke to him, giving him his final task.
"Find the Greedy Man and release the Wind from its captivity."
So, Aevar wandered the land in search of the Greedy Man. He looked in the
trees, but the Greedy Man did not hide there. Nor did he hide near the oceans,
or the deep caves, and the beasts had not seen him in the dark forests.
Finally, Aevar came to a crooked house, and he knew that here he would find
the Greedy Man.
"Who are you," shouted the Greedy Man, "that you would come to my house?"
"I am Aevar of the Skaal," said Aevar. "I am not warrior, shaman, or elder. If
I do not return, I will not be missed. But I have returned the Oceans and the
Earth, the Trees, the Beasts, and the Sun, and I will return the Winds to my
people, that we may feel the spirit of the All-Maker in our souls again."
And with that, he grabbed up the Greedy Man's bag and tore it open. The Winds
rushed out with gale force, sweeping the Greedy Man up and carrying him off,
far from the island. Aevar breathed in the Winds and was glad. He walked back
to the Wind Stone, where the All-Maker spoke to him a final time.
"You have done well, Aevar. You, the least of the Skaal, have returned my
gifts to them. The Greedy Man is gone for now, and should not trouble your
people again in your lifetime. Your All-Maker is pleased. Go now, and live
according to your Nature."
And Aevar started back to the Skaal village.
---
"And then what happened, Grandfather?"
"What do you mean, Child? He went home."
"No. When he returned to the village," the Child continued. "Was he made a
warrior? Or taught the ways of the shaman? Did he lead the Skaal in battle?"
"I do not know. That is where the story ends," said the Grandfather.
"But that is not an ending! That is not how stories end!"
The old man laughed and got up from his chair.
"Is it not?"
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(Search Code: LOLZ117)
~~Amantius Allectus' Diary~~
Amantius Allectus
Item ID: 000355ED
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I've planted the seeds of the Drinkers. Soon I shall know if my theories hold
true.
The first shoots have appeared. I must make sure to continue the precise
schedule of nutrient solutions.
Small Drinker fronds are clearly visible. This is a critical time in their
development. I'm almost out of rat blood. I'll have to catch some more of the
filthy beggars.
The young plants are juveniles now. I can see them waving as if in a breeze,
although the air in my cellar is still as death.
I'm having a hard time catching any more cats. I may have to start using dogs.
The damn Drinker plants have a voracious appetite.
One of them cut me today. I'll have to be more careful.
My creations are refusing to feed. As an experiment I offered a drop of my own
blood, which one of them drank greedily. The others Drinkers are beginning to
wither.
I collected a bucket of human blood from the healers. I had to pay her an
exhorbitant amount to keep her tongue still. The Drinkers are doing much
better. Am I doing the right thing? The benefit of these plants to all of
Cyrodiil is beyond doubt, but the price may be too high.
It is one of the most difficult decisions of my life. I have destroyed my
notes for how to hybridize Drinkers. I set the trays on the roof where the sun
could strike them. An hour after sunrise they were all dead. My attempt to
create a hybrid of vampire and plant has failed. They were just too dangerous.
Two parts grave dust, one part ash salts. Mix with human blood. Expose to two
hours of moonlight each night.
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(Search Code: LOLZ118)
~~The Amulet of Kings~~
Wenengrus Monhona
Item ID: 00024578
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the first years of the First Era, a powerful race of Elves called the
Ayleids, or the Heartland High Elves, ruled central Tamriel with an iron hand.
The high and haughty Ayleids relied on their patrons, the treacherous Daedra
Lords, to provide armies of daedra and dead spirits; with these fearless
magical armies, the Ayleids preyed without mercy upon the young races of men,
slaughtering or enslaving them at their whim.
On behalf of the suffering human races, St. Alessia, the first in the line of
Cyrodiils, sought the aid of Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time, and ruler of the
noble Aedra. Akatosh, looking with pity upon the plight of men, drew precious
blood from his own heart, and blessed St. Alessia with this blood of Dragons,
and made a Covenant that so long as Alessia's generations were true to the
dragon blood, Akatosh would endeavor to seal tight the Gates of Oblivion, and
to deny the armies of daedra and undead to their enemies, the Daedra-loving
Ayleids.
In token of this Covenant, Akatosh gave to Alessia and her descendants the
Amulet of Kings and the Eternal Dragonfires of the Imperial City. Thus does
Alessia become the first gem in the Cyrodilic Amulet of Kings. The gem is the
Red Diamond in the middle of the Amulet. This is the Symbol of the Empire and
later taken as the symbol of the Septim line. It is surrounded by eight other
gems, one for each of the divines.
So long as the Empire shall maintain its worship of Akatosh and his kin, and
so long as Alessia's heirs shall bear the Amulet of Kings, Akatosh and his
divine kin maintain a strong barrier between Tamriel and Oblivion, so that
mortal man need never again fear the devastating summoned hosts of the Daedra
Lords.
But if the Empire should slacken in its dedication to the Nine Divines, or if
the blood of Alessia's heirs should fail, then shall the barriers between
Tamriel and the Daedric realms fall, and Daedra-worshippers might summon
lesser Daedra and undead spirits to trouble the races of men.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ119)
~~Ancotar's Journal~~
Wenengrus Monhona
Item ID: 00185934
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
12th of Rains Hand: Today I begin my great project on the spontaneous
generation of life. I expect that there will be difficult days ahead, but if I
succeed, my place among the great mages of history will be assured.
23rd Rains Hand: Still not able to even reproduce Empedocles's results with
maggots. I'm beginning to think his reputation is overblown.
3rd Second Seed, Tirdas: Empedocles was right! The mistranslation of "sunlit"
to "scorching heat" explains my earlier problems. From now on I will work only
in the original daedric, despite the risks.
Fredas (mid Second Seed?): Local peasants came by to complain about the noise.
I promised them that all that was behind me. A pleasant if dull-witted crew.
Morndas (I think): The experiment today went better than expected. Although
the number of rats produced was surprising, they were all remarkably docile,
just as Malham predicted (although only I have ever proven it empirically!).
Middas: Villagers again. More complaints. You would think they'd never seen a
rat before! They are starting to become a real nuisance.
I've run into a terrible snag. Galerion's Ninth Law appears immutable! If the
total life generated cannot exceed the cube of the source, this line of
research may prove a dead end. I must reread Empedocles for any hint that he
was able to circumvent this barrier.
Next day: The locals are becoming insufferable! While I was walking in the
woods, some of them broke into my laboratory and spilled the solution I was
preparing -- nearly a full quart of purified imp gall wasted! They did not
seem to grasp the absurdity of a crowd of unwashed peasants with dung on their
boots complaining about the smell. It is well past time I did something about
this problem.
Two days later: I dug up the notes from my permanent invisibility thesis. No
time like the present to put theory into practice!
Today: The spell worked! Not perfect invisibility, of course (Vanto's Third
Law), but it was more powerful than I expected. And there were none of the
side effects that Professor Traven had predicted. Ha ha, even in my youth I
was already outstripping my elders. Now I can get back to my real work in
peace.
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(Search Code: LOLZ120)
~~Arcana Restored~~
Wapna Neustra, Praceptor Emeritus
Item ID: 00024584
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ121)
~~The Argonian Account, Book 2~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 00024559
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Decumus Scotti emerged from the dirt and reeds, exhausted from running, his
face and arms sheathed in red fleshflies. Looking back towards Cyrodiil, he
saw the bridge disappear beneath the thick black river, and he knew he was not
getting back until the tide went down in a few days' time. The river also held
in its adhesive depths his files on the Black Marsh account. He would have to
rely on his memory for his contacts in Gideon.
Mailic was purposefully striding through the reeds ahead. Flailing
ineffectually at the fleshflies, Scotti hurried after him.
"We're lucky, sir," said the Redguard, which struck Scotti as an
extraordinarily odd thing to say, until his eyes followed where the man's
finger was pointing. "The caravan is here."
Twenty-one rusted, mud-spattered wagons with rotting wood and wobbly wheels
sat half-sunk in the soft earth ahead. A crowd of Argonians, gray-scaled and
gray-eyed, the sort of sullen manual laborers that were common in Cyrodiil,
pulled at one of the wagons which had been detached from the others. As Scotti
and Mailic came closer, they saw it was filled with a cargo of black berries
so decayed that they had become hardly recognizable... more a festering jelly
than a wagonload of fruit.
Yes, they were going to the city of Gideon, and, yes, they said, Scotti could
get a ride with them after they were finished unloading this shipment of
lumberries.
"How long ago were they picked?" Scotti asked, looking at the wagon's rotten
produce.
"The harvest was in Last Seed, of course," said the Argonian who seemed to be
in charge of the wagon. It was now Sun's Dusk, so they had been en route from
the fields for a little over two months.
Clearly, Scotti thought, there were problems with transportation. But fixing
that, after all, was what he was doing here as a representative of Lord
Vanech's Building Commission.
It took close to an hour of the berries rotting even more in the sun for the
wagon to be pushed to the side, the wagons in front of it and behind it to be
attached to one another, and one of the eight horses from the front of the
caravan to be brought around to the now independent wagon. The laborers moved
with dispirited lethargy, and Scotti took the opportunity to inspect the rest
of the caravan and talk to his fellow travellers.
Four of the wagons had benches in them, fit for uncomfortable riders. All the
rest were filled with grain, meat, and vegetation in various stages of
corruption.
The travellers consisted of the six Argonian laborers, three Imperial
merchants so bug-bitten that their skin looked as scaly as the Argonians
themselves, and three cloaked fellows who were evidently Dunmer, judging by
the red eyes that gleamed in the shadows under their hoods. All were
transporting their goods along this, the Imperial Commerce Road.
"This is a road?" Scotti exclaimed, looking at the endless field of reeds that
reached up to his chin or higher.
"It's solid ground, of a sort," one of the hooded Dunmer shrugged. "The horses
eat some of the reed, and sometimes we set fire to it, but it just grows right
back up."
Finally, the wagonmaster signalled that the caravan was ready to go, and
Scotti took a seat in the third wagon with the other Imperials. He looked
around, but Mailic was not on board.
"I agreed to get to you to Black Marsh and take you back out," said the
Redguard, who had plumped down a rock in the sea of reeds and was munching on
a hairy carrot. "I'll be here when you get back."
Scotti frowned, and not only because Mailic had dropped the deferential title
"sir" while addressing him. Now he truly knew no one in Black Marsh, but the
caravan slowly grinded and bumped forward, so there was no time to argue.
A noxious wind blew across the Commerce Road, casting patterns in the endless
featureless expanse of reeds. In the distance, there seemed to be mountains,
but they constantly shifted, and Scotti realized they were banks of mist and
fog. Shadows flitted across the landscape, and when Scotti looked up, he saw
they were being cast by giant birds with long, saw-like beaks nearly the size
of the rest of their bodies.
"Hackwings," Chaero Gemullus, an Imperial on Scotti's left, who might have
been young but looked old and beaten, muttered. "Like everything else in this
damnable place, they'll eat you if you don't keep moving. Beggars pounce down
and give you a nasty chop, and then fly off and come back when you're mostly
dead from blood loss."
Scotti shivered. He hoped they'd be in Gideon before nightfall. It was then it
occurred to him that the sun was on the wrong side of the caravan.
"Excuse me, sir," Scotti called to the wagonmaster. "I thought you said we
were going to Gideon?"
The wagonmaster nodded.
"Why are we going north then, when we should be going south?"
There was no reply but a sigh.
Scotti confirmed with his fellow travellers that they too were going to
Gideon, and none of them seemed very concerned about the circuitous route to
getting there. The seats were hard on his middle-aged back and buttocks, but
the bumping rhythm of the caravan, and the hypnotic waving reeds gradually had
an effect on him, and Scotti drifted off to sleep.
He awoke in the dark some hours later, not sure where he was. The caravan was
no longer moving, and he was on the floor, under the bench, next to some small
boxes. There were voices, speaking a hissing, clicking language Scotti didn't
understand, and he peeked out between someone's legs to see what was
happening.
The moons barely pierced the thick mist surrounding the caravan, and Scotti
did not have the best angle to see who was talking. For a moment, it looked
like the gray wagonmaster was talking to himself, but the darkness had
movement and moisture, in fact, glistening scales. It was hard to tell how
many of these things there were, but they were big, black, and the more Scotti
looked at them, the more details he could see
When one particular detail emerged, huge mouths filled with dripping needle-
like fangs, Scotti slipped back under the bench. Their black little eyes had
not fallen on him yet.
The legs in front of Scotti moved and then began to thrash, as their owner was
grabbed and pulled out of the wagon. Scotti crouched further back, getting
behind the little boxes. He didn't know much about concealment, but had some
experience with shields. He knew that having something, anything, in between
you and bad things was always good.
A few seconds after the legs had disappeared from sight, there was a horrible
scream. And then a second and a third. Different timbres, different accents,
but the same inarticulate message... terror, and pain, horrible pain. Scotti
remembered a long forgotten prayer to the god Stendarr and whispered it to
himself.
Then there was silence... ghastly silence that lasted only a few minutes, but
which seemed like hours... years.
And then the carriage started rolling forward again.
Scotti cautiously crawled out from under the carriage. Chaero Gemullus gave
him a bemused grin.
"There you are," he said. "I thought the Nagas took you."
"Nagas?"
"Nasty characters," Gemullus said, frowning. "Puff adders with legs and arms,
seven feet tall, eight when they're mad. Come from the inner swamp, and they
don't like it here much so they're particularly peevish. You're the kind of
posh Imperial they're looking for."
Scotti had never in his life thought of himself as posh. His mud and fleshfly-
especkled clothing seemed eminently middle-class, at best, to him. "What would
they want me for?"
"To rob, of course," the Imperial smiled. "And to kill. You didn't notice what
happened to the others?" The Imperial frowned, as if struck by a thought. "You
didn't sample from those boxes down below, did you? Like the sugar, do you?"
"Gods, no," Scotti grimaced.
The Imperial nodded, relieved. "You just seem a little slow. First time to
Black Marsh, I gather? Oh! Heigh ho, Hist piss!"
Scotti was just about to ask Gemullus what that vulgar term meant when the
rain began. It was an inferno of foul-smelling, yellow-brown rain that washed
over the caravan, accompanied by the growl of thunder in the distance.
Gemullus worked to pull the roof up over the wagon, glaring at Scotti until he
helped with the laborious process.
He shuddered, not only from the cold damp, but from contemplation of the
disgusting precipitation pouring down on the already nasty produce in the
uncovered wagon.
"We'll be dry soon enough," Gemullus smiled, pointing out into the fog.
Scotti had never been to Gideon, but he knew what to expect. A large
settlement more or less laid out like a Imperial city, with more or less
Imperial style architecture, and all the Imperial comforts and traditions,
more or less.
The jumble of huts half-sunk in mud was decidedly less.
"Where are we?" asked Scotti, bewildered.
"Hixinoag," replied Gemullus, pronouncing the queer name with confidence. "You
were right. We were going north when we should have been going south."
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(Search Code: LOLZ122)
~~The Argonian Account, Book 4~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 0002455A
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
ecumus Scotti was drowning, and he didn't think much of it. He couldn't move
his arms or his legs to swim because of the paralysis spell the Argonian
peasant had lobbed at him, but he wasn't quite sinking. The Onkobra River was
a crashing force of white water and currents that could carry along large
rocks with ease, so Scotti tumbled head over heels, spinning, bumping,
bouncing along.
He figured that soon enough he would be dead, and that would be better than
being in Black Marsh. He wasn't too panicked about it all when he felt his
lungs fill with water and cold blackness fell upon him.
For a while, for the first time in some time, Decumus Scotti felt peace.
Blessed darkness. And then pain came to him, and he felt himself coughing,
spewing water up from his belly and his lungs.
A voice said, "Oh bother, he's alive, ain't he, now?"
Scotti wasn't quite sure if that were true, even when he opened his eyes and
looked at the face above him. It was an Argonian, but unlike any he had seen
anywhere. The face was thin and long like a thick lance; the scales were ruby-
red, brilliant in the sunlight. It blinked at him, its eyelids opening and
closing in vertical slits.
"I don't suppose we should eat you, should we now?" the creature smiled, and
Scotti could tell from its teeth that it was no idle suggestion.
"Thank you," said Scotti weakly. He craned his head slightly to find out who
the "we" were, and discovered he was on the muddy bank of the still, sludgy
river, surrounded by a group of Argonians with similarly needle-like faces and
a whole rainbow of scales. Bright greens and gem-like purples, blues, and
oranges.
"Can you tell me, am I near - well, anywhere?"
The ruby-colored Argonian laughed. "No. You're in the middle of everywhere,
and near nowhere."
"Oh," said Scotti, who grasped the idea that space did not mean much in Black
Marsh. "And what are you?"
"We are Agacephs," the ruby-colored Argonian replied. "My name is Nomu."
Scotti introduced himself. "I'm a senior clerk in Lord Vanech's Building
Commission in the Imperial City. My job was to come here to try to fix the
problems with commerce, but I've lost my agenda, haven't met with any of my
contacts, the Archeins of Gideon..."
"Pompous, assimiliated, slaver kleptocrats," a small lemon-colored Agaceph
murmured with some feeling.
"...And now I just want to go home."
Nomu smiled, his long mouth arching up like a host happy to see an unwanted
guest leave a party. "Shehs will guide you."
Shehs, it seemed, was the bitter little yellow creature, and he was not at all
pleased at the assignment. With surprising strength, he hoisted Scotti up, and
for a moment, the clerk was reminded of Gemullus dropping him into the
bubbling muck that led to the Underground Express. Instead, Shehs shoved
Scotti toward a tiny little raft, razor-thin, that bobbed on the surface of
the water.
"This is how you travel?"
"We don't have the broken wagons and dying horses of our brothers on the
outside," Shehs replied, rolling his tiny eyes. "We don't know better."
The Argonian sat at the back of the craft and used his whip-like tail to
propel and navigate the craft. They traveled quickly around swirling pools of
slime that stank of centuries of putrefaction, past pinnacled mountains that
seemed sturdy but suddenly fell apart at the slightest ripple in the still
water, under bridges that might have once been metal but were now purely rust.
"Everything in Tamriel flows down to Black Marsh," Shehs said.
As they slid through the water, Shehs explained to Scotti that the Agacephs
were one of the many Argonian tribes that lived in the interior of the
province, near the Hist, finding little in the outside world worth seeing. He
was fortunate to have been found by them. The Nagas, the toad-like Paatru, and
the winged Sarpa would have killed him on the spot.
There were other creatures too to be avoided. Though there were few natural
predators in inner Black Marsh, the scavengers that rooted in the garbage
seldom shied away from a living meal. Hackwings circled overhead, like the
ones Scotti had seen in the west.
Shehs fell silent and stopped the raft completely, waiting for something.
Scotti looked in the direction Shehs was watching, and saw nothing unusual in
the filthy water. Then, he realized that the pool of green slime in front of
them was actually moving, and fairly quickly, from one bank to the other. It
deposited small bones behind it as it oozed up into the reeds, and
disappeared.
"Voriplasm," Shehs explained, moving the boat forward again. "Big word. It'll
strip you to the bone by the second syllable."
Scotti, desirous to distract himself from the sights and smells that
surrounded him, thought it a good time to compliment his pilot on his
excellent vocabulary. It was particularly impressive, given how far from
civilization they were. The Argonians in the east did, in fact, speak so well.
"They tried to erect a Temple of Mara near here, in Umpholo, twenty years
ago," Shehs explained, and Scotti nodded, remembering reading about it in the
files before they were lost. "They all perished quite dreadfully of swamp rot
in the first month, but they left behind some excellent books."
Scotti was going to inquire further when he saw something so huge, so
horrifying, it made him stop, frozen.
Half submerged in the water ahead was a mountain of spines, lying on nine-
foot-long claws. White eyes stared blindly forward, and then suddenly the
whole creature spasmed and lurched, the jaw of its mouth jutting out, exposing
tusks clotted with gore.
"Swamp Leviathan," Shehs whistled, impressed. "Very, very dangerous."
Scotti gasped, wondering why the Agaceph was so calm, and more, why he was
continuing to steer the raft forward towards the beast..
"Of all the creatures in the world, the rats are sometimes the worst," said
Shehs, and Scotti noticed that the huge creature was only a husk. Its movement</pre><pre id="faqspan-20">
was from the hundreds of rats that had burrowed into it, rapidly eating their
way from the inside out, bursting from the skin in spots.
"They are indeed," Scotti said, and his mind went to the Black Marsh files,
buried deep in the mud, and four decades of Imperial work in Black Marsh.
The two continued westward through the heart of Black Marsh.
Shehs showed Scotti the vast complicated ruins of the Kothringi capitals,
fields of ferns and flowered grasses, quiet streams under canopies of blue
moss, and the most astonishing sight of Scotti's life -- the great forest of
full-grown Hist trees. They never saw a living soul until they arrived at the
edge of the Imperial Commerce Road just east of Slough Point, where Mailic,
Scotti's Redguard guide, was waiting patiently.
"I was going to give you two more minutes," the Redguard scowled, dropping the
last of his food onto the pile at his feet. "No more, sir."
The sun was shining bright when Decumus Scotti rode into the Imperial City,
and as it caught the morning dew, it lent a glisten to every building as if
they had been newly polished for his arrival. It astonished him how clean the
city was. And how few beggars there were.
The protracted edifice of Lord Vanech's Building Commission was the same as it
had always been, but still the very sight of it seemed exotic and strange. It
was not covered in mud. The people within actually, generally, worked.
Lord Vanech himself, though singularly squat and squinty, seemed immaculate,
not only relatively clean of dirt and scabs, but also relatively uncorrupt.
Scotti couldn't help but stare at him when he first caught sight of his boss.
Vanech stared right back.
"You are a sight," the little fellow frowned. "Did your horse drag you to
Black Marsh and back? I would say go home and fix yourself, but there are a
dozen people here to see you. I hope you have solutions for them."
It was no exaggeration. Nearly twenty of Cyrodiil's most powerful and
wealthiest people were waiting for him. Scotti was given an office even larger
than Lord Vanech's, and he met with each.
First among the Commission's clients were five independent traders, blustering
and loaded with gold, demanding to know what Scotti intended to do about
improving the trade routes. Scotti summarized for them the conditions of the
main roads, the state of the merchants' caravans, the sunken bridges, and all
the other impediments between the frontier and the marketplace. They told him
to have everything replaced and repaired, and gave him the gold necessary to
do it.
Within three months, the bridge at Slough Point had disappeared into the muck;
the great caravan had collapsed into decrepitude; and the main road from
Gideon had been utterly swallowed up by swamp water. The Argonians began once
again to use the old ways, their personal rafts and sometimes the Underground
Express to transport the grain in small quantities. It took a third of the
time, two weeks, to arrive in Cyrodiil, none of it rotten.
The Archbishop of Mara was the next client Scotti met with. A kindhearted man,
horrified by the tales of Argonian mothers selling their children into
slavery, he pointedly asked Scotti if it were true.
"Sadly, yes," Scotti replied, and the Archbishop showered him with septims,
telling the clerk that food must be brought to the province to ease their
suffering, and the schools must be improved so they could learn to help
themselves.
Within five months, the last book had been stolen from the deserted Maran
monastery in Umphollo. As the Archeins went bankrupt, their slaves returned to
his parents' tiny farms. The backwater Argonians found that they could grow
enough to feed their families provided they had enough hard workers in their
enclave, and the buyers market for slaves sharply declined.
Ambassador Tsleeixth, concerned about the rising crime in northern Black
Marsh, brought with him the contributions of many other expatriate Argonians
like himself. They wanted more Imperial guards on the border at Slough Point,
more magically lit lanterns posted along the main roads at regular intervals,
more patrol stations, and more schools built to allow young Argonians to
better themselves and not turn to crime.
Within six months, there were no more Nagas roaming the roads, as there were
no merchants traveling them to rob. The thugs returned to the fetid inner
swamp, where they felt much happier, their constitutions enriched by the rot
and pestilence that they loved. Tsleeixth and his constituency were so pleased
by the crime rate dropping, they brought even more gold to Decumus Scotti,
telling him to keep up the good work.
Black Marsh simply was, is, and always shall be unable to sustain a large-
scale, cash-crop plantation economy. The Argonians, and anyone else, the whole
of Tamriel, could live in Black Marsh on subsistence farming, just raising
what they needed. That was not sad, Scotti thought; that was hopeful.
Scotti's solution to each of their dilemmas had been the same. Ten percent of
the gold they gave him went to Lord Vanech's Building Commission. The rest
Scotti kept for himself, and did exactly nothing about the requests.
Within a year, Decumus Scotti had embezzled enough to retire very comfortably,
and Black Marsh was better off than it had been in forty years.
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(Search Code: LOLZ123)
~~Ayleid Reference Text~~
Raelys Anine
Item ID: 0003353B
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The following inscriptions were painstakingly transcribed and interpreted over
many long years, and are preserved here for all time.
--
Av molag anyammis, av latta magicka.
"From fire, life; from light, magic."
--
Barra agea ry sou karan.
"Wear lore as your armor."
--
Agea haelia ne jorane emero laloria.
"Wisdom learned by pain is a reliable guide in dark times." [literally,
"Terrible wisdom never betrayed the loremasters."]
--
Nou aldmeris mathmeldi admia aurane gandra sepredia av relleis ye brelyeis ye
varlais.
"Our exiled Elven ancestors heard the welcoming gifts of peace in the streams
and beech trees and stars." ["Mathmeldi" means literally "from-home-driven."]
--
Suna ye sunnabe.
"Bless and blessed be."
--
Va garlas agea, gravia ye goria, lattia mallari av malatu.
"In the caverns of lore, ugly and obscure, shines the gold of truth."
--
Vabria frensca, sa belle, sa baune, amaraldane aldmeris adonai.
"The foaming wave, so thunderous, so mighty, heralds the lordly Elves."
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(Search Code: LOLZ124)
~~Azura and the Box~~
Marobar Sul
Item ID: 0002453B
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ancient Tales of the Dwemer, Part XI
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ125)
~~Beggar Prince~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0001FB53
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
We look down upon the beggars of the Empire. These lost souls are the poor and
wretched of the land. Every city has its beggars. Most are so poor they have
only the clothes on their backs. They eat the scraps the rest of us throw out.
We toss them a coin so that we don't have to think too long about their
plight.
Imagine my surprise when I heard the tale of the Beggar Prince. I could not
imagine what a Prince of Beggars would be. Here is the tale I heard. It takes
place in the first age, when gods walked like men and daedra stalking the
wilderness with impunity. It is a time before they were all confined to
Oblivion.
There once was a man named Wheedle. Or maybe it was a woman. The story goes to
great lengths to avoid declaring Wheedle's gender. Wheedle was the 13th child
of a king in Valenwood. As such Wheedle was in no position to take the throne
or even inherit much property or wealth.
Wheedle had left the palace to find independent fortune and glory. After many
days of endless forest roads and tiny villages, Wheedle came upon a three men
surrounding a beggar. The beggar was swaddled in rags from head to toe. No
portion of the vagabond's body was visible. The men were intent on slaying the
beggar.
With a cry of rage and indignation, Wheedle charged the men with sword drawn.
Being simple townsfolk, armed only with pitchforks and scythes, they
immediately fled from the armored figure with the shining sword.
"Many thanks for saving me," wheezed the beggar from beneath the heap of foul
rags. Wheedle could barely stand the stench.
"What is your name, wretch?" Wheedle asked.
"I am Namira."
Unlike the townsfolk, Wheedle was well learned. That name meant nothing to
them, but to Wheedle it was an opportunity.
"You are the Daedric lord!" Wheedle exclaimed. "Why did you allow those men to
harass you? You could have slain them all with a whisper."
"I am please you recognized me," Namira rasped. "I am frequently reviled by
townsfolk. It pleases me to be recognized for my attribute, if not for my
name."
Wheedle knew that Namira was the Daedric lord of all thing gross and
repulsive. Diseases such as leprosy and gangrene were her domain. Where others
might have seen danger, Wheedle saw opportunity.
"Oh, great Namira, let me apprentice myself to you. I ask only that you grant
me powers to make my fortune and forge a name for myself that will live
through the ages."
"Nay. I make my way alone in the world. I have no need for an apprentice."
Namira shambled off down the road. Wheedle would not be put off. With a bound,
Wheedle was at Namira's heel, pressing the case for an apprenticeship. For 33
days and night, Wheedle kept up the debate. Namira said nothing, but Wheedle's
voice was ceaseless. Finally, on the 33rd day, Wheedle was too hoarse to talk.
Namira looked back on the suddenly silent figure. Wheedle knelt in the mud at
her feet, open hands raised in supplication.
"It would seem you have completed your apprenticeship to me after all," Namira
declared. "I shall grant your request."
Wheedle was overjoyed.
"I grant you the power of disease. You may choose to be afflicted with any
disease you choose, changing them at will, so long as it has visible symptoms.
However, you must always bear at least one.
"I grant you the power of pity. You may evoke pity in anyone that sees you.
"Finally, I grant you the power of disregard. You may cause others to
disregard your presence."
Wheedle was aghast. These were not boons from which a fortune could be made.
They were curses, each awful in its own right, but together they were
unthinkable.
"How am I to make my fortune and forge a name for myself with these terrible
gifts?"
"As you begged at my feet for 33 days and 33 nights, so shall you now beg for
your fortune in the cities of men. Your name will become legendary among the
beggars of Tamriel. The story of Wheedle, the Prince of Beggars, shall be
handed down throughout the generations.
It was as Namira predicted. Wheedle was an irresistible beggar. None could see
the wretch without desperately wanting to toss a coin at the huddled form.
However, Wheedle also discovered that the power of disregard gave great access
to the secrets of the realms. People unknowingly said important things where
Wheedle could hear them. Wheedle grew to know the comings and goings of every
citizen in the city.
To this day, it is said that if you really want to know something, go ask the
beggars. They have eyes and ears throughout the cities. They know all the
little secrets of the daily lives of it's citizens.
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(Search Code: LOLZ126)
~~Bible of the Deep Ones~~
Irlav Moslin
Item ID: 000C7B33
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Given to me by the Chief of the Deep Ones. He taught me his language and his
runes. This is the ancient lore of his people which we shall follow from now
until forever.
Signed in the presence of twelve witnesses,
Irlav Moslin
3E 345
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
This Daedric text translates to the following: (punctuation and capitalization
added)
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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(Search Code: LOLZ127)
~~Biography of Barenziah, v 1~~
Stern Gamboge, Imperial Scribe
Item ID: 00024550
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ128)
~~Biography of Barenziah, v 2~~
Stern Gamboge, Imperial Scribe
Item ID: 00024552
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ129)
~~Biography of Barenziah, v 3~~
Stern Gamboge, Imperial Scribe
Item ID: 00024553
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ130)
~~A Bloody Journal~~
Viranus Donton
Item ID: 0002FF32
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[Many of the pages of this journal have been shredded or are too covered in
blood to be legible.]
Sundas
It has been two weeks since Vitellus' death, and I fear that Mother will never
truly accept the fact that he is gone. She visits his grave nightly, though I
do not believe she knows I have seen her go. She speaks to him there,
apologizing for sending him on his last mission. I know in my heart that he
would have sought no other end. Better to die fighting for the honor of the
Guild than to waste away in a life of relative safety.
..
Middas
Another day, another day of barracks duty. It's been a full month since I've
been given a contract, any contract. My time is spent polishing weapons and
training with the new boots. Eduard and I have spoken at length about this.
His reasoning, as always, is sound. Mother fears for my safety, and for the
safety of the Guild. This is a terrible weight for her to bear.
Perhaps when our numbers have risen, she will once again feel comfortable
allowing me to perform my duties.
..
Morndas
Thank the gods for Eduard. I fear without him I would go mad. His constant
companionship keeps me hopeful that I will one day be returned to active duty.
Until then, we have each other. He has willingly forgone lucrative contracts
in order to help me pass the days. A truer companion I could not imagine.
..
Loredas
Some days I question whether or not I am fit to be a Guild member. Perhaps
Mother's fears for my safety not because of Viranus, but because of my own
abilities. Am I a failure in her eyes? Does she believe me to be less a man
than Viranus?
..
Turdas
Freedom! Finally, a contract! I was sent with one of our newer members to
investigate a disappearance in Nonwyll Cavern. It was nothing glamorous, but I
am glad for the opportunity to see some action.
I doubt, however, that Mother even knew about the contract, as the order came
directly from Oreyn. It is good to see that he still has faith in my skills,
and my ability to keep that new boot alive.
..
Loredas
Again, nothing. It seems my only hope is that Oreyn will find another contract
for me, though contracts are harder and harder to come by with the increasing
presence of the Blackwood Company in Cyrodiil.
Eduard and I spoke of them over breakfast this morning. He believes them to be
nothing more than a rogue mercenary band. I fear he is as naïve as he is
beautiful. The Blackwood Company bears watching.
..
[date obscured]
I've been given another contract, clearing out some trolls that have been
troubling miners. And Eduard is to accompany me!
I can't think of better news. This is exactly what I need.
..
[date obscured]
Eduard is dead, along with the rest. I fear I will follow shortly. The
fighting grew heavy with the trolls, but was under control. Then came the
Blackwood Company. They were like madmen. Trolls, men, mer fell to their
blades. It was inhuman
[text unreadable]
..
[text unreadable]
Blackwood Company gone quick as they came
Eduard fought bravely. All did. Rest now
..
I hear trolls
I'm sorry Mother
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(Search Code: LOLZ131)
~~The Book of Daedra~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024563
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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."
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(Search Code: LOLZ132)
~~Brenus Astis' Journal~~
Brenus Astis
Item ID: 0002A577
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[much of this journal has become unreadable]
..the Cyrodiilic Rat appears less aggressive than its counterpart in various
other provinces. They are prevalent in all parts of Cyrodiil, equally at home
in basement dwellings, caves, ruins, or grasslands. They are known to carry
disease, and their bites can be painful....
[Illegible]
..though once thought to be intelligent. They are social creatures, often
appearing in groups numbering twenty or more. The largest male dominates this
clan structure, and seems to have breeding rights with all females of
reproductive age. Younger males will often challenge the older, dominant males
in a fight to the death. Their horns locked, the two minotaurs will wrestle
until one can no longer continue. This often....
[Missing]
..called "Billies" by many of the local farmers. But, is this so-called "land
dreugh" actually of any relation to the sea-dwelling dreugh? There certainly
seem to be similarities in morphology, especially in the region of the head
and thorax. And they produce the same "dreugh wax" found in the aquatic
creatures. However, while true dreugh are known to be cunning, even
intelligent, these "land dreugh" demonstrate none of the same intelligence.
They are violent and aggressive, killing indiscriminately.
Some believe them to be of Daedric origins, perhaps related to the Spider
Daedra. That, however, is not the opinion of this researcher. It appears more
likely that the "land dreugh" are a distant relative of the true dreugh,
perhaps an ancestor from far back on the evolutionary timeline....
[Missing]
Much has been made of the fact that trolls can be killed only by application
of fire, whether it be by spell or torch. This is, in fact, a myth. Trolls do
seem to have a weakness to fire and fire-based spells, and a fantastic ability
to regenerate tissue, but they can be killed by conventional means. One should
note, however, that trolls should absolutely not....
[The rest of this journal is unreadable.]
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(Search Code: LOLZ133)
~~Brief History of the Empire v 1~~
Stronach k'Thojj III, Imperial Historian
Item ID: 00024554
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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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(Search Code: LOLZ134)
~~Brief History of the Empire v 2~~
Stronach k'Thojj III, Imperial Historian
Item ID: 00024555
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Volume 1 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</pre><pre id="faqspan-21">
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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(Search Code: LOLZ135)
~~Brief History of the Empire v 3~~
Stronach k'Thojj III, Imperial Historian
Item ID: 00024556
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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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(Search Code: LOLZ136)
~~Brief History of the Empire v 4~~
Stronach k'Thojj III, Imperial Historian
Item ID: 00024557
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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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(Search Code: LOLZ137)
~~The Brothers of Darkness~~
Pellarne Assi
Item ID: 00024586
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ138)
~~Children of the Sky~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024587
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ139)
~~A Children's Anuad~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024576
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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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(Search Code: LOLZ140)
~~Dar-Ma's Diary~~
Dar-Ma
Item ID: 000280A9
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[This is apparently the diary of a young Argonian named Dar-Ma. Most of the
book deals with personal but mundane details of her life in Chorrol. The only
interesting entry is the last one:]
Arrived in Hackdirt after dark, due to Blossom throwing a shoe on the way --
the road was REALLY rough! hardly more than a track -- doesn't anyone else
ever come down here?!
The trader's shop was closed, and she wouldn't come to the door even though I
could see a light in the upstairs window -- RUDE!!! But at least this inn was
open (although the proprietor is kind of creepy -- kept giving me these weird
grins when he thought I wasn't looking -- ugh.) And what's wrong with his face??
Seems like I'm the only one staying here tonight. I didn't see much of the
town since it was already dark, but I admit to being kind of spooked -- but
I'll never admit that to Mother! Or she'd never let me go on another one of
these deliveries. She still thinks I'm just a baby (she would probably say
"hatchling," and in front of my friends too!) Remember to ask her about the
creepy innkeeper when I get home.
Well, the candle is almost burned down (they don't even provide a lantern in
this horrible old inn!), so I guess I'd better try to get some sleep. If I CAN
even sleep with all the creaking in this old place! I keep thinking I hear
footsteps outside the door, I'm so on edge -- GROW UP, Dar! I'm sure in the
morning it will all seem quaint and charming. Good night, Diary!
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(Search Code: LOLZ141)
~~Darkest Darkness~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024564
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ142)
~~Diary of Springheel Jak~~
Jakben, Earl of Imbel, a.k.a. Springheel Jak
Item ID: 000152FC
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I knew a man who was a great thief. He dared steal from Nocturnal herself! How
odd that I cannot seem to recall his name. I think we were friends, but I'm
not certain. In three days I will venture into Taren's crypt. Graverobbing
alone is dangerous. Maybe I should try to find a partner. Didn't I once know a
great thief?
I begin this second entry in the second volume of my diary on a momentous day.
Actually it is night, the night when my second life begins. It will be forever
night for me. I have become one of the children of the night, a son to mother
wolf and brother to the bat. I am nosferatu, a vampyre. Tonight is the first
night of the rest of eternity.
I rediscovered this diary today. It has been 13 years since I last wrote in
it. With an eternity before, and the blood hunger ever pulsing in my veins,
there is little urgency for diaries, or much of anything. Amiela is calling to
me. I must go.
Has it really been 89 years since I last wrote? The pages are getting fragile.
I have rediscovered purpose, though it took nearly a century. I have finally
gained some measure of control over the blood frenzy. I think I will try to
establish a life among the living in one of their great cities.
I had forgotten about this diary. I won't bother to calculate how many decades
it has been since I last wrote in it. The cattle of this city know me as
Jakben, Earl of Imbel. Centuries ago I knew myself as Springheel Jak, the
famous thief. I seem to recall having a famous partner, but his name escapes
me. No matter. I have grown beyond friends and partners. I rule the night here
in the city.
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(Search Code: LOLZ143)
~~Drothan's Field Journal~~
Frathen Drothan
Item ID: xx001A76
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This room appears to have been built around the original site of the
Nefarivigum, but there is no sign of Mehrunes' Razor! There is some sort of
statue of a man here, and some scattered inscriptions in the stonework.
Perhaps they can give me some clues.
At first I thought the runes were useless, but I was able to piece together a
phrase; Kynverum Dagon Nefarivigum. Speaking the words aloud in that order
caused the Razor to materialize! Alas, the way to it is blocked, and I dare
not risk force lest the gate is trapped. I must search for more clues.
I have discovered more inscriptions, etched as to be nearly imperceivable to
my eyes. After much labour I discovered some clues as to the man entombed
here. It seems he was a champion to Dagon who failed in some great task.
The Kyn, it says (Dremora?) carved his chest open, through flesh, armor, and
bone, with the Razor itself. He stands guard now as a test for those worthy to
claim the weapon. What sort of test can this be?
The runes mention the ability of the razor to instantly send a struck foe to
Oblivion through Dagons' wrath. This corroborates many tales of the weapon,
but can it really be so powerful as to kill instantly?
The task seems so simple, now that I've given it thought. He who travels here,
draws the heart from the chest of the champion, and devours it must be worthy
to wield the Razor. I'm wary to proceed, and wonder if there is another way,
but the power of the blade is so near; I must ponder my next move...
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(Search Code: LOLZ144)
~~Drothan's Field Journal~~
Frathen Drothan
Item ID: xx00148A
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12 Morning Star
Sadrith Mora
Traitors, all! Helseth and all the lapdogs in the great houses care nothing
for the heresy of allowing the Empire to command the lives of our noble Dunmer
people. Even my fickle Telvanni kinsmen apathetically consent to this outrage.
Once I have raised my army and topple the atrocious Empire of men, then they
all shall pay for their complacency.
6 First Seed
Vivec
I could hardly bear the journey here to deal with that filthy bookseller, but
it was worth it. The Treatise on Ayleidic Cities I bartered for provided the
last bit of evidence I needed. I'm now convinced that I can find the
Nefarivigum beneath Sundercliff Watch, just inside Cyrodiil's border.
2 Rains Hand
Kragenmoor
The Drothmeri army grows in might! Our forward detachment is ready to escort
me within Cyrodiil's borders, where they shall bolster themselves for the
assault whilst I claim my prize under the mountain.
17 Rains Hand
Kragenmoor
It's getting harder to find mercenaries. I may have to consider employing some
of the beastfolk. Must remember to discuss this with Adrethi before we depart
for Sundercliff.
26 Rains Hand
Sundercliff Keep
The Nefarivigum must be near; I can feel power emanating from this place. Now
I've only to find it and overcome the task to earn Mehrunes Razor. Wielding
this fearsome relic, I'll lead the Drothmeri Army to victory against the
Imperial tyrants.
14 Second Seed
Sundercliff Keep
We finally uncovered the entrance to Varsa Baalim. I'm going to take a
detachment of men inside with me to find the Nefarivigum. We already
discovered an assassin prowling the camp; I fear that Helseth may have sent
him. To be safe, I'm going to seal myself in the city until we can recover the
Razor. I've left two bezoars, cut from the belly of an albino guar, in the
care of Commander Adrethi and the Forgemaster. If there is some emergency,
they have only to place these on the pedestals outside the door to dispel my
barrier, and open the way to Varsa Baalim.
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(Search Code: LOLZ145)
~~Dwemer History and Culture~~
Hasphat Antabolis
Item ID: 00022B17
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Chapter 1
Marobar Sul and the Trivialization of the Dwemer in Popular Culture
A scholar's review of the Dwemer essays written by Marobar Sul
While Marobar Sul's Ancient Tales of the Dwemer was definitively debunked in
scholarly circles as early as the reign of Katariah I, it remains one of the
staples of the literate middle-classes of the Empire, and has served to set
the image of the Dwemer in the popular imagination for generations of
schoolchildren. What about this lengthy (but curiously insubstantial) tome has
proved so captivating to the public that it has been able to see off both the
scorn of the literati and the scathing critiques of the scholars?
Before examing this question, a brief summary of the provenance and subsequent
career of Ancient Tales would be appropriate. First published around 2E670, in
the Interregnum between the fall of the First Cyrodilic Empire and the rise of
Tiber Septim, it was originally presented as a serious, scholarly work based
on research in the archives of the University of Gwylim, and in the chaos of
that era was taken at face value (a sign of the sad state of Dwemer
scholarship in those years). Little is known of the author, but Marobar Sul
was most likely a pseudonym of Gor Felim, a prolific writer of "penny dreadful
romances" of that era, who is known to have used many other pseudonyms. While
most of Felim's other work has, thankfully, been lost to history, what little
survives matches Ancient Tales in both language and tone (see Lomis, "Textual
Comparison of Gor Felim's A Hypothetical Treachery with Marobar Sul's Ancient
Tales of the Dwemer"). Felim lived in Cyrodiil his whole life, writing light
entertainments for the elite of the old Imperial capital. Why he decided to
turn his hand to the Dwemer is unknown, but it is clear that his "research"
consisted of nothing more than collecting the peasants' tales of the Nibenay
Valley and recasting them in Dwemer guise.
The book proved popular in Cyrodiil, and Felim continued to churn out more
volumes until the series numbered seven in all. Ancient Tales of the Dwemer
was thus firmly established as a local favorite in Cyrodiil (already in its
17th printing) when the historical forces that propelled Tiber Septim to
prominence also began to spread the literature of the "heartland" across the
continent. Marobar Sul's version of the Dwemer was seized upon in a surge of
human racial nationalism that has not yet subsided.
The Dwemer appear in these tales as creatures of fable and light fantasy, but
in general they are "just like us". They come across as a bit eccentric,
perhaps, but certainly there is nothing fearsome or dangerous about them.
Compare these to the Dwemer of early Redguard legend: a mysterious, powerful
race, capable of bending the very laws of nature to their will; vanished but
perhaps not gone. Or the Dwemer portrayed in the most ancient Nord sagas:
fearsome warriors, tainted by blasphemous religious practices, who used their
profane mechanisms to drive the Nords from Morrowind. Marobar Sul's Dwemer
were much more amenable to the spirit of the time, which saw humans as the
pinnacle of creation and the other races as unenlightened barbarians or
imperfect, lesser versions of humans eager for tutelage. Ancient Tales falls
firmly in the latter camp, which does much to explain its enduring hold on the
popular imagination. Marobar Sul's Dwemer are so much more comfortable, so
much friendlier, so much more familiar, than the real Dwemer, whose truly
mysterious nature we are only beginning to understand. The public prefers the
light, trivial version of this vanished race. And from what I have learned in
my years of studying the Dwemer, I have some sympathy for that preference. As
the following essays will show, the Dwemer were, to our modern eyes, a
remarkably unlikeable people in many ways.
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(Search Code: LOLZ146)
~~Earana's Notes~~
Earana
Item ID: 000277AE
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My dear helper:
Most of the text you've given me is well beyond your comprehension, I'm
afraid. I found one section, however, that had been appended by the keepers of
the Imperial Watch, and their notes will be of use to you.
Return to the ruins of Cloud Top. There you should find a section of pillar
that looks remarkably unlike any other stonework present. The carvings on this
pillar were made by the Ayleids, and the pillar has been infused with
significant power.
The following was scribbled in the margins of the book, presumably by the same
men who took the pillar from its original resting place. The notes are smeared
in places, so I have included what I could decipher. Do note that this sounds
rather dangerous, and take whatever precautions you feel are necessary.
"... only seems to function outdoors, where it reacts strongly to magic...
terrible power, capable of striking a man dead on the spot..."
"...transported the stone to a secure location, in order to study it more
fully..."
"...guild wizards brought in to focus power of stone. Several severely
injured; stone finally 'tuned' to react to shock magic..."
"...Welkynd stone necessary to harness stone's power. Success means powers of
shock unattainable through other means. "
From these notes, and the original Ayleid inscriptions, it seems that our
Imperial friends were attempting to harness some degree of the Ayleid's
magical power, and were marginally successful. I suggest you procure a Welkynd
stone for yourself (searching Ayleid ruins will likely be the quickest method
of acquiring one) and return to Cloud Top to cast a shock spell at the pillar.
What happens then, I think you can comprehend on your own.
-E
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(Search Code: LOLZ147)
~~The Eastern Provinces~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024565
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..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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ148)
~~Fall of the Snow Prince~~
Lokheim
Item ID: 00024544
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From whence he came we did not know, but into the battle he rode, on a
brilliant steed of pallid white. Elf we called him, for Elf he was, yet unlike
any other of his kind we had ever seen before that day. His spear and armor
bore the radiant and terrible glow of unknown magicka, and so adorned this
unknown rider seemed more wight than warrior.
What troubled, nay, frightened us most at that moment was the call that rose
from the Elven ranks. It was not fear, not wonder, but an unabashed and
unbridled joy, the kind of felicity felt by a damned man who has been granted
a second chance at life. For at that time the Elves were as damned and near
death as ever they had been during the great skirmishes of Solstheim. The
Battle of the Moesring was to be the final stand between Nord and Elf on our
fair island. Led by Ysgramor, we had driven the Elven scourge from Skyrim, and
were intent on cleansing Solstheim of their kind as well. Our warriors, armed
with the finest axes and swords Nord craftsmen could forge, cut great swaths
through the enemy ranks. The slopes of the Moesring ran red with Elf blood.
Why, then, would our foe rejoice? Could one rider bring such hope to an army
so hopeless?
To most of our kind, the meaning of the call was clear, but the words were but
a litany of Elven chants and cries. There were some among us, however, the
scholars and chroniclers, who knew well the words and shuddered at their
significance.
"The Snow Prince is come! Doom is at hand!"
There was then a great calm that overcame the Elves that still stood. Through
their mass the Snow Prince did ride, and as a longboat slices the icy waters
of the Fjalding he parted the ranks of his kin. The magnificent white horse
slowed to a gallop, then a trot, and the unknown Elf rider moved to the front
of the line at a slow, almost ghostlike pace.
A Nord warrior sees much in a life of bloodshed and battle, and is rarely
surprised by anything armed combat may bring. But few among us that day could
have imagined the awe and uncertainty of a raging battlefield that all at once
went motionless and silent. Such is the effect the Snow Prince had on us all.
For when the joyous cries of the Elves had ended, there remained a quiet known
only in the solitude of slumber. It was then our combined host, Elf and Nord
alike, were joined in a terrible understanding -- victory or defeat mattered
little that day on the slopes of the Moesring Mountains. The one truth we all
shared was that death would come to many that day, victor and vanquished
alike. The glorious Snow Prince, an Elf unlike any other, did come that day to
bring death to our kind. And death he so brought.
Like a sudden, violent snow squall that rends travelers blind and threatens to
tear loose the very foundations of the sturdiest hall, the Snow Prince did
sweep into our numbers. Indeed the ice and snow did begin to swirl and churn
about the Elf, as if called upon to serve his bidding. The spinning of that
gleaming spear whistled a dirge to all those who would stand in the way of the
Snow Prince, and our mightiest fell before him that day. Ulfgi Anvil-Hand,
Strom the White, Freida Oaken-Wand, Heimdall the Frenzied. All lay dead at the
foot of the Moesring Mountains.
For the first time that day it seemed the tide of battle had actually turned.
The Elves, spurred on by the deeds of the Snow Prince, rallied together for
one last charge against our ranks. It was then, in a single instant, that the
Battle of the Moesring came to a sudden and unexpected end.
Finna, daughter of Jofrior, a lass of only twelve years and squire to her
mother, watched as the Snow Prince cut down her only parent. In her rage and
sorrow, Finna picked up Jofrior's sword and threw it savagely at her mother's
killer. When the Elf's gleaming spear stopped its deadly dance, the
battlefield fell silent, and all eyes turned to the Snow Prince. No one that </pre><pre id="faqspan-22">
day was more surprised than the Elf himself at the sight that greeted them
all. For upon his great steed the Snow Prince still sat, the sword of Jofrior
buried deeply in his breast. And then, he fell, from his horse, from the
battle, from life. The Snow Prince lay dead, slain by a child.
With their savior defeated, the spirit of the remaining Elven warriors soon
shattered. Many fled, and those that remained on the battlefield were soon cut
down by our broad Nord axes. When the day was done, all that remained was the
carnage of the battlefield. And from that battlefield came a dim reminder of
valor and skill, for the brilliant armor and spear of the Snow Prince still
shined. Even in death, this mighty and unknown Elf filled us with awe.
It is common practice to burn the corpses of our fallen foes. This is as much
a necessity as it is custom, for death brings with it disease and dread. Our
chieftains wished to cleanse Solstheim of the Elven horde, in death as well as
life. It was decided, however, that such was not to be the fate of the Snow
Prince. One so mighty in war yet so loved by his kin deserved better. Even in
death, even if an enemy of our people.
And so we brought the body of the Snow Prince, wrapped in fine silks, to a
freshly dug barrow. The gleaming armor and spear were presented on a pedestal
of honor, and the tomb was arrayed with treasures worthy of royalty. All of
the mighty chieftains agreed with this course, that the Elf should be so
honored. His body would be preserved in the barrow for as long as the earth
chose, but would not be offered the protection of our Stalhrim, which was
reserved for Nord dead alone.
So ends this account of the Battle of the Moesring, and the fall of the
magnificent Elven Snow Prince. May our gods honor him in death, and may we
never meet his kind again in life.
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(Search Code: LOLZ149)
~~Feyfolken I~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 000243E7
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ150)
~~Feyfolken II~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 000243ED
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ151)
~~Feyfolken III~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 000243F1
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“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.”
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(Search Code: LOLZ152)
~~The Firmament~~
Ffoulke
Item ID: 0002457B
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ153)
~~Five Songs of King Wulfharth~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0002457B
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ154)
~~The Five Tenets~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024596
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Tenet 1: Never dishonor the Night Mother. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of
Sithis.
Tenet 2: Never betray the Dark Brotherhood or its secrets. To do so is to
invoke the Wrath of Sithis.
Tenet 3: Never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood
superior. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.
Tenet 4: Never steal the possessions of a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do
so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.
Tenet 5: Never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do so is to invoke the
Wrath of Sithis.
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(Search Code: LOLZ155)
~~Followers of the Gray Fox~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024595
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We are the Fingers of the Fox, the Children of the Shadows. More commonly we
are known as the Thieves Guild.
There are but three rules for followers of the Gray Fox:
First, never steal from another member of the guild.
Second, never kill anyone on the job. This is not the Dark Brotherhood.
Animals and monsters can be slain if necessary.
Third, don't steal from the poor. The peasants and beggars are under the
personal protection of the Gray Fox, particularly in the Imperial City
Waterfront.
Breaking any of the three rules means expulsion from the Thieves Guild. If you
commit murder, you must pay the blood price to rejoin the guild. Blood price
is for each person slain. You can pay any of the guild Doyen.
The Doyen are the hands and eyes of the guildmaster. You take your orders from
them. You get your favors from them. They can pay off the Imperial judges to
remove your crimes -- for a small fee, of course.
Our guildmaster is the Gray Fox. We don't talk about him in public. However,
we make sure that most folks think he is just a myth.
We're thieves, not masons or scribes. Each member steals at his own
discretion. The guild neither helps nor hinders with a burglary. However, you
will find that you can only sell stolen property to one of our guild fences.
Other merchants won't take hot merchandise.
You won't be considered for promotion in the Thieves Guild unless you have
sold enough stolen property to the fences. The higher in the guild you rise,
the more stolen property you need to have fenced.
If you should be called to help the Gray Fox in some special way, remember
that the best source of information is the beggars. Their eyes and ears seem
to be everywhere. However, be prepared to spend a little coin. They won't tell
you anything for free. At least not anything true.
The guild takes care of its own. The Doyen can remove the bounty from any
guild member. However, it takes money to bribe the guards. The guild member
must pay the Doyen half of his total fines to get rid of them.
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(Search Code: LOLZ156)
~~Fragment: On Artaeum~~
Taurce il-Anselma
Item ID: 00024589
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ157)
~~Frontier, Conquest~~
University of Gwylim Press, 3E 344
Item ID: 00024566
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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 </pre><pre id="faqspan-23">
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ158)
~~Frostcrag Spire Memoirs~~
Anonymous
Item ID: xx000D56
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As I pen this, I gaze upon the walls of my home and remember the very day its
design came to fruition. Although it seems like yesterday, it was actually
many years ago. I was an impetuous wizard; I wasn't simply satisfied living at
the Arcane University. I spent years coming up with a design for my home, a
place where I could practice my magic in peace and keep myself away from the
prying eyes of my colleagues. I pored over tomes and dusty scrolls, scoured
the bookshops of the land and even delved into ancient ruins looking for
inspiration. Finally, as I rested my weary body at a camp outside of Bruma and
marveled in awe at the majesty of the Jerall Mountains, I became inspired.
Like a madman I begin to sketch exactly what I wanted my grand dwelling to
look like. It wasn't long before I had completed my masterpiece, put down my
quill and took a step back to see what I had wrought. Frostcrag Spire was
born.
And now, as age overwhelms me and the glow is dying from my eyes, I wish to
give the Spire to you. The thought that my dream could one day crumble to ruin
fills me with sadness. I know that you'll take care of your new home, and if
need be, restore it to its former glory. Please, heed my instructions
carefully. There's much to tell, and the strength drains from my limbs.
Frostcrag Spire contains many wonderful inventions. I've spent my whole life
perfecting them, and I hope you'll put them to good use. My pride and joy is
the Atronach Altar. By bringing three salts from the very same creatures to
this altar, you can summon an Atronach Familiar to do your bidding. It will
obey your simple commands, and defend you in times of need. Should you tire of
it, simply speak to it and dismiss it. These fine creatures have protected me
in my travels, and should be of great use to you.
With permission from the Arcane University, I've had a Spellmaking and an
Enchanting Altar placed in the tower as well. You have but to provide the
Magetallow Candles to power them, and they will serve you well.
Working closely with my good friend Sinderion, the Master Alchemist of
Skingrad, I have developed the Frostcrag Apparatus Table. This table is for
the discerning alchemist, and should help even the most difficult brews become
easier to create. I've also re-seeded my alchemy conservatory with the best
ingredients Cyrodiil has to offer, and some from beyond her borders.
Finally, I have created portals to all of the mage's guilds in Cyrodiil. This
should make it easier to travel to them in times of need.
I've entrusted most of my belongings to Aurelinwae at the Mystic Emporium in
the Market District of the Imperial City. There you'll find everything you
need to bring Frostcrag Spire back from the dead. She may require compensation
for her time and care watching these special items, but I assure you, it's
well worth the coin. Please, take care of Frostcrag Spire. She was my home and
much of myself is infused with the stone and mortar. May your journeys be
safe, and the roads you travel free of danger.
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(Search Code: LOLZ159)
~~Fundaments of Alchemy~~
Alyandon Mathierry
Item ID: 00024567
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Often overlooked by aspiring mages, Alchemy is a time-honored, rewarding
discipline that can change the lives of those who master it. It is difficult,
and often dangerous, to advance one's knowledge of the materials used in
alchemical formulas, but continued study and hard work will, in the end,
reward the alchemist greatly.
Before success can be achieved, or even attempted, the beginning alchemist
must understand the basic principles behind his craft. Many items in our
world, mostly organic in nature, can be broken down into more fundamental
essences with magickal properties. The more skilled the Alchemist, the more
properites of an ingredient that can be harnessed. Combining the essences of
two or more ingredients can result in the creation of a potion, which anyone
may then drink. (Legend has it that a truly great Alchemist can brew potions
from a single ingredient, a feat well beyond the capabilities of most.)
The Alchemist's potion can have several effects, depending on the ingredients
used, and not all effects are beneficial. In many cases, recipes result in a
potion with a mix of positive and negative effects; it is up to the Alchemist
to determine which recipes yield the best results. (It is worth noting that
potions can be created to have only negative effects and be used as poisons.
This practice is not recommended by the author, and this text shall not
discuss such potions further.)
Wortcraft
Wortcraft is, in fact, amateur Alchemy. Eating an ingredient requires grinding
it against the teeth, which occasionally releases its simplest essence and
results in a fleeting effect on the eater. Wortcraft never has as strong a
result as a potion created using the proper tools.
An Alchemist's Tools
The mortar and pestle is the Alchemist's most important and essential tool.
Without it, no ingredient can be correctly prepared for use in a potion. The
budding alchemist is advised to keep a mortar and pestle on hand at all times,
and become comfortable with its use early on. The simple grinding of an
ingredient is the most fundamental step in brewing potions. When properly
ground, the petals of the Redwort flower yield a powder that can, when mixed
correctly with another ingredient such as ginseng, create a potion to cure
poisons. (This is one formula that many alchemists are quick to learn and
retain, as mistakes in potion mixing often require its use.)
The advanced Alchemist has other tools at his disposal to improve the quality
of his potions. A Retort can be employed to purify the mixture, improving the
positive effects of a potion. Washing the mixture through an Alembic helps to
distill the potion, reducing any negative effects, and a Calcinator can be
used to burn away impurities in the mixture, increasing the potency of all the
potion's effects. While these apparatus are not necessary to create potions,
it is advised that they be used whenever possible.
Ingredient Combination
A potion is only as good as its ingredients. Only those with identical effects
may be combined to make a potion; up to four ingredients may be successfully
used in a single potion.
As the Alchemist gains skill in preparing ingredients, new properties may be
discovered and can be used in creating potions. While this can be an exciting
time, expanding the Alchemist's repertoire, he should take care to check
carefully which effects his potions will contain when he is done brewing. Many
established recipes may have new results, not all of which are beneficial.
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(Search Code: LOLZ160)
~~Galerion the Mystic~~
Asgrim Kolsgreg
Item ID: 00024568
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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 Sumurset Isle. A band of troubadours
found him nearly dead, curled up in a ditch by the side of the road, 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 Sumurset, 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 Artium, 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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ161)
~~Gelebourne's Journal~~
Gelebourne
Item ID: 00038447
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The eighth day has passed, and still there's no sign of the artifact. We've
covered most of the remainder of the outer guard tower, and scoured the
crumbled gatehouse ruins, but not one clue has arisen as to where it may have
been buried.
It's quiet out here, as if the ruins were paying respects to the Ayleid
inhabitants that disappeared here long ago. We haven't encountered anything
hostile, but if we do, I think we're ready. The Brotherhood's been in worse
scrapes before. Bradon paid good money for the information as to our
treasure's whereabouts, and I hope it doesn't turn out to be yet another
fiasco.
This morning, our camp was set upon by some bandits who were protecting what
they claimed was their territory. Considering that we were outnumbered three
to one, we did very well. Only Raynil suffered a small wound, but that was
easily healed by a potion that Bradon had thoughtfully brought with him on our
expedition.
After getting rid of the bandit's corpses, we set out to tackle the largest
part of the ruin, the remains of the great keep. Two of the walls of the once-
mighty structure were collapsed, scattering the telltale whitish rock so
typical of the Ayleid architecture in this part of Tamriel. This made our
assault on the ruin difficult, as many of the larger chunks of wall were far
too heavy for us to move.
Bradon suggested that we search the center of the building's foundation for
any underground entrances, which was typical for this type of keep. His guess
paid off, and after several hours of backbreaking work, we managed to clear an
opening just large enough for us to squeeze through and enter an ancient
stairwell leading down into the ground. We decided to wait until morning's
light to begin our descent into the depths of the ruin.
After a restless sleep, all of us were quite excited at the prospect of what
might lie ahead. Eagerly, we dipped our torches in a fresh container of pitch,
lit them, and entered the inky blackness of the stairwell.
The stale air was choked with dust and fine grit, a sign that no one had
entered this portion of the ruins in a very long time. We became excited, as
that meant no other tomb robbers had gotten there before us.
The stairwell eventually leveled out into a corridor of sorts that snaked its
way to the north. As we carefully walked along, I scanned the floor and walls
very carefully for any type of triggers, tripwires or pressure plates; such
was my specialty. The Ayleid were well known for their cunning traps
protecting their tombs, and I wasn't taking any chances.
Bradon, the scholar of the Brotherhood, was getting more and more excited as
we traversed the passage; he was translating the wall carvings and was
becoming certain that we had finally found the true location of our prize.
After walking for several more minutes, we were overjoyed to see what we were
hoping to see: the hallway ended at a metal door with the carving of a spider
upon it.
Now came the true test of Bradon's information. The door supposedly had a
puzzle lock; by pulling the spider legs in a certain combination, it would
unlatch. The wrong combination would spell our deaths, perhaps triggering a
collapse of the hallway or some other equally deadly trap. With a shaky hand,
I pulled the legs one by one in the order I had memorized: the sixth one, then
the first one, the second one, the eighth one, and finally the first one
again.
I closed my eyes, as there were a few loud clicks and then the door popped
open. We all breathed a sigh of relief. Pushing open the door, I looked in at
a huge room with a pedestal at the center. Sitting on the pedestal illuminated
by a shaft of sunlight from a tiny hole in the ceiling was our prize.
The floor was covered in a huge mosaic of a stylized spider, all eight of its
legs coming to a point and ending up at the door entrance. This was the last
of the traps the Ayleid left behind to protect their treasure. Again, if it
hadn't been for Bradon's skill at acquiring information, we may never had
known how to solve this last line of defense.
I instructed Bradon and Raynil to remain at the entrance and to tie a rope
around my waist in case of a sudden pitfall. Carefully, I began to walk on the
darkened tiles that formed the third leg of the spider. Sweat beaded on my
forehead, as the pathway made by the tiny pieces of ceramic was very narrow at
the start, and one slip could again mean instant death.
But death never arrived. The information had been correct, and I was able to
make it to the pedestal and secure the artifact! Quickly as possible, we made
our way back and out into the daylight. Once again, the Brotherhood was
triumphant and it was time to return home.
At the tavern that night, we decided to make a pact. We would stash the
artifact in a cave not far from Bruma until we researched it further. An item
of its magnitude could be very dangerous if mishandled, and we certainly
didn't want to sell it without understanding its true value. Bradon agreed to
contract a local cooper to construct a chest with three locks. Each of us
would hold a key to one of the locks so none would have access to the artifact
without the others being present. For the rest of the evening, we drank
merrily and sang many a song of adventures passed, and adventures to come.
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(Search Code: LOLZ162)
~~Glories and Laments~~
Alexandre Hetrard
Item ID: 0000A2B3
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Having arrived at Gottlesfont Priory, halfway on the Gold Road between
Skingrad and the Imperial City, I resolved to make a side trip to view the
magnificent ruins of Ceyatatar, or "Shadow of the Fatherwoods' in the ancient
Ayleid tongue. After many hours of difficult travel through tangled hawthorn
hells and limberlosts, I was suddenly struck dumb by the aspect of five pure
white columns rising from a jade-green mound of vines to perfect V-shaped
arches and graceful capitals towering above the verdant forest growth. This
spectacle caused me to meditate on the lost glories of the past, and the
melancholy fate of high civilizations now poking like splinter shards of bone
from the green-grown tumulus of time-swept obscurity.
Within the forest tangle I discovered an entrance leading down into the
central dome of a great underground edifice once dedicated to Magnus, the God
f Sight, Light, and Insight. Dimly lit by the faded power of its magical
pools, the shattered white walls of the enclosure shimmered with a cold blue
light.
The marble benches of the central plaza faced out across the surrounding
waters to tall columns and sharp arches supporting the high dome. From the
central island, stately bridges spanned the still pools to narrow walkways
behind the columns, with broad vaulted avenues and limpid canals leading away
through ever-deeping gloom into darkness. Reflected in the pools were the
tumbled columns, collapsed walls, and riotous root and vine growth thriving
the dark half-light of the magical fountains.
The ancient Ayleids recognized not the four elements of modern natural
philosophy -- earth, water, air, and fire -- but the four elements of High Elf
religion -- earth, water, air, and light. The Ayleids considered fire to be
but a weak and corrupt form of light, which Ayleid philosophers identified
with primary magical principles. Thus their ancient subterranean temples and
sanctuaries were lit by lamps, globes, pools, and fountains of purest magic.
It was by these ancient, faded, but still active magics that I knelt and
contemplated the departed glories of the long-dead Ayelid architects. Gazing
through the glass-smooth reflections of the surrounding pools, I could see,
deep below, the slow pulse, the waxing and waning of the Welkynd stones.
The chiefest perils of these ruins to the explorer are the cunning and deadly
mechanisms devised by the Ayleids to torment and confound those would invade
their underground sanctuaries. What irony that after these many years, these
devices should still stand vigilant against those who would admire the works
of the Ayleids. For it is clear... these devices were crafted in vain. They
did not secure the Ayleids against their true enemies, which were not the
slaves who revolted and overthrew their cruel masters, nor the were they the
savage beast peoples who learned the crafts owar and magic from their Ayleid
masters. No, it was the arrogant pride of their achievements, their smug self-
assurance that their empire would last forever, that doomed them to fail and
fade into obscurity.
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(Search Code: LOLZ163)
~~Gods and Worship~~
Brother Hetchfeld
Item ID: 0000A2B3
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ164)
~~Greywyn's Journal~~
Greywyn
Item ID: xx0046AC
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Turdas 18 Rain's Hand 3E 421
Sithis speaks to me. He does not use words but I can hear his voice. Echoes of
darkness spring from his lips and tell me what I must do. The Dark Brotherhood
must be purged of its clean-blooded vermin and a new order must take the
reins. The time is nigh for the vampire to claim his rightful place as the
true Hands of Sithis. I have secured the help of many of my kin, and soon, we
shall spread like a cold fog through the ranks and make the group our own.
Soon, Sithis will give the sign, the time will be right, and the Crimson Scars
will strike!
Loredas 27 Rain's Hand 3E 421
We are betrayed! That cur, Silarian, has made true our plans to the Fingers,
and we have been discovered! The Brotherhood struck as we slept, not even
giving the Scars a chance to fight back. Using their silver weapons, they
pierced the heart of many of my brothers... The screams I could hear as they
turned to dust still echo within my mind. I was able to dispatch two of the
purebloods that fell upon me, and before they could send more, I made good my
escape. I must find a place to hide... to recover from this blow. I will make
my way south to Deepscorn Hollow, my old hideaway from when I was but a
novice. There I will make my dark plans and we shall see who Sithis truly
favors!
Tirdas 21 Second Seed 3E 421
It's been nearly a month, and yet none of my brethren has returned to the
fold. What puzzles me is why I have not heard from my lord. Sithis hasn't
spoken to me since that dark night. What have I done to displease him? I have
slain many since then, and poured their lifeblood on his altar, but still he
remains silent. As I ponder this, I turn my attentions to the lair. Deepscorn
Hollow will rise as the new headquarters of the Crimson Scars. But it must be
prepared. So much to do...
Loredas 1 Mid-Year 3E 421
The lair has improved much. I was fortunate to find Rowley Eardwulf at the
Wawnet Inn outside of the Imperial City, another Scar who had escaped the
night of slaughter. He now does his dark work acquiring the tools I need to
bring Deepscorn Hollow back to its former glory. I must remember him in the
future should I ever need these items again.
Middas 17 Sun's Height 3E 421
All along, I was mistaken. All along, I was the blight upon Sithis and his
dark name. Tonight, he spoke to me and again, and I learned of his
displeasure. Again, I heard no words, but I knew the meaning. I was meant to
take blood, to spill blood... but never to taste blood. My sanguine ways have
offended my lord! I must cleanse myself of this filth. I must find a way
Tirdas 30 Sun's Height 3E 421
I have found it! My lord will be pleased! My answer lies with the Purgeblood
Salts. Yes! I will bathe in these tonight and free myself from my old ways!
Hail Sithis! Dark ruler, soon I will be your only true disciple!
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(Search Code: LOLZ165)
~~Guide to Anvil~~
Alessia Ottus
Item ID: 0002455B
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Sweet Dibella, Lady of Love! Bless us and our Children!
My name is Alessia Ottus, and I'd like to tell you all about Anvil.
The seat of Anvil County is by the sea, and at first glance, is very pretty,
but when you examine it closely, turns out to be quite unpleasant. The water
views are charming, but on the docks and in the harbor district outside of
town you will find many sailors and tramps and dirty persons of little worth.
Castle Anvil is clean and well- ordered, and within the town walls, some
houses are bright and cheerful, but others are derelict and abandoned, or
shabby and neglected, with plaster fallen in patches from the stonework, and
lunatics and drunkards may be encountered everywhere.
* Castle Anvil *
The ruler of Anvil is Countess Millona Umbranox. Her husband, Corvus Umbranox,
disappeared many years ago, and most persons would agree that Her Ladyship is
better off without him, for he was a light and frivolous person, and given to
loose and riotous behavior likely to promote scandal. The Countess herself is
a righteous and godly woman, and an excellent ruler, well-loved by the people.
If only she could compel her Town Guard to drive the seamen, low-lifes,
loafers, and thieves from Anvil's streets, Anvil might be a more tolerable
place to live.
* Districts of Anvil *
Consider the five districts of Anvil. Castle Anvil lies outside the town
walls, south of town, overlooking the harbor, and is reached by gate from
Chapelgate. Within the town walls are three districts: Chapelgate in the east,
Westgate in the west, and Guildgate between Chapelgate and Westgate.
Harborside lies outside the town walls, south of town, and is reached by gate
from Westgate district.
* Chapelgate *
A more beautiful chapel may not be seen in all Cyrodiil. A quiet garden for
meditation with a fine statue of Dibella lies between the chapel and the town
wall, and across from the chapel is a lovely garden and covered arcade where
worshippers are protected from the elements. Regretably, the people of Anvil
seem little inclined to appreciate these advantages, and are seldom seen
worshipping in the chapel. Whether this is the fault of the primate, who is a
vain and shallow woman, or the Countess, who does little to encourage regular
chapel worship by her example, I am unable to judge.
* Guildgate *
The most prosperous part of Anvil is entered by Guildgate, or Main Gate, or
North Gate. Here side by side may be seen the handsomest and ugliest of Anvil
buildings. The guilds are kept clean and in good repair, and both Mages Guild
and Fighters Guild are unusually ambitious and industrious by Cyrodiil's
common standard. The head of the Mages Guild, Carahil, is a scholar of good
reputation and an outspoken enemy of necromancy, summoning, and the dark arts.
The Fighters Guild here is well-staffed and active, and shows no sign of the
fecklessness and poor morale of chapters elsewhere in Cyrodiil. However, next
to the Mages Guild is a ruin, long boarded-up and abandoned, and an prominent
eyesore.
* Westgate *
This is the residential district of Anvil. The houses here are shabby and ill-
kept. The people are untidy and dull, with the exception of Anvil's famous
citizen, the Argonian authoress, Quillweave, who produces wretched books
celebrating the misadventures and schemes of the lower and criminal classes.
This person does her race no favor by confirming the prejudices of many who
consider Argonians to be ungodly, dishonest, and worthless, and little better
than beasts.
* Harborside *
The docks are rotten and in ill-repair, and all manner of smells issue forth
from the holds of ships and ramshackled warehouses. Shiftless persons gather
here to bask in the sun, gossip, chatter, and plot how to beg or steal gold
for wine and ale. Here a good woman named Mirabelle Monet runs a house for
homeless sailors, but, I'm sorry to say, her mistaken tender-heartedness and
charity only encourages malingering and drunkenness. Instead, she should urge
these wicked and idle men to improve themselves through industry and the
teachings of the Nine. There is, however, a very appealing lighthouse south of
the harbor, from which one may contemplate a distant and less-disagreeable
view of Anvil's castle, town and its harbor setting.
May the Nine guard and guide you!
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(Search Code: LOLZ166)
~~Guide to Bravil~~
Alessia Ottus
Item ID: 0002455F
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Mara, Mother Mild! Make us hale and hearty! My name is Alessia Ottus, and I'd
like to tell you all about Bravil.
Bravil is the dark grate of the sewer drain where foul and unappetising debris
collects. It is the poorest and dirtiest of Cyrodiil's towns, the oldest and
shabbiest, the most plagued by criminals, drunkards, and skooma-eaters, and
most popular with beastfolk and other foreigners. All Bravil lacks is a coven
of Daedra worshippers to make it the perfect pit of villainy... and many
rumors suggest that even more evil and depraved worships are practiced in
secret by Bravil's wicked heathens.
This town is gray, grim, and depressing. The climate is damp and the
atmosphere foul because of the fetid channels of the Larsius River that serve
as Bravil's sewers, and because of the rank swamps of the lowland margins of
the Niben Bay, where insects and diseases breed in abundance.
The architecture of the town is remarkable for its unequalled ugliness and
disorder. The houses, shops, and guilds are built from cracked and splintered
timbers soft from rot and green with mold and mildew. It is a pity that they
do not fall down, for they might be rebuilt in a more pleasing manner, but
rather they continue to grow on top of one another like mounded middens,
reaching lofty heights of three and four stories. Beggars and thieves lounge
indolently on balconies overhanging the streets and dump their refuse directly
upon the unfortunate passers-by. Whole families live in teetering shacks on
the tops of the buildings in unimaginable squalor.
Bravil's people are dirty and dishonest. They live little better than goblins
in caves, squatting in filthy, tumbledown shacks. The town citizens are
divided into two classes: the smugglers, skooma-eaters, bandits, thieves, and
murderers, and the wretched beggars and fools that these criminals prey upon.
Bravil is ruled by crimelords, and the town guard lives in the pockets of the
skooma kingpins. You will not be surprised to find there are many Argonians
and Khajiit in this miserable place, since Elsweyr and Black Marsh are close
by, but you may be surprised to find many Orcs here. However, beastfolk are
comfortable in the company of other beastfolk, as are thieves and brutes
naturally drawn to the company of one another.
Bravil is not organized into orderly districts. However, some landmarks may
serve to orient the unfortunate visitor. The castle is approached by rickety
bridges over the river to the east. The chapel is to the west. The shops and
guilds are arranged in a line with their backs to the east wall and the
channels of the river. Between the chapel and the shops and guilds are
Bravil's ramshackle slums and tenements.
The castle is the only sturdy, stone-built dwelling in Bravil. It is nowhere
as dirty and ill-furnished as the timber shacks of the people, but it is still
little better than the houses of the poorest paupers in Anvil or the Imperial
City. Count Regulus Terentius, from a respectable family, once a noted
tournament champion, is now widely recognized by his people as a drunken
wastrel and ne'er-do-well. And his son, Gellius Terentius, is a strutting
peacock who cultivates the society of crimelords and skooma-eaters.
The chapel stonework is in poor repair and covered with mold and mildew. The
graveyard is surrounded by a ramshackle, unpainted wooden fence, and the
graves are untidy and neglected. The primate is a good servant of Mara, but
she is unequal to the task of driving sin and wickedness from this Nine-
forsaken town. The priestess is wise and well-liked by those few who visit the
chapel, but most people never pass once through the chapel's doors, except to
beg and steal.
The inns are a disgrace. It is common to step over prostrate drunks and
through pools of sick upon entering, and idlers, gamblers, and pickpockets
swarm in the darkness and prey upon unwary travelers. A visitor foolish enough
to sleep in these places should expect to be murdered in his bed.
The guilds, by contrast, are relatively clean, dry, and quiet, and one forced
by necessity to spend a night in Bravil might be justified in joining the
Fighters Guild or the Mages Guild, despite their savage and godless ways,
simply to be assured of a safe place to sleep.
The shops are no worse than any other feature of Bravil, and you may be more
safe in them from assault or murder on account of the prodigious provisions
merchants must take to protect themselves from thieves.
If you are forced by circumstances to visit Bravil, you will very soon wish to
leave, and you will wish to watch your back as you leave, to be sure you are
not followed by parades of bandits and assassins.
Honor the Nine in prayer!
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(Search Code: LOLZ167)
~~Guide to Cheydinhal~~
Alessia Ottus
Item ID: 00024561
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Arkay, bless my body and soul! My name is Alessia Ottus, and I'd like to tell
you all about Cheydinhal.
The first impression of the visitor to Cheydinhal is of broad green parklands,
graceful willows along the banks of the Corbolo, neatly groomed gardens and
flowering shrubs. Cheydinhal looks prosperous, with clean, well-trimmed houses
and neat stonework, ornamented with striking designs in glass, metal, and
wood.
But what lurks beneath this pleasing appearance? Crime! Scandal! Corruption!
Cheydinhal is divided into three districts. To the north, on a hill, is the
courtyard and inner keep of Castle Cheydinhal. A road runs east-west below the
castle from East Gate to West Gate. The Corbolo River runs roughly north-south
from this road, dividing southern Cheydinhal into two districts, Chapel in the
east, and Market in the west. In Market District lie all the shops, inns, and
guildhalls. In Chapel District are the Chapel itself and Cheydinhal's
residences. Bridges span the Corbolo in the north and south, with the south
bridges connecting upon a pretty little island park in the middle of the
river.
Though Cheydinhal lies in the Nibenean East, its culture is shaped by the Dark
Elf immigrants who emigrated here in the past half century from Morrowind.
Many of these immigrants were fleeing Morrowind's rigid society and heathen
Temple theocracy. In Cyrodiil they hoped to find the stimulating commercial
atmosphere inspired by Zenithar's patronage.
One of these immigrants is now Count Cheydinhal. Andel Indarys was of House
Hlaalu in Morrowind, but he came to Cheydinhal searching for greater
opportunity. His sudden rise into the highest ranks of Cyrodilic nobility is
hard to explain, and most old families of Cyrodiil rightly regard him as a
presumptuous upstart. However, the discovery of the Count's wife, Lady
Llathasa Indarys, badly battered and dead at the foot of the County Hall
stairs immediately attracted scandal, and rumors of the Count's dissipation,
rages and infidelities suggest a darker mystery behind her death.
The Chapel of Arkay in Cheydinhal is poorly attended. The Count sets a poor
example; he never sets foot inside the chapel. But perhaps it is from fear of
divine judgement that he avoids placing himself under the eyes of the Nine!
Cheydinhal's primate, priest, and healer are goodly people, and staunch
professors of the faith, but the most honored and respected of the chapel's
clerics is Errandil, the Living Saint of Arkay, a tireless crusader against
the wicked practice of necromantic sorcery in the Mages Guild and the Imperial
Battle College.
Both of Cheydinhal's inns appear respectable from the outside, but the
Newlands Inn is owned by a wicked, profane Dark Elf ruffian, and the
Cheydinhal Bridge Inn is owned by a dignified, devout Imperial matron, so I am
sure you know which place will serve you good, reasonable food, and which will
provide you with a safe, clean bed where you are unlikely to be murdered for
your purse. The owner-proprietor of Cheydinhal's bookstore is Mach-Na, an
Argonian, and a ruder, more disagreeable creature I have never met.
Nonetheless, his selection of books is excellent, and his prices reasonable.
The poorest of Cheydinhal's residences are bright and clean, with well-groomed
grounds, and the citizens think it no inconvenience when you step in to admire
their furniture and appointments (provided you do this at a decent hour!).
However, be warned! Many of these residents seem respectable to all
appearances, but no sooner do they open their mouths than they reveal
themselves to be evil brutes, shocking and rude, and more likely to murder you
and bury you in their basements as to speak a civil word to you. That many of
these rough, unpleasant people are Orcs should be no surprise to you.
However, you will not wish to miss the house of Cheydinhal's most notable
citizen, the celebrated painter, Rythe Lythandas. He is often hard at work in
his studio, and not to be disturbed, but his wife is gracious and hospitable,
and may be persuaded to show you those of his paintings which hang on his own
walls.
Follow the Nine to Glory!
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(Search Code: LOLZ168)
~~Guide to Chorrol~~
Alessia Ottus
Item ID: 0002455D
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Praise Stendarr, the Nine, and all the Saints! My name is Alessia Ottus, and
I'd like to tell you all about the town of Chorrol.
* Castle Chorrol *
Chorrol is the county seat of County Chorrol, and is ruled by Countess Arriana
Valga, a very proper woman, and mother of the beautiful and virtuous Alessia
Caro, Countess of Leyawiin.
Countess Arriana is a devout and righteous follower of Akatosh, and sets a
fine example for her people by her devotions in the Chapel of Stendarr. Her
husband, Count Charus Valga, was a staunch Defender of the Faith and follower
of Stendarr, and his death in battle against the heathen Nord clansmen of
Skyrim was greatly lamented by his people. Alessia Caro has been a good
husband to Count Marius of Leyawiin, and a dutiful daughter, and she is often
seen visiting Chorrol and her saintly mother.
I am also pleased to report that the castle mage is a righteous and goodly
servant of the Nine (unlike so many wizards who neglect the Chapel and the
Faith). Chanel offers magical training for those eager to smite the ungodly,
and it would be much better to go to her than to some wicked Mages Guild
hedgewizard.
The Countess holds court every day in the fine Great Hall (except on Sundas,
of course). She has a very fine herald and steward, and the castle is neat and
well-ordered. It also has a strong dungeon jail for evildoers, though I'm
sorry to say that the guards are often lax in their duties, and fail to arrest
and lock up the various beggars and thieves and gamblers and cheats who idle
in the streets.
* Districts of Chorrol *
There are five main districts of Chorrol. When you enter the gate, you find
yourself in Fountain Gate, before the fine pool and statue of the Saint of
Sancre Tor, in memory of all who died in that great battle. Around the
fountain are the two inns, the general store and the smith. One street leads
east to the Castle, one north to Great Oak Place, one west to Chapel Street
and West Chorrol. Chapel Street leads west to the Chapel, past the book store,
and thence to the crude shacks gathered around the well of West Chorrol.
Around Great Oak Place are the Mages Guild and Fighters Guild, and many fine
houses.
* The Chapel of Stendarr *
The Chapel of Stendarr is beautiful, and perfect for a traveler's mediations
and prayer. Every Sundas morning you will find the best citizens gathered with
their good countess for worship. You may be surprised to learn that not all
people of Chorrol follow the model of their countess, for many are very idle
and careless in their devotions. This is certainly the responsibility of the
Fighters Guild and the Mages Guild, whose members fail to set a good example
for Chorrol's citizens. The elderly priestess of the Chapel, Orag gra-Bagrol,
is a kindly, righteous soul, and it would be far better to purchase your
spells from her than from the godless heathens of the Mages Guild.
* Chorrol's Guilds *
The Fighters Guild's members, though led by the excellent and honorable Vilena
Donton, are dirty and uncouth in their speech, and often to be found lazing
about in their chapter house, or wandering the town and engaging in loose
talk. How much better it would be if they improved their characters by regular
attendance at the Chapel of Stendarr. Their excellent smith is an exception,
being often seen at her devotions at the chapel.
The members of the Chorrol Mages Guild are for the most part shiftless
scholars and students who spend their time reading, quarreling, and brewing
foul concotions. They are well-spoken and well-educated, but what good is such
learning if they fail to improve their souls by penitence and prayer? You may
purchase spells and potions from these persons, but it will only encourage
them in their irreverent amusements and wicked idleness.
* Goods and Services *
The proprietor of Northern Goods and Trade, Seed-Neeus, is an Argonian, but
unlike so many of her countrymen, she is clever, honest, and well-spoken.
Isn't that remarkable? She is so acccomplished that she offers training in the
mercantile arts, but you will not purchase goods from her cheaply.
I am told by those who know that the smith of Fire and Steel, Rasheda the
Redguard, is a very fine craftsman, who offers training in her craft, and she
is always to be found at Sundas chapel worship, but she is fresh and
disrespectful, and her manners and dress leave something to be desired.
Renoit's Books is fairly clean, and has a wide selection of books, but would
you believe that I found not a single copy of 'Ten Commands of the Nine
Divines', nor have I ever seen the proprietress in the Chapel of Stendarr?
There are only two places where you may purchase food and lodging. One is
proper and clean, frequented by decent citizens. The other is rude and dirty,
and a meeting place for drunkards, thieves, and Orcs. The one is run by a
well-dressed, dignified, and proper matron. The other is run by a careless
young woman. The one is called the 'Oak and Crosier'. The other is called 'The
Grey Mare'. I'm sure you know which one to visit if you want a clean and safe
bed.
* Notable Citizens of Chorrol *
Casta Scribonia, the author, lives in Chorrol. She is a well-educated and
well- traveled woman, but she writes books which I cannot recommend, for they
are full of romance and gossip and other offensive and wasteful indulgences,
and their heroes do not present to our children the proper models of virtue,
duty, honor, and reverence that all followers of the Nine Divines must love
and hold in our hearts.
* Shameful Features of Chorrol *
You will often see townsfolk gathered in mischief and loose talk around the
Great Oak near the Fighters and Mages Guilds. One man, very sly, named
Honditar, knows all about the surrounding lands, and he offers to teach skills
for a fee, but one nevers sees him in the chapel, and one suspects that he is
given to profanity, strong drink, and brawling.
There are many thieves and murderers in Chorrol. They even secretly teach
their crafts for fees in their homes, and where is the Chorrol Guard? Nowhere
to be seen, I'm sorry to say.
The beggars in Chorrol are dirty, but they are free of disease, cheerful, and
polite. You may give a coin to one to ease your soul, but it does little to
improve a beggar, for it will soon be squandered on gambling, strong spirits,
and other mischief.
Nine gods and nine blessings!
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(Search Code: LOLZ169)</pre><pre id="faqspan-24">
~~Guide to the Imperial City~~
Alessia Ottus
Item ID: 00024562
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Praise Akatosh! Bless the Empire and All Its People!
My name is Alessia Ottus, and I'd like to tell you all about the Imperial
City.
* The Imperial City *
Who do you think lives in the Imperial City? Uriel Septim, Emperor of Tamriel,
Defender of the Faith, and Descendant of the Sainted Tiber Septim, Lord Talos,
the Holy God of State and Law in our Blessed Nine Divines. All know the
emperor to be a good and holy man, for he may often be seen in the Temple of
the One, making his devotions to the Nine Divines and the Communion of Saints.
And where does he live? In the Imperial Palace, in the center of the Imperial
City, in the White Gold Tower which was built many ages ago by the godless,
Daedra-loving Ayleids. How fine it is that the stones raised high by this
ancient evil empire are now reconsecrated as a monument to Imperial justice
and piety.
People who visit the Imperial Palace like to walk among the graves of saints
and counts, battlemages and emperors, and gaze with wonder upon White Gold
Tower, which can be seen from any place within the City.
The Elder Council Chamber here cannot be entered, and though you may marvel at
their curious ancient armors, you will soon want be away from the rude and
discourteous Imperial Guards.
* Imperial City Districts *
The Imperial City is divided into ten districts. At the center is the Imperial
Palace. The other districts are grouped around the Palace. To the northwest is
Elven Gardens, a pleasant residential district.
Continuing widdershins, the Talos District, an exclusive residential area,
lies to the west. To the southwest is the Temple District, and beyond it,
outside the walls, the filthy and bad-smelling Waterfront District. To the
southeast lies the Arboretum, and beyond that, outside the walls, the infamous
Arcane University of the Mages Guild. To the east is the notorious Arena
District. And last, to the northeast of the Palace lies the Market District,
where anything may be bought, and beyond the Market District, outside the city
walls, the Imperial Prison.
* The Temple District *
I live in the Temple District of the Imperial City, and it is a very pretty
place. You are welcome to visit me, my husband, and daughter when you come to
worship at the Temple of the One. This district is very pretty, and only
pleasant and well-bred persons live here, though, as in all parts of the city,
beggars are a constant problem.
* The Arboretum *
In this beautiful garden you will find the famous Statues of the Nine Divines.
In the center you will find the statue of Lord Talos, Emperor Tiber Septim.
But is it right, that Talos should have this place of honor rather than
Akatosh, king of gods? It is the scheming pride of the Elder Council, who
sought favor with the sons of Talos, that is responsible for this shameful
error.
* The Market District *
You will find crowds of people waiting outside the doors of the Office of
Imperial Commerce to make their complaints about being cheated by some
merchant. It is a very dirty place. Piles of crates lie around in untidy
heaps, unwholesome toadstools and fungus grow in clumps, and the cobbles are
slimy and encrusted with filth. If you may send your servant rather than visit
yourself, it would be far better.
* Arcane University *
This place is unspeakably dirty and unkempt, no better than a slum. You will
never find the students or wizards outside in the air, for they are squatting
in their dark dungeons poring over profane texts and making crabbed scribbles
on scrolls.
Within the Arch-Mage's Tower is hidden the Imperial Orrery, which the mages
use to study the sky. Such fools! Why do they not look on the glory of
Creation itself, and give praise to the Nine as they ought, rather than squat
and peer at such a ridiculous and expensive machine?
The Mages are said to have a great library of precious books, but they
jealously hoard them for themselves. This is no loss for the righteous, for
these books are surely full of wicked nonsense.
* Imperial Waterfront *
This is a terrible place. It is not uncommon to stumble over the bodies of
women and children who have been murdered here. There are no more wicked and
godless men in Tamriel than merchants and sailors, and they gather here to
plot and cheat citizens of their hard-earned gold. Gambling and slaving and
skooma-sucking and even more depraved activities take place in warehouses and
ships here. And where are the City Watch? Nowhere to be seen.
* Imperial Prison *
The prisons are very cruel and horrible, damp and dirty, with chains and
pincers and manacles and instruments of torture on every hand. But did I find
any prisoners in these cells? No! For the Watch is so lazy and careless that
the cells are all empty!
There are guards everywhere in the Imperial City. They travel in groups, for
even they are afraid of the cruel bandits and thieves that lurk everywhere in
the City. I do not know why they do not throw the impertinent beggars into
prison. Criminals are so bold as to introduce themselves to you on the street.
One outlaw was so brazen as to boast that he had stolen his weapons and armor
from the Imperial Prison. How careless and idle these Watchmen must be to
allow this! They know no shame, for the wicked officers of the Watch are
corrupt, and accept gold from the hands of the very people they are supposed
to place behind bars.
* The Arena *
I will not tell you about this place, for you have no need to visit it. Only
idle or foolish persons come here to throw their money away on games of
chance, or to spill their own blood when they would better devote themselves
to exterminating the armies of robbers and beggars that swarm in the streets.
May the Nine bless you and keep you!
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(Search Code: LOLZ170)
~~Guide to the Leyawiin~~
Alessia Ottus
Item ID: 00024562
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Zenithar, bless all our labors! My name is Alessia Ottus, and I'd like to tell
you all about Leyawiin.
Pinned between the savage and uncivilized provinces of Elsweyr and Black
Marsh, and guarding the vital passage up the River Niven from Topal Bay to the
Imperial City, Leyawiin is a mighty fortress, with tall stone walls and strong
garrisons.
Leyawiin is a bright and cheerful, prosperous town in the midst of Blackwood's
swampy wildernesses, with wide, bright streets, large, comfortable houses,
half-timbered or painted stucco, many of which are colorful and not too dirty
or weather-worn. There are trees and flowering shrubs everywhere, and peaceful
plazas and ponds for quiet contemplation. Indeed, if it weren't for the
raffish rabble of Argonian and Khajiit descent, Leyawiin would be a pleasant
and safe place to visit.
Marius Caro is Count Leyawiin, and his recent bride, the lovely and cultivated
Alessia Caro, is the daughter of the righteous and reliable Countess Arriana
Valga of Chorrol. The Count and Countess are energetic supporters of
Imperialization, and they work tirelessly to bring the traditional values of
hard-working, chapel-going, and law-abiding Nibenese Heartland Imperial
culture to this frontier outpost.
The town itself lies with tall curtain walls on the west bank of the Niben. To
the east through two gates lies the inner keep and Castle Leyawiin, straddling
the deep channels of the river. The Chapel of Zenithar lies in the northwest,
near the West Gate. All the shops, inns, and guildhalls lie south of the
chapel, in the western half of town, except for a fine bookstore and general
trader north of the road traversing the town east-west from West Gate. The
residential part of town runs along a single wide north-south boulevard,
backed on the east by deep ponds created by impounding one of the meandering
channels of the Niben.
The Chapel of Stendarr and the Count and Countess are partners in attempting
to extend the benefits of heartland Nibenese culture to the benighted frontier
populations of Blackwood and the Lower Niben. Trade and industry are strong in
Leyawiin, thanks to the patronage of Zenithar, and notwithstanding the bandits
troubling caravans and travellers along the Green Road through the recently
annexed Trans-Niben.
Leyawiin boasts the finest collection of shops and tradesmen in Cyrodiil
(outside of the Imperial City, of course). Even the craftsmen and trainers of
the Fighters Guild and Mages Guild are of a higher order of quality. Worth
special mention is Southern Books -- a bookstore owned by an Orc (!!!), always
stocking multiple copies of 'A Children's Annuad', a religious book
appropriate for those ignorant of the mysteries of the faith, and adapted to
the meanest understanding.
Recently, a new competitor for the Fighters Guild, a mercenary hiring hall
called 'The Blackwood Company', has commenced operations here in a striking
new building. Despite being staffed almost exclusively by Khajiit and
Argonians, the officers are polite, well-spoken, and deferential, and I'm told
they aggressively compete with the Fighters Guild for price and service. (This
is the Imperial way and pleasing to Zenithar -- to extend prosperity and
security through enterprising commercial ventures.)
I'm sorry to say that not all Khajitt and Argonians in Leyawiin are as
presentable and industrious as the members of the Black Comapany. Lizardmen
and catfolk are to be seen in the streets at all hours, lounging and
gossiping. If only these creatures would spend a little more time keeping
themselves and their homes clean.
Praise the Nine and turn away from sin!
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(Search Code: LOLZ171)
~~Guide to Skingrad~~
Alessia Ottus
Item ID: 00024562
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
In Julianos, all justice and wisdom! My name is Alessia Ottus, and I'd like to
tell you all about Skingrad.
Skingrad County is famous for its wines, tomatoes, and cheeses, and the town
of Skingrad is one of the cleanest, safest, and most prosperous towns in
Cyrodiil. Located in the heart of the West Weald highlands, Skingrad is the
gem of Old Colovia, and a model of the Colovian virtues of independence,
hardwork, and tough-mindedness.
Skingrad has three districts: the Castle, Hightown, and Chapel. A low road
runs east-west under the walls and bridges of the upper town. The guilds and
West Weald Inn are in the west of HighTown, while many shops and upper class
residence are arranged along a street in the north. The southern half of the
town includes the chapel at its east end, with Skingrad's other lodgings, the
Two Sisters Inn, on a street in the center, with other residences, modest and
mean, scattered through the rest of the district. Gates and bridges cross the
low road to connect Hightown and Chapel in several places. Castle Skingrad is
completely separate from the town, standing on a high prominence to the
southeast. A road from the town's east gate leads from town to the castle.
Janus Hassildor, Count Skingrad, has ruled Skingrad for many years, and is
known by reputation to be a powerful wizard. He is a very private man, and
declined all requests for an interview, and he shamefully neglects his chapel
devotions to the Nine. How are the people to learn public virtue if not from
the model of their ruler? Nonetheless, he is widely honored and respected by
his people, and Skingrad is a model of a well-run, orderly county. Crime,
gambling, and public drunkeness are almost unknown, and its wines and cheeses
command high prices all over Tamriel.
There are two inns in Skingrad. One, the Two Sisters Inn, is owned by two
Orcs. I'm pleased to tell you that this inn is clean and well-ordered, and is
troubled neither by riot nor public drunkenness. The other inn is run by a
pleasant Imperial woman. Neither of these proprietors are to be seen in the
Chapel of Julianos, so I am at a loss to tell you which one you should choose
when seeking food or lodgings.
However, I am certain where you should go to purchase your sweet rolls -- to
Salmo the Baker in Chapel District! They are delicious. As for where to sample
the other tasty treats of Skingrad -- its cheeses and tomatoes -- I must leave
that to your discretion. I am sure you are not interested in Skingrad's wines,
for drinking leads to disorderliness, and disorderliness leads to sin.
The Mages Guild here is no better than it is in other places, but the Fighters
Guild makes a specialty of goblin hunting, which is a great service to
travelers in the West Weald. And I was shocked to discover that the town smith
openly refers to himself as 'Agnete the Pickled'. Can you imagine being proud
of such shameful behavior?
Keep the Nine in your heart!
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(Search Code: LOLZ172)
~~Hanging Gardens~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0002458A
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
[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
may be translated as follows:]
Put down your ardent cutting-globes, Nbthld. Your Aldmeris has the correct
words, but they cannot be properly misinterpreted.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ173)
~~Hiding With the Shadows~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0002458A
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
There are few professions that require the practitioner to be more self-
reliant than that of thief. A thief is by nature a loner. He trusts no one and
is trusted by few. He cannot go to a master and become an apprentice. He has
no guild to collect and codify how to ply his craft. He does his crimes alone,
and in the dark of night. He must hide by day to avoid capture by the
authorities.
The only known deity recognized by thieves is Nocturnal. Not truly a goddess,
this Daedric lord is none-the-less a potent figure. She is the Mistress of
Shadows, holding sway over secrets and stealth. She does not ask for
worshippers, nor does she necessarily give blessings to those that do
recognize her. In fact there are no known temples to her in Cyrodiil, although
there are rumors of a forgotten shrine. In other words, she is perfectly
suited to the criminal mind of the thief.
By and large, thieves are a godless lot. They believe only in their own skills
and cunning. However, since the existence and influence of the gods and
Daedric lords is undeniable, they have an uneasy relationship with Nocturnal.
Though some thieves truly worship her, most choose to offer their respect and
reverence without fealty.
These criminals recognize that should they offend the Mistress of Shadows, it
might go poorly for them. However, true worship and fealty does not have any
known benefit. The classic blessing between thieves is "shadow hide you." This
is an oblique reference to Nocturnal. However it can also be interpreted to be
a non-theistic statement of actual shadows hiding the thief.
Thieves tend to dress in black clothes or dark clothing. While this is a
practical thing for their criminal endeavors, it is unnecessary during the
daylight hours. Yet many thieves still don these shadowy colors in silent
recognition of Nocturnal.
The most shocking link between the nebulous culture of thieves and Nocturnal,
is the tale of the Gray Fox. He is the mythical king of thieves. The legend
states that he stole the hood off of Nocturnal's cloak. Obviously this is just
a story invented centuries ago to bolster their feelings of self-worth.
However, it is indicative of the continued link between the Daedric lord and
the criminals of the Empire.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ174)
~~History of Lock Picking~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0001FB51
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The modern lock has a fascinating history in Cyrodiil. The need to restrict
access to one's home has been a problem since homes were first built. The very
first security system was a simple bar across the door. This has the obvious
shortcoming of only being functional when the owner is at home.
The first recorded instance of a lock is the ingenious armbreaker of Castle
Anvil. The count of the day put five slide bars on the side of the door. A
hole in the door just above them allowed him to reach in and manipulate any of
these bars. Only one of the bars truly locked or unlocked the door. The other
four released the clasp on a hammer that fell down on the person's arm. Only
by knowing which sliding bar was the true lock could one safely open the door.
For over a hundred years, the state of the art in locks was defined by sliding
bars and punished traps. Then the famous dwarf Mzunchend invented the pin
lock. The first example had three pins. The key was turned in the lock four
times, each turn depending on a different pin being in position. Obviously a
pin could be used more than once.
It was 65 years before anyone devised a method to open a pin-based lock
without the key and without damaging the lock. It wasn't that the problem was
so difficult. It was that nobody other than royalty could afford Mzunchend's
locks. An enterprising blacksmith named Orenthal decided to mass-produce a
common form of the lock at a reasonable price. Suddenly every shop had a lock.
Now there was a reason to subvert the locks. It wasn't long before lockpicks
and lockpicking appeared. Orenthal became quite wealthly inventing more and
more sophisticated locks.
Today's locks are sophisticated mechanisms with spring-loaded pins. Each metal
pin must be pushed up by the key precisely to open the lock. Any imprecision
in the key, any poorly made copy, or any clumsy attempt at lockpicking
releases the spring tension, causing the pin to clamp down upon or even break
the key or lockpick.
Locks are made more secure by using multiple pins in the lock. Multiple-pin
locks are more delicate and difficult to make, and more expensive, but provide
a greater reliablity against tampering. Multiple-pin locks have the further
virtue of resetting all pins when any single pin is tampered with. A single
mistake with the fifth pin of a five-pin lock requires a thief to reset all
five pins again. Most affordable locks are one-pin or two-pin locks. The five-
pin lock is the highest achievement of the lockmaker's craft, and the greatest
challenge to a would-be intruder.
Picking the modern lock is an art form. A lockpick is a thin metal bar with a
small tooth on the end. The tooth is used to press the pin up into the lock
mechanism. The thief uses skill and experience to manipulate each pin in turn
to determine the exact tension necessary to set the spring-loaded pin at its
catchpoint. With a subtle pressing and lofting of the pin, the master thief
determines the exact motion required to set it.
A novice thief breaks many picks while learning his trade. Only with time and
practice will he get better at guessing the tension and timing necessary to
set a pin. As a result, novice thieves tend to carry a great many lockpicks,
while the masters only need to carry a few.
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(Search Code: LOLZ175)
~~Imbel Genealogy~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 000152FD
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Imbel family traces lineage strictly through the male line of heirs, as
any right-thinking nobility would. Therefore this family genealogy does not
record the inconsequential female offspring.
Artan Imbel 1000 - 1057, Son of Rosten Imbel
Married Gustie Karna 1031
Buried in Vardenfell near Suran
Faris Zeetl 1030 -1101, Son of Artan Imbel
Unmarried
Whereabouts unknown
Faren Imbel 1037 - 1056, Son of Artan Imbel
Married Janiy Ulura 1053
Buried in Vardenfell near Suran
Corben Imbel 1053 - 1152, Out of wedlock son of Faren Imbel
Unmarried
Buried in Bravil
Artan Imbel II 1079 - 1152, Bastard son of Corben Imbel
Married Eadith Gerimania 1100
Buried in Bravil
Faren Imbel II 1084 - 1085, Bastard son of Corben Imbel
Buried in Skingrad
Corben Imbel II 1086 - 1167, Bastard son of Corben Imbel
Married Faith Horr 1110
Buried in Bruma
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(Search Code: LOLZ176)
~~Journal of the Lord Lovidicus~~
Lord Lovidicus
Item ID: 00038B2F
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Entry 1. Beauty! Pure and sublime. That is the only way to accurately describe
my love, the maiden gro-Malog. True, the Orcs of Tamriel are often vilified by
the other citizens of the Empire, and rarely would they be considered a
pleasure to look upon. So, is my maiden Luktuv a rare breed of Orc, unlike the
rest of her kin in physical appearance? Nay. In fact, she is the perfect
representative of her race, green skin, muscular frame and all. But beautiful
she is, all the same. For who am I to judge? Who am I to criticize when so
many would condemn my very existence? I can only hope my love is as
understanding when she learns of my unique condition, for I have yet to reveal
that most precious of secrets.
Entry 2: Damn the politics of my station! Taxation and trade negotiations and
meetings with disingenuous aristocrats -- it's sometimes enough to make me
regret my birthright altogether. I've spent the latter half of my life hiding
my identity, guarding my secret. But now I am faced with an even greater
challenge, for if word were to get out that I have fallen in love with a
servant -- and an Orc, no less -- I would be all but ruined! Such is the life
of the Cyrodilic nobleman.
Entry 3: Curse me for a coward, but I have not yet found the strength to tell
my beloved Luktuv the truth. Perhaps it's for the best, for what benefit is
there in her knowing? She would share all of my fears but none of my
abilities. Her life would become one of doubt and uncertainty. Still, if she
is to spend her remaining mortal days with me, she has the right to know the
truth.
Entry 4: Joy and exaltation! She is with child! My beloved Luktuv is carrying
my child! The midwives predict a boy, and we have already settled on the name
Agronak. In truth, I never realized such miracles were even possible, but the
Divines have granted us their blessing, and so shall it be. I must wonder, of
course, if my dear child will share in my Dark Gift. Only time will tell.
Entry 5: Tonight the truth will be revealed. I will tell my beloved Luktuv
everything. She will know who and what I am, and we will decide how best to
raise the precious child that grows in her womb.
Entry 6: Betrayal! Foul and loathsome harlot! How dare Luktuv question my
motives, question the love I have for my own unborn child! When she learned
the truth, that I, the Lord Lovidicus, am no longer human, that I have walked
Tamriel as a vampire for the past two hundred years, how quickly she judged
me! So, I am a monster, am I? Perhaps I should have proven her right. Perhaps
I should have drained her dry when I had the chance! But I loved her, as
deeply as a man has ever loved a woman, and I wanted nothing more than to
bring our baby into this world and embrace my new role as father. Perhaps when
Luktuv has come to her senses -- for she refuses to come out of her room -- we
can have rational discourse about our future. I do not, however, retain much
hope.
Entry 7: Imprisoned! Imprisoned in my own home! While I slept, Luktuv locked
me in my own private chambers. She called to me through the doors, told me of
her plan to escape with our unborn child. She means to keep my baby from me!
When I get free, I will find the traitorous whore and rip the child from her
very womb!
Entry 8: Two weeks. Two weeks have passed since Luktuv locked me in my
quarters. Try as I might, I cannot free myself. I cannot breach the doors! If
I don't feed soon, I feel I will go mad.
Entry 9: Food blood blood blood blood I need it I need blood need blood
Entry 10: ...
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(Search Code: LOLZ177)
~~The Knights of the Nine~~
Karoline of Solitude
Item ID: xx000ED2
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Few people now remember the Knights of the Nine, but in their time, they were
famous throughout Cyrodiil -- indeed, throughout the Empire. For a brief
period in the early days of the Septim Empire, their adventures were the talk
of the land. But their renown, as with so much else, was swallowed up by the
War of the Red Diamond, and today even the location of their priory house has
been lost to history.
The Knights were founded by Sir Amiel Lannus in 3E 111, following his heroic
turn in the War of the Isle, with the high purpose of recovering the legendary
Crusader's Relics, the weapons and armor of Pelinal Whitestrake which have
been lost for thousands of years. They were born out of the sense of optimism
and ambition that characterised the first century of the Third Era. Tamriel
was united and at peace for the first time in many centuries. Nothing was
impossible.
The fame of the knights was established early on when Sir Amiel led them
against the Wyrm of Elynglenn to recover the Cuirass of the Crusader, which
had not been seen since the First Era. Soon, the greatest knights of the day
were lining up to join the new order, and the Priory of the Nine in the West
Weald of Cyrodiil became a magnet for the great and the good. The Knights were
the toast of the Empire. When Berich Vlindrel joined the order, the scion of
one of the great noble families of Colovia, it was clear that the Knights of
the Nine had become the Empire's most prestigous knightly order. In relatively
short order, the Knights reclaimed three more Relics, and their fame soared to
new heights with each one. No one doubted that they would eventually succeed
in their quest to recover all eight Relics.
Sadly, this early promise of the Knights did not survive the ravages of the
War of the Red Diamond, which tore apart the Empire beginning in 3E 121. At
first, it seems that Sir Amiel was able to keep his knights out of the war.
But the very success of the Knights undermined this, as many of the Knights
came from important families from across the Empire which were lining up on
either side of the bloody civil war. Sir Berich was apparently the first to
leave the Order to join the war on the side of Cephorus, carrying the Sword
and Greaves of the Crusader into battle with him. Many other knights seem to
have left the Order shortly after this, some joining the war on one side or
the other.
The end of the order was as ignomonious as its beginning was glorious.
Following the victory of Cephorus in 3E 127, Berich Vlindrel became an
important figure on the winning side. It seems likely that he was behind the
Imperial decree which officially dissolved the Knights of the Nine in 3E 131,
although in truth this was little more than a formality -- despite Sir Amiel's
best efforts, the order had never recovered from the bitterness of the civil
war.
What happened to the various Relics originally recovered by the Knights of the
Nine? The Sword and the Greaves went with Sir Berich, but where he bestowed
them is unknown. The Gauntlets famously lie immovable on the floor of the
Chapel of Stendarr in Chorrol, where Sir Casimir left them after his
disgraceful murder of a beggar in 3E 139. The location of the Cuirass is a
mystery, lost to history along with the eventual fate of Sir Amiel, who was
last reported still living alone in the empty Priory of the Nine by a passing
traveller in 3E 150. And so the Knights of the Nine faded away into history.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ178)
~~The Last King of the Ayleids~~
Herminia Cinna
Item ID: 00058EEE
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Ayleids, or Heartland High Elves, ruled Cyrodiil in the long ages of Myth
before the beginning of recorded history. One of the earliest recorded dates,
in fact, is the Fall of White Gold Tower in 1E 243, which is commonly assumed
to mark the end of the Ayleids.
Although Ayleid rule over all of Cyrodiil was indeed broken in 1E 243, this
was only one of the most obvious stages near the end of a long decline. The
first two centuries of the First Era saw increasing strife between the great
Ayleid lords of Cyrodiil. Alessia appears to have taken advantage of a period
of civil war to launch her uprising. Imperial historians have traditionally
attributed her victory to intervention from Skyrim, but it appears that she
had at least as much help from rebel Ayleid lords during the siege of White
Gold Tower.
The popular image of the Ayleids as brutal slavemasters is based in fact, of
course, but it is less well-known that a number of Ayleid princes continued to
rule parts of Cyrodiil after 263, as vassals of the new Empress of Cyrodiil.
This suggests either that Ayleid rule was not universally detested, or that
Alessia and her successors were more pragmatic than is traditionally believed,
or perhaps some of both.
In any event, excavations at a number of Ayleid sites show continued
occupation and even expansion during the so-called Late Ayleid Period (1E 243
- c. 498). At first, many Ayleid lords continued to rule as vassals of the new
human regime. In some cases, Ayleid supporters of Alessia were even rewarded
with new lands taken from slain enemies. It is not clear to what extent human
slavery continued under the Cyrodilic Empire. Humans continued to dwell in the
Ayleid-ruled areas of Cyrodiil, but there is nothing definitive to show under
what terms.
This was an uneasy relationship from the beginning, and was not destined to
last long. Resentment at the continued presence of Ayleid nobles within the
Empire was a contributing factor to the rise of the so-called Alessian Order
founded by Maruhk. The first victims of the Alessians were the Ayleids of
Cyrodiil. In the early 300s, the surviving Ayleid communities in human-ruled
areas were obliterated one by one, the refugees temporarily swelling the power
of the remaining Ayleid lordships.
Then in 361, the Alessians gained control of the Empire and enforced the
Alessian Doctrines throughout its domain. The Ayleid lordships were abolished.
Enforcement of this decree does not appear to have required much direct
violence -- it seems that by this point the balance of power was so
overwhelmingly against them, and their fate so long foreshadowed, that most of
the remaining Ayleids simply left Cyrodiil, eventually being absorbed into the
Elven populations of Valenwood and High Rock. Indeed, the rise of the Direnni
Hegemony may be linked to this exodus of Ayleids from Cyrodiil (a connection
so far little studied by historians).
Still, a remnant Ayleid population seems to have survived the rule of the
Alessians, because we hear of "the last king of the Ayleids" joining the
battle of Glenumbria Moors where the Dirennis decisively defeated the
Alessians in 482. How this king's people survived the preceding century is
unknown. We do not even know who they were, although recent research points to
Nenalata as the possible resting place of this "last king." Unfortunately, in
the current state of the Empire, funds are no longer available for proper
scientific investigation of such extensive ruins, so the answer to these
questions will have to be left to future generations.
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(Search Code: LOLZ179)
~~The Legendary Scourge~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024583
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
"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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ180)
~~A Less Rude Song~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024569
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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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(Search Code: LOLZ181)
~~The Life of Uriel Septim VII~~
Rufus Hayn
Item ID: 000AA07D
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
3E 368-389: Strategist and Conciliator
The early decades of Emperor Uriel's life were marked by aggressive expansion
and consolidation of Imperial influence throughout the empire, but especially
in the East, in Morrowind and Black Marsh, where the Empire's power was
limited, Imperial culture was weak, and native customs and traditions were
strong and staunchly opposed to assimilation. During this period Uriel greatly
benefitted from the arcane support and shrewd council of his close advisor,
the Imperial Battlemage, Jagar Tharn.
The story of Uriel's marriage to the Princess Caula Voria is a less happy
tale. Though she was a beautiful and charming woman, and greatly loved and
admired by the people, the Empress was a deeply unpleasant, arrogant,
ambitious, grasping woman. She snared Uriel Septim with her feminine wiles,
but Uriel Septim thereafter soon regretted his mistake, and was repelled by
her. They heartily detested one another, and went out of their ways to hurt
one another. Their children were the victims of this unhappy marriage.
With his agile mind and vaunting ambition, Uriel soon outstripped his master
in the balanced skills of threat and diplomacy. Uriel's success in co-opting
House Hlaalu as an advance guard of Imperial culture and economic development
in Morrowind is a noteworthy example. However, Uriel also grew in pride and
self-assurance. Jagar Tharn fed Uriel's pride, and hiding behind the mask of
an out-paced former master counselor, Tharn purchased the complete trust that
led finally to Uriel's betrayal and imprisonment in Oblivion and Tharn's
secret usurpation of the Imperial throne.
3E 389-399: Betrayed and Imprisoned
Little is known of Uriel's experience while trapped in Oblivion. He says he
remembers nothing but an endless sequence of waking and sleeping nightmares.
He says he believed himself to be dreaming, and had no notion of passage of
time. Publically, he long claimed to have no memory of the dreams and
nightmares of his imprisonment, but from time to time, during the interviews
with the Emperor that form the basis of this biography, he would relate
details of nightmares he had, and would describe them as similar to the
nightmares he had when he was imprisoned in Oblivion. He seemed not so much
unwilling as incapable of describing the experience.
But it is clear that the experience changed him. In 3E 389 he was a young man,
full of pride, energy, and ambition. During the Restoration, after his rescue
and return to the throne, he was an old man, grave, patient, and cautious. He
also became conservative and pessimistic, where the policies of his early life
were markedly bold, even rash. Uriel accounts for this change as a reaction to
and revulsion for the early teachings and counsel of Jagar Tharn. However,
Uriel's exile in Oblivion also clearly drained and wasted him in body and
spirit, though his mind retained the shrewd cunning and flexibility of his
youth.
The story of Tharn's magical impersonation of the emperor, the unmasking of
Tharn's imposture by Queen Barenziah, and the roles played by King Eadwyre,
Ria Silmane, and her Champion in assembling the Staff of Chaos, defeating the
renegade Imperial Battlemage Jagar Tharn, and restoring Uriel to the throne,
is treated at length in Stern Gamboge's excellent three-Volume BIOGRAPHY OF
BARENZIAH. There is no reason to recount that narrative here. Summarized
briefly, Jagar Tharn's neglect and mismanagement of Imperial affairs resulted
in a steady decline in the Empire's economic prosperity, allowed many petty
lords and kings to challenge the authority of the Empire, and permitted strong
local rulers in the East and the West to indulge in open warfare over lands
and sovereign rights.
3E 399-415: Restoration, the Miracle of Peace, and Vvardenfell
During the Restoration, Uriel Septim turned from the aggressive campaign of
military intimidation and diplomatic accommodation of his earlier years, and
relied instead on clandestine manipulation of affairs behind the scenes,
primarily through the agencies of the various branches of the Blades. A
complete assessment of the methods and objectives of this period must wait
until after the Emperor's death, when the voluminous diaries archived at his
country estate may be opened to the public, and when the Blades no longer need
to maintain secrecy to protect the identities of its agents.
Two signal achievements of this period point to the efficacy of Uriel's subtle
policies: the 'Miracle of Peace' [also popularly known as 'The Warp in the
West'] that transformed the Iliac Bay region from an ruly assortment of
warring petty kingdoms into the well-ordered and peaceful modern counties of
Hammerfell, Sentinel, Wayrest, and Orsinium, and the colonization of
Vvardenfell, presided over by the skillful machinations of King Helseth of
Morrowind and Lady Barenziah, the Queen-Mother, which brought Morrowind more
closely into the sphere of Imperial influence.
3E 415-430: The Golden Peace, King Helseth's Court, and the Nine in the East
Following the 'Miracle of Peace' [best described in Per Vetersen's DAGGERFALL:
A MODERN HISTORY], the Empire entered a period of peace and prosperity
comparable to the early years of Uriel's reign. With the Imperial Heartland
and West solidly integrated into the Empire, Uriel was able to turn his full
attention to the East -- to Morrowind.
Exploiting conflicts at the heart of Morrowind's monolithic Tribunal religion
and the long-established Great House system of government, and taking
advantage of the terrible threat that the corrupted divine beings at the heart
of the Tribunal religion presented to the growing colonies on Vvardenfell,
Uriel worked through shadowy agents of the Blades and through the court of
King Helseth in Mournhold to shift the center of political power in Morrowind
from the Great House councils to Helseth's court, and took advantage of the
collapse of the orthodox Tribunal cults to establish the Nine Divines as the
dominant faiths in Hlaalu and Vvardenfell Districts.
Hasphat Anabolis's treatment of the establishment of the Nine in the East in
his four-volume LIFE AND TIMES OF THE NEREVARINE is comprehensive; however, he
fails to resolve the central mystery of this period -- how much did Uriel know
about the prophecies of the Nerevarine, and how did he learn of their
significance? The definitive resolution of this and other mysteries must await
the future release of the Emperor's private papers, or a relenting of the
Blades' strict policies of secrecy concerning their agents.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ182)
~~Lithnilian's Research Notes~~
Lithnilian
Item ID: 00185377
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
As I entered the final chamber of Bramblepoint Cave, my eyes fell upon the
goal of my expedition. In the inky blackness, the familiar aquamarine glow of
the Welkynd Stone beckoned me in silent reverence. I was the first here in
ages; evidenced by the thick layers of dust and debris strewn about. I don't
remember how long I stood there, in awe of the beautiful crystals outside
their natural environment.
They all said I was crazy; a fool, a buffoon. Crystals growing outside Ayleid
ruins? Preposterous! I spent nearly a decade and all the money I had crossing
Cyrodiil and exploring the many natural caves dotting her landscape. Then, on
that fateful night, a Orc stumbled into the Imperial Bridge Inn where I
happened to be drinking. He spouted off a line of nonsense about creatures
that came out of the darkness, and I dismissed him as drunk, until he said
something that gripped my heart with hope. He spoke of a light in the darkness
"as blue as the lady sea." Could it be the Welkynd Stones I was seeking? I had
to know more. A few gold and many drinks later, the Orc told me he'd been in
Bramblepoint Cave. As I made my way through the night to the cave, my mind was
racing. The stories had to be true! The Ayleid culture had mastered the art of
creating these crystalline structures and was just beginning to cultivate them
outside of their underground communities when they disappeared from history.
That meant one thing; with the proper materials, magic and research the
Welkynd Stone could adapt to any environment. I had to get to Bramblepoint and
study them before anyone else found them. This would be my mark on history, my
moment to shine.
And now, after climbing through the cave I've arrived at this chamber. After I
finish this entry in my logbook, I'll have so much to do. So much to do
indeed. This will be the day that Lithnilian will be remembered as the first
to unlock the secrets of the Welkynd Stone.
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(Search Code: LOLZ183)
~~Log of the Emma May~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00366B1
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
.after taking aboard a few more crates in Leyawiin, Captain Laughton pointed
the May north towards the Imperial City. We pleaded with him to wait until the
next morn, but he insisted on continuing despite the look of the sky. Let it
be known that this decision was his.
Tuesday 14 Last Seed 3E421
Wasn't long before the May hit the storm. It was just as we suspected, far too
dangerous to sail through. With the last bit of daylight disappearing,
Navigator Quillan spotted an inlet off the starboard bow. The Captain ordered
the wheelman to steer towards the inlet in the hopes of getting the May out of
Niben Bay. It was at that moment Gable gave me the signal and we struck. He'd
always had an eye for the Captain's position, and with the chaos going on,
this was a better time than any. Only that idiot, Blakeley was still loyal to
the Captain, but the rest of us wanted the May. The fight lasted maybe a
minute or two. Blakeley and Laughton knew that fighting was futile. We tossed
them down below and now Captain Gable has set the May on course for the inlet.
Hopefully we can get her secured for a while and then...
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(Search Code: LOLZ184)
~~The Lusty Argonian Maid~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00078562
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ185)
~~Macabre Manifest~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00078562
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Recently Deceased
Ferdelus Wagariun - Imperial City
Quilted Doublet
Green Silk Pants
Gold Trimmed Shoes
Gold Ring
K'sirr - Cheydinhal
Green and Blue Outfit
Green Velvet Shoes
Silver Amulet with Blue Stone
Silver Ring
Nodur Cloud-Seeker - Bruma
Fine Silk Robe
Silk Shoes
Fine Ashen Cane with Inlaid Copper
Gold Ring
Nodaria Wythel - Bravil
Blue Dress
Blue Suede Shoes
Fine Silver Necklace
Gold Ring with Polished Stones
Gold Ring with Red Stone
Kaylah Swinchell - Bravil
White Dress with Floral Pattern
Gold Trimmed Cow Hide Shoes
Gemmed Necklace
Gold Ring with Onyx Stones
Dondlar - Leyawiin
Green Brocade Doublet
Green Silk Pants
Green Velvet Shoes with Gold Thread Trimming
Polished Wood Box with Silver Fittings
Small Polished Staute of Azure Stone (in box)
Holithanius - Cheydinhal
Decorative Leather Armor with Gold Buckles
Silver Longsword (Personalized)
Soft Leather Boots
Glass Ring
Oford Gabings - Anvil
Travel Cloak with Silver and Green Leaf Fastener
Enchanted Shortsword with Inlaid Writing
Gold Ring with Inscription (Cursed?)
Leather Bound Travel Journal
Sellina Rotona - Imperial City
Red Velvet Dress
Red and Gold Velvet Shoes
Silver Necklace with Locket
Silver Ring with Blue Stones
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
</pre><pre id="faqspan-25">
(Search Code: LOLZ186)
~~The Madness of Pelagius~~
Tsathenes
Item ID: 00078562
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ187)
~~Mages Guild Charter~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00026D8B
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
ADDENDUM: Effective 3E 431, any guild member commiting a crime against the
guild is to be suspended immediately. The suspension may be lifted at the
discretion of the Steward of the Council of Mages. Any guild member receiving
multiple suspensions may, at the determination of the council, be summarily
and permanently dismissed from the guild.
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.
ADDENDUM: Effective 3E 431, as per Arch-Mage Traven, all candidates for
membership in the Guild of Mages must be approved by all presiding Guild Hall
stewards, with said approval submitted in writing to the Council of Mages in a
timely manner.
ADDENDUM: Effective 3E 431, as per Council mandate, sale of spells in the
Imperial Province is to be re-distributed across guild halls. The following
halls are to be responsible for each School of Magic:
Alteration: Cheydinhal
Conjuration: Chorrol
Destruction: Skingrad
Illusion: Bravil
Mysticism: Leyawiin
Restoration: Anvil
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ188)
~~Magic from the Sky~~
Irlav Jarol
Item ID: 00078563
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The ancient Ayleids believed that Nirn was composed of four basic elements --
earth, water, air, and light -- and of these four elements, they believed the
most sublime form of light was star light. The stars are our links to the
plane of Aetherius, the source of all magical power, and therefore, light from
the stars is the most potent and exalted of all magical powers.
From time to time, fragments of Aetherius fall from the heavens. The people
know these fragments as 'shooting stars', and from time to time, such
Aetherial fragments are found on Nirn. The most common varieties are known as
'meteoric iron'; this metal is prized by armorers and enchanters for its
properties in the forging of enchanted weapons and armors. This meteoric iron
is also the primary component in 'Ayleid Wells,' ancient enchanted artifacts
found throughout Cyrodiil.
Another, rarer form of Aetherial fragment is called 'meteroic glass'. It is
from such fragments that other rare Ayleid enchanted artifacts are crafted --
Welkynd Stones and Varla Stones.
Ayleids Wells are scattered across Cyrodiil's landscape. Their siting is a
mystery; they are not associated with any known Ayleid cities or settlements.
It is presumed that, in some manner, they harvest magical power from
starlight. It is also suggested, without evidence or support, that they are
located at the meeting points of ancient lines of magical power; however,
modern arcane arts have discovered no perceptible evidence of such lines of
power.
Those with magical talents can draw magicka from Ayleid wells to restore their
own reservoirs of magical power. No ritual or arcane knowledge is necessary,
suggesting that these wells were designed to serve persons not skilled in the
magical arts. Once drained, the wells replenish again only at magical
midnight. Once recharged, they appear to radiate magical power back into the
sky, which prompts some to theorize they are also objects with religious or
magical ritual significance -- perhaps a means of offering magic back to the
heavens.
Welkynd Stones [Aldmeris - "sky stone," "heaven stone"; literally, "sky
child"] are pieces of cut and enchanted meteoric glass which apparently act as
storage devices for magical power. A magical talent can restore his reseroirs
of magicka from such stones. Alas, the means of restoring power to these
stones may have been lost with the Ayleids. Currently, these objects simply
crumble to dust after they have been used.
Great Welkynd Stones are exceptionally large pieces of enchanted meteoric
glass. Scholars believe that at the heart of each ancient Ayleid city, a Great
Welkynd Stone was the source of the settlement's magical enchantments. It may
be that these great stones were linked to the lesser stones, restoring and
maintaining their power. In any case, research on these Great Welkynd Stones
is impossible, since all the known Ayleid ruins have been looted of their
great stones, and no examples of these great stones are known to survive.
Another rare enchanted item found in Ayleid ruins is called a Varla Stone
[Aldmeris - "star stone"]. Varla Stones are remarkably powerful, enabling
untrained users to restore magical energy to any number of enchanted items.
Because of their great value and utility, these items are also extremely rare,
but since they are small and easily concealed, diligent explorers may still
occasionally come across them in any Ayelid ruin.
Ayleid Wells. Welkynd Stones. Varla Stones. Consider, then, these marvels of
magical enchantment. Are we then to conclude that the Ayleids were a superior
race and culture? Did they so exceed us in art and craft that they mock the
feeble powers of Third Era Wizards?
Never! The Ayleids were powerful, yes, and cunning, but they were neither good
nor wise, and so they were struck down. Their works have passed from Nirn,
save these rare and sparkling treasures. Their ancient cities are dark and
empty, save for the grim revenants and restless spirits condemned forever to
walk the halls, keeping their melancholy vigils over bones and dust.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ189)
~~Manifesto Cyrodiil Vampyrum~~
Anonymous
Item ID: xx005093
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
To you whom We have seen
Stalking at night by eyes keen
Transcendant of savages
Sating thirst sans avarice
Your coffers stay stuffed
By social graces robust
None know your nature;
save Us
None share your fate;
save Us
None welcome you as kin;
save Us.
On Our Order: Know first that we are no simple tribe of savages, tearing
throats with the orgiastic abandon of our scattered, tribal brethren. Ours is
a civil fraternity, to which we are bound - every one - by our dual hunger for
flesh and influence. By the virtue of Imperial structure and bureaucracy,
Cyrodiil has become our stronghold in the third era, and we suffer no savage
rivals within our boundries, reveal ourselves to none, and manipulate the hand
of society to mete out our agendas.
On Our Dual Patrons: To Kin-father Molag Bal, who brought forth the
Bloodmatron Lamae to spite Arkay, we owe our existence, as do all vampires,
though not all honor Him. For him we revel in the feast, and acknowledge the
gift adrift in our veins. To patron Clavicus Vile, beacon oer our affairs, we
owe our successes and social stature. Our bond with Vile makes us unique among
our kind, for his guidance steels our savage craving with reason and savvy.
For him we live amidst mankind, and twist them to our will from offices of
power.
On Our Rivals: Most barbaric tribes think themselves powerful by the gift of
Bals blood alone, and squander the gift. There are those, however,who show
signs of enlightenments, and earn our attention - those such as Glenmoril
Wyrd, who live within the walls of Breton cities, or the Whet-Fang sodality of
Black Marsh, who use magicka to keep captives catatonic and harvest from them
the red nectar. These foes may one day threaten to impugn our sovereignty
within the boundries of Cyrodiil, thus compelling our vigilance. Should and
enroach upon our dominion, our wrath must be swift and total.
On Our Conduct: To preserve our ideals and way of life, two primary edicts
shall be observed. Above all, reveal thyself and our Order to no other, for
discretion is the greatest of our virtues. Do not feed where you may be found
out, or on those who may not suspect your passing. Avoid daylight by
lifestyle; dispel common belief in our kind, and maintain supple appearance
through satisfaction of the thirst. Second, devote your pursuits to the
procurement of influence, political and otherwise. Our strength is not in
physical numbers, but in skillful manipulation of society. Always be mindful
of our Patrons, and preserve the Order. Devote yourself to these ideals
always, and the Order shall count you amongst our own.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ190)
~~Manual of Armor~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 000AA288
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
MANUAL OF ARMOR
This manual is commissioned by General Warhaft to serve as a guide and manual
to armor for all officers in the Imperial service.
On the battlefield, a soldier's armor should reflect his principal duties.
Scouts, light cavalry, archers, and raiding skirmishers should wear light
armor. Mobility and speed is of paramount importance to these troops. It is
recommended that a cuirass and greaves be worn at all times. Helmets,
gauntlets and boots are of value to cavalry and skirmishers, but not scouts or
archers.
Light armor is made from fur, leather, chainmail, mithril, elven or glass.
This is also the order of their quality and expense, fur being the least
protective and cheapest, and glass the best and most expensive. Fur, leather
armor, and chainmail are readily available throughout the empire. Mithril,
elven and glass are exceedingly rare and are only found in ancient ruins and
remote tombs.
Heavy armor should be reserved for the frontline infantry, pikemen, heavy
cavalry or foot knights. All officers should be issued heavy armor. Helmets,
cuirass and greaves should be standard issue at all times. Boots and gauntlets
are only necessary for the cavalry and foot knights.
Blacksmiths can forge heavy armor from iron, steel, dwarven, orchish, ebony or
daedric. This is also the order of their quality and expense, iron being the
least useful and cheapest, with daedric the most effective and expensive. Iron
and steel plate mail can be found in most any blacksmith's shop. The other
materials are rare and armor made from them is only found in ancient treasure
hoards hidden deep underground.
Advanced practitioners in the Mages Guild know the secrets of placing
enchantments upon pieces of armor. The greatest enchantments are typically
placed on armor made from rarer, more durable materials, such as ebony and
daedric, but even iron can be made to take an enchantment.
The self-styled Bard of Battle, Amorous Janus, once penned a comedic ballad
about a Colovian general who was constant removing and re-equipping his armor
every few minutes to conserve the magicka powering it. By way of response to
the implied criticism, the general had him mounted on the front of a battering
ram during the siege of Castle Fallow.
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(Search Code: LOLZ191)
~~Manual of Arms~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0002456A
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MANUAL OF ARMS
This manual is commissioned by General Warhaft to serve as a guide and manual
to arms and weapons for all Imperial officers in the field.
Obviously, a soldier's weaponry should reflect his skills. Skill with a blade
is recommended for daggers, shortswords, longswords, and claymores. Skill with
blunt weapons is desirable to wield the war axe, mace, battle axe and war
hammmer. To the uninitiated, axes and hammers may seem to be very different
weapons, but the rhythm, drill, and physical strength used by both weapon
types are virtually identical. Only those with marksman skill should be
outfitted with the bow.
Most of these weapons are commonly used in combination with a shield. The
claymore, battle axe and war hammer,however, require both hands to use. These
two-handed weapons are best suited to heavily-armored knights, berserkers and
those soldiers that hold the flanks of the line.
Arms have been made from many materials over the ages, and each material
varies in weight, durability, and cost. These materials are here ranked in
order of desirablility and cost, with cheapest and least desirable listed
first: iron, steel, silver, dwarven, elven, glass, ebony, and finally daedric.
Some armorers correctly observe that silver weapons are slightly less durable
than steel; nonetheless, its unique ability to affect ghosts, wraiths and
certain types of Daedric creatures is undisputed.
Bows can be made with laminated cores of the same materials. This provides a
higher tensile strength and therefore greater power on the draw. The materials
used in the arrow, particularly in the arrowhead, can affect its mass and
penetration. Thus, the quality of the bow and of the arrow are taken together
to determine the weapon's overall armor penetration.
Enchanted weapons are mentioned in virtually every fable and song. The magic
on such items lies dormant until they strike an opponent. At that moment the
enchantment is activated, causing distress and injury to the target.
Enchantments on bows are transferred to the arrow at the moment of release.
Should the arrow have an enchantment of its own, however, the missile now
carries both enchantments and delivers them to the target.
An enchanted weapon has a limited reservoir of magicka. Each blow drains some
of its reserves, until finally it is drained dry. The enchantment can be
recharged by arcane processes involving soul gems. The more powerful the soul
in the gem, the more magicka is restored to the item.
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(Search Code: LOLZ192)
~~Manual of Spellcraft~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0002456B
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MANUAL OF SPELLCRAFT
An Introductory Text
The Beginning Spellcaster
The most powerful mages in Tamriel were once beginners. They all had similar
early experiences: exposure to magic kindled an interest and/or unlocked some
latent ability, followed by years of hard work. These intrepid souls honed
their skills, learned new spells, and vigorously trained their minds and
bodies to become the formidable figures they were known as during their later
lives.
The Mages Guild of Tamriel has long been the first stop on a long road to
knowledge and power for many individuals. Providing magical services to the
general public, the Guild offers a wide variety of spells for purchase, and is
recommended as a first stop for any aspiring spellcaster. Independent dealers
may be found, though their selection of spells is often not as comprehensive
as that of the Mages Guild.
Many spells are beyond the capabilities of beginning mages; the ability to
render one's self invisible, for example, is an advanced power and is beyond
the novice spellcaster. Through practice, a mage may become more skilled in a
given school of Magic and find himself proficient enough to begin exploring
its more powerful aspects. The fledging mage should not be daunted by his
inability to wield certain powers, but should instead use this as a point of
focus and a drive for bettering himself. Rather than becoming discouraged, the
student should look forward to higher levels of skill, such as the advanced
techniques of absorbing spells, summoning lesser (and eventually greater)
Daedra and undead -- for research purposes only -- and protection against
specific types of spells, such as Fire, Frost, and Shock spells.
Mages wishing to specialize in a particular school of magic are encouraged to
learn as many spells of possible within that school, and to practice them
frequently. All mages, whether specializing or nurturing a general interest,
are encouraged to apply for membership within the Mages Guild. Beyond services
available to the general public, the accomplished Guild member has access to
many exclusive services such as Advanced Spellcraft and Enchanting. These
services have been deemed potentially dangerous to the public at large, and
have been restricted to higher-ranked Guild members in good standing by the
Council of Mages.
Citizens interested in the further use of magic should consult their local
Mages Guild Arch Magister.
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(Search Code: LOLZ193)
~~Mixed Unit Tactics~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0002456C
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ194)
~~More than Mortal~~
Marobar Sul
Item ID: 0002453A
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ195)
~~Mysterious Akavir~~
Marobar Sul
Item ID: 0003456E
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ196)
~~Mystery of Talara, v 5~~
Mera Llykith
Item ID: 00024580
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"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."
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(Search Code: LOLZ197)
~~Mysticism~~
Tetronius Lor
Item ID: 0002458B
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</pre><pre id="faqspan-26">
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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(Search Code: LOLZ198)
~~Myth or Menace?~~
Tetronius Lor
Item ID: 0001F113
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Many investigators have attempted solve the riddle of the Thieves Guild.
Despite repeated proofs that no viable Thieves Guild exists, the rumors
persist. Whenever historians search for evidence of this shadowy organization,
nothing is found. Witnesses know nothing. Safe houses are empty. Fences turn
out to be simple businessmen.
Let me clarify by stating that thieves most certainly do exist. They rot in
dungeons all across Tamriel. Certainly bands of thieves work together to
commit crimes. On rare occasions there has even been documented cases were
persistent bands of thieves have worked together for years at a time
committing thefts and other crimes.
However, a guild is different than a band. A guild implies an organization
with membership rolls. It would have a financial structure, which would
include member dues or some other means of securing funds. It would have rules
of conduct or behavior. It would have a hierarchical leadership structure.
Within this structure there would be methods of advancement and succession.
The best documented case of a Thieves Guild was found in Morrowind. For a
brief time Gentleman Jim Stacey ran a ring of thieved that robbed wealthy
merchants and nobles all across that island nation. During the recent Nevarine
incident, the Fighters Guild and the shadowy Morag Tong eliminated this band
of thugs. The final fate of Jim Stacey himself is not known.
The Morrowind Thieves Guild did have a financial structure and a leadership
structure. It satisfied many of the conditions of a true guild. However, it
was short lived. Public knowledge of Stacey's group lasted for only a few
years at most. Although the Fighters Guild has claimed credit for wiping them
out, some historians believe the group merely went deeper undercover.
The problem with determining the non-existence of the Thieves Guild is quite
logical. It is not possible to prove a negative. I cannot prove definitively
that the Thieves Guild does not exist, only that historians have been unable
to document one.
If a Thieves Guild were to be operational in Cyrodiil, one would think that
crime would be rampant, which it is not. The very nature of thieves makes it
impossible for them to trust one another sufficiently to work together for
very long. By nature a thief is a rule breaker. Therefore an organization that
has rules would fail if all it's members were thieves. For these reasons, I
dispute the existence of a modern day Thieves Guild in Cyrodiil.
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(Search Code: LOLZ199)
~~Necromancer's Moon~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00002DD1
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Brothers and Sisters
of the Worm!
Despair not at the trials we now face, for our time comes swiftly.
The God of Worms watches over our Order, and will deliver us from these
troubled times on the Day of Reckoning. Until then, perform His works in
secret, serve His needs, and look to the skies for His signs.
The Revenant, the Necromancer's Moon, watches over us all. His Form, ascended
to Godhood, has taken its rightful place in the sky, and hides the enemy Arkay
from us so that we may serve Him. Watch for the signs: when the heavenly light
descends from above, hasten to His altars and make your offering, so that He
may bless you with but a taste of His true power. Grand Soul Gems offered to
Him will be darkened, and can be used to trap the souls of the unwitting; a
feat even the great N'Gasta would marvel at.
Stay faithful to the Order of the Black Worm, and in time your loyalty will be
rewarded. Soon, He will return to set the world right in due time, and those
who would stand in his way will suffer enternally at his hands, just as those
who stood opposed before.
Until that day, you must believe and be patient. Hide in your caves, in your
ruined forts, in your secret lairs. Raise your minions, summon your servants,
cast your spells. Answer the call of the Order when you are needed. Watch and
listen.
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(Search Code: LOLZ200)
~~N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis!~~
N'Gasta
Item ID: 0002458D
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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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(Search Code: LOLZ201)
~~The Old Ways~~
Celarus the Loremaster
Item ID: 0002458E
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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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(Search Code: LOLZ202)
~~On Morrowind~~
Erramanwe of Sunhold
Item ID: 0002456D
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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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(Search Code: LOLZ203)
~~On Oblivion~~
Morian Zenas
Item ID: 0002457E
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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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(Search Code: LOLZ204)
~~Opusculus Lamae Bal ta Mezzamortie~~
Mabei Aywenil, Scribe
Item ID: xx005095
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Translation by University of Gwylim Press; 3E 105
As brighter grows light, darker becomes shadow. So it passed that the Daedra
Molag Bal looked on Arkay and thought the Aedra prideful of his dominion o’er
the death of man and mer, and it was sooth.
Bal, whose sphere is the wanton oppression and entrapment of mortal souls,
sought to thwart Arkay, who knew that not man, nor mer, nor beastfolk of all
Nirn could escape eventual death. The Aedra was doubtless of his sphere, and
so Molag Bal set upon Nirn to best death.
Tamriel was still young, and filled with danger and wondrous magick when Bal
walked in the aspect of a man and took a virgin, Lamae Beolfag, from the Nedic
Peoples. Savage and loveless, Bal profaned her body, and her screams became
the Shrieking Winds, which still haunt certain winding fjords of Skyrim.
Shedding a lone droplet of blood on her brow, Bal left Nirn, having sown his
wrath.
Violated and comatose, Lamae was found by nomads, and cared for. A fortnight
hence, the nomad wyrd-woman enshrouded Lamae in pall for she had passed into
death. In their way, the nomads built a bonfire to immolate the husk. That
night, Lamae rose from her funeral pyre, and set upon the coven, still aflame.
She ripped the throats of the women, ate the eyes of the children, and raped
their men as cruelly as Bal had ravished her.
And so; Lamae, (who is known to us as blood-matron) imprecated her foul aspect
upon the folk of Tamriel, and begat a brood of countless abominations, from
which came the vampires, most cunning of the night-horrors. And so was the
scourge of undeath wrought upon Tamriel, cruelly mocking Arkay’s rhythm of
life and death through all the coming eras of the et’Ada, and for all his
sadness, Arkay knew this could not be undone.
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(Search Code: LOLZ205)
~~Origin of the Mages Guild~~
The Archmage Salarth
Item ID: 0002458F
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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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(Search Code: LOLZ207)
~~Palla, Volume 2~~
Vojne Mierstyyd
Item ID: 000243DD
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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 Summerset 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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ208)
~~The Path of Transcendence~~
Celedaen
Item ID: 0003647E
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Entry 1: My initial findings may have been inconclusive, but they set me on
the path I will pursue until I achieve my goal or lie rotting in this cave.
Either outcome will be a welcome respite from the days and nights I've spent
toiling without food, water, or any kind of companionship. A lesser mage would
have fallen prey to madness by now, I'm sure of it. But I am not a lesser
mage! Though they try in earnest, though their hearts and minds are true to
the teachings of our great Sovereign, my fellow Necromancers lack the complete
dedication required to achieve that ultimate of goals -- the state of lichdom.
Not even Falcar himself can match my sheer tenacity, my unwillingness to
accept failure on any level. That is why I, Celedaen, will soon join the ranks
of the Worm Eremites, those servants favored by our sovereign above all
others. I will sit with honor and obedience at his right hand while those
fools in the Mages Guild grovel at my maggot-ridden feet!
Entry 2: Even the most pedestrian peasant fairy tale has long held that a lich
must somehow remain bound to his soul, and that connection most commonly
manifests itself as a transference of the spirit into an actual physical
object. An urn, a sarcophagus, a crystal phial.... One Khajiit fairy tale even
tells of a lich who preserved his spirit in the severed head of a Wood Elf
infant! And these same peasants long comforted themselves with the belief that
if they ever had the grave misfortune of facing a lich, they would need only
find the vessel containing his spirit form and then destroy it, thus
destroying the lich himself. Fools and their folklore! True liches possess no
such weakness! Can one of the Sovereign's Worm Eremites be bested by
shattering a glass vase? The very notion is so absurd as to be comical. Yes, a
Necromancer must transfer his soul into a physical vessel, but once that
transference is complete, once the Necromancer has fully metamorphosed into
his lich form, the vessel is inconsequential. But it's the process of this
transference itself that has eluded me for so long. My soul remains bound to
my earthly body, and nothing I have attempted has allowed me to free myself of
this mortal coil and transcend to the state of lichdom I so dearly desire.
Entry 3: Every tome I've acquired, the volumes upon volumes of Necromantic
discourse, all useless! I have grown disgusted by the years of wasted life
that have been poured into these so-called "essential" writings. Who in their
right mind would ever wish to animate a month-dead Cyrodilic butterfly, or
bring life to the rotting husk of a rare albino mud crab? How many months have
I wasted away in this cave? And for what reason? Ah, yes, I know! I will
resurrect an army of deformed goblin younglings and march on the White-Gold
Tower itself! That at least is in my reach! My mind has become a cesspool of
Necromantic waste, where reject spells and rituals compete for the honor of
finally driving me completely insane. And still I am no closer to achieving my
goal than I was when I first began this process. Am I losing faith in myself,
in my discipline? Perhaps I have been studying too hard. Many a night I have
sacrificed my prayers to our Sovereign for one more experiment, one more
incantation. What I need now is rest. Rest, and a state of tranquility, so
that I may commune with our Sovereign and re-pledge my loyalty and devotion.
For what answer will I find in some crumbling codex that could not be supplied
by our great Sovereign himself?
Entry 4: The secret is mine! So long I searched, so hard I toiled, but I was a
fool! I was right to forgo my studies for a more ardent devotion to prayer.
Last night, as I sit in the throes of meditation, our great Sovereign did come
to me! He passed to me the knowledge I have sought for so long! The secrets of
transcendence were even more complex and arcane than even I could have
imagined, and I will never transcribe them into any written work. Indeed, they
have never been recorded! All my months of solitude were for naught, as the
secret I so desperately sought could only be obtained through direct
communication with out great Sovereign himself. Soon I will walk the earth as
a Worm Eremite, serving the Sovereign in a state of endless undeath!
Entry 5: Through the sacrifice of many innocents, the resurrection of many
servants to aid me in my tasks, and the tireless performance of a nearly week-
long ritual, I have completed construction of the Sands Of Resolve. The
transcendence to full lichdom will not be immediate, however. The vessel has
been crafted, but my energy force, my soul, must be fully transferred into it.
Not even our Sovereign was quite certain how long this process would take, at
it varies from one Necromancer to the next, based on many factors both
physical and spiritual. One thing, however, is certain. This hourglass must
never leave my possession until the transference is complete! I grow more
powerful every day, but in truth am more vulnerable than I've ever been. If
something were to happen to the Sands of Resolve, if the hourglass should
somehow leave my person, the connection between soul and vessel would be
severed. To think that my work, my life, could be eradicated so easily after
I've come so close to success is almost more than I can bear.
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(Search Code: LOLZ209)
~~Pension of the Ancestor Moth~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 000982F0
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To be read by all novitiates of the Temple:
The Order of the Ancestor Moth is as ancient as it is noble. We nuture and
celebrate our beloved ancestors, whose spirits are manifest in the Ancestor
Moths. Each moth carries the fjyron of an ancestor's spirit. Loosely
translated as the "will to peace," the fjyron can be sung into the silk
produced by the Ancestor Moths. When the silk is in turn spun into cloth and
embroidered with the geneology of the correct Ancestor, clothing of wonderous
power can be made.
Adepts of our order are gifted with prescient powers. The wisdom of the
ancestors can sing the future into the present. For this reason, our order and
our order alone has been given the priviledge to interpret the Elder Scrolls.
These writings exceed even the gods, both aedra and daedra. Such insight into
the inner fabric of reality comes at a price. Each reading of the Elder
Scrolls is more profound than the last. Each leaves the priest blind for
longer, and longer periods of time. Finally, the last reading achieves a
nearly sublime understanding of that scroll's contents, but the priest is left
permanently blinded to the light of this world. No longer can he read the
scrolls.
This Monastery is dedicated to the service of these noble members of our
order. They now live out their lives with the Ancestor Moths that they so
love. Their underground demenses are well suited to the moths. They raise and
nuture the fragile creatures, singing to them constantly. They harvest the
silk and spin it into bolts of cloth. They weave the cloth, embroidering it
with the geneologies and histories of the ancestors that spun the silk. This
is their new life.
As they tend the Ancestor Moths, so we tend the blind monks. While they toil
in dark, we serve in the light. They need food and water. We provide. They
need tools and furniture. We provide. They need secrecy and anonymity. We
provide. They need purveyors to sell the fruit of their labors. We provide.
At one time, we also provided protection. Many generations ago, Gudrun came to
our temple. Newly blinded by visions of what was to be, she brought with her
new teachings. The visions of the ancestors foresaw the need of the monks to
defend themselves. They train and practice the teachings of Gudrun constantly.
They are masters of the sword of no sword, the axes of no axe.
As a novitiate, you will learn the teachings of Gudrun. You will learn the way
of the peaceful fist. You will learn to serve the blind monks. You will learn
to provide. In time, you may attain the peace and insight of the Ancestor
Moths.
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(Search Code: LOLZ210)
~~The Pig Children~~
Tyston Bane
Item ID: 00024590
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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 </pre><pre id="faqspan-27">
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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(Search Code: LOLZ211)
~~The Posting of the Hunt~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024585
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[The writing in the book appears to be a hasty transcription, perhaps from
dictation, or copied from a longer work.]
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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(Search Code: LOLZ212)
~~Provinces of Tamriel~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0002457F
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PROVINCES OF TAMRIEL
The Empire of Tamriel encompasses the nine Imperial provinces: Skyrim, High
Rock, Hammerfell, Summerset Isle, Valenwood, Elsweyr, Black Marsh, Morrowind,
and the ancient Imperial province itself, Cyrodiil. Morrowind was among the
last of the provinces to be integrated into the Empire, and because it was
added by treaty, and not by conquest, Morrowind retains exceptional power to
define local law by reference to ancient Great House precedents.
Skyrim, also known as the Old Kingdom or the Fatherland, was the first region
of Tamriel settled by humans from the continent of Atmora: the hardy, brave,
warlike Nords, whose descendants still occupy this rugged land. Though more
restrained and civilized than their barbarian ancestors, the Nords of the pure
blood still excel in the manly virtues of red war and bold exploration.
Hammerfell is primarily an urban and maritime province, with most of its
population confined to the great cities of Sentinel and Stros M'Kai and to
other small ports among the islands and along the coast. The interior is
sparsely populated with small poor farms and beastherds. The Redguard love of
travel, adventure, and the high seas has dispersed them as sailors,
mercenaries, and adventurers in ports of call throughout the Empire.
High Rock encompasses the many lands and clans of Greater Bretony, the Dellese
Isles, the Bjoulsae River tribes, and, by tradition, the Western Reach. The
rugged highland strongholds and isolated valley settlements have encouraged
the fierce independence of the various local Breton clans, and this
contentious tribal nature has never been completely integrated into a
provincial or Imperial identity. Nonetheless, their language, bardic
traditions, and heroic legends are a unifying common legacy.
The Summerset Isle is a green and pleasant land of fertile farmlands, woodland
parks, and ancient towers and manors. Most settlements are small and isolated,
and dominated by ruling seats of the local wizard or warlord. The Isle has few
good natural ports, and the natives are unwelcoming to foreigners, so the
ancient, chivalric high culture of the Aldmer is little affected by modern
Imperial mercantilism.
Valenwood is a largely uninhabited forest wilderness. The coasts of Valenwood
are dominated by mangrove swamps and tropical rain forests, while heavy
rainfalls nurture the temperate inland rain forests. The Bosmer live in timber
clanhouses at sites scattered along the coast and through the interior,
connected only by undeveloped foot trails. The few Imperial roads traverse
vast dense woodlands, studded with tiny, widely separated settlements, and
carry little trade or traffic of any kind.
The Khajiit of the southern Elsweyr jungles and river basins are settled city
dwellers with ancient mercantile traditions and a stable agrarian aristocracy
based on sugarcane and saltrice plantations. The nomadic tribal Khajiit of the
dry northern wastes and grasslands are, by contrast, aggressive and
territorial tribal raiders periodically united under tribal warlords. While
the settled south has been quick to adopt Imperial ways, the northern nomadic
tribes cling to their warlike barbarian traditions.
Most of the native Argonian population of Black Marsh is confined to the great
inland waterways and impenetrable swamps of the southern interior. There are
few roads here, and most travel is by boat. The coasts and the northwestern
upland forests are largely uninhabited. For ages the Dunmer have raided Black
Marsh for slaves; though the Empire has made this illegal, the practice
persists, and Dunmer and Argonians have a long-standing and bitter hatred for
one another.
Morrowind, homeland of the Dunmer peoples, is the northeastmost province of
the Tamrielic Empire. Most of the population is gathered in the high uplands
and fertile river valleys of central Morrowind, especially around the Inland
Sea. The island Vvardenfel is encircled by the Inner Sea, and is dominated by
the titanic volcano Red Mountain and its associated ash wastelands; most of
the island's population is confined to the relatively hospitable west and
southwest coast.
Cyrodiil is the cradle of Human Imperial high culture on Tamriel. It is the
largest region of the continent, and most is endless jungle. The Imperial City
is in the heartland, the fertile Nibenay Valley. The densely populated central
valley is surrounded by wild rain forests drained by great rivers into the
swamps of Argonia and Topal Bay. The land rises gradually to the west and
sharply to the north. Between its western coast and its central valley are
deciduous forests and mangrove swamps.
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(Search Code: LOLZ213)
~~The Real Barenziah, v1~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024570
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
ive 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."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ214)
~~The Real Barenziah, v2~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024571
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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. ut 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
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 </pre><pre id="faqspan-28">
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ215)
~~The Real Barenziah, v 3~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024572
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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 emptiness.
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ216)
~~The Real Barenziah, v4~~
Anonymous
Unauthorized biography of the famous Queen Mother of Morrowind, Volume 4
Item ID: 00024573
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
"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 </pre><pre id="faqspan-29">
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."
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(Search Code: LOLZ217)
~~The Real Barenziah, v5~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024574
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ218)
~~The Red Book of Riddles~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024591
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his 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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ219)
~~Remanada~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 000BF1CF
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Chapter 1: SANCRE TOR AND THE BIRTH OF REMAN
And in those days the empire of the Cyrodiils was dead, save in memory only,
for through war and slug famine and iniquitous rulers, the west split from the
east and Colovia's estrangment lasted some four hundreds of years. And the
earth was sick with this sundering. Once-worthy western kings, of Anvil and
Sarchal, of Falkreath and Delodiil, became through pride and habit as like
thief-barons and forgot covenant. In the heartland things were no better,
as arcanists and false moth-princes lay in drugged stupor or the studies of
vileness and no one sat on the Throne in dusted generations. Snakes and the
warnings of snakes went unheeded and the land bled with ghosts and deepset
holes unto cold harbors. It is said that even the Chim-el Adabal, the amulet
of the kings of glory, had been lost and its people saw no reason to find it.
And it was in this darkness that King Hrol set out from the lands beyond lost
Twil with a sortie of questing knights numbered eighteen less one, all of them
western sons and daughters. For Hrol had seen in his visions the snakes to
come and sought to heal all the borders of his forebears. And to this host
appeared at last a spirit who resembled none other than El-Estia, queen of
ancienttimes, who bore in her left hand the dragonfire of the aka-tosh and in
her right hand the jewels of the covenant and on her breast a wound that spilt
void onto her mangled feet. And seeing El-Estia and Chim-el Adabal, Hrol and
his knights wailed and set to their knees and prayed for all things to become
as right. Unto them the spirit said, I am the healer of all men and the mother
of dragons, but as you have run so many times from me so shall I run until you
learn my pain, which renders you and all this land dead.
And the spirit fled from them, and they split among hills and forests to find
her, all grieving that they had become a villainous people. Hrol and his
shieldthane were the only ones to find her, and the king spoke to her, saying,
I love you sweet Aless, sweet wife of Shor and of Auri-el and the Sacred Bull,
and would render this land alive again, not through pain but through a return
to the dragon-fires of covenant, to join east and west and throw off all ruin.
And the shieldthane bore witness to the spirit opening naked to his king,
carving on a nearby rock the words AND HROL DID LOVE UNTO A HILLOCK before
dying in the sight of their union.
When the fifteen other knights found King Hrol, they saw him dead after his
labors against a mound of mud. And they parted each in their way, and some
went mad, and the two that returned to their homeland beyond Twil would say
nothing of Hrol, and acted ashamed for him.
But after nine months that mound of mud became as a small mountain, and there
were whispers among the shepherds and bulls. A small community of believers
gathered around that growing hill during the days of its first churning, and
they were the first to name it the Golden Hill, Sancre Tor. And it was the
shepherdess Sed-Yenna who dared climb the hill when she heard his first cry,
and at its peak she saw what it had yielded, an infant she named Reman, which
is "Light of Man."
And in the child's forehead was the Chim-el Adabal, alive with the dragon-
fires of yore and divine promise, and none dared obstruct Sed-Yenna when she
climbed the steps of White-Gold Tower to place the babe Reman on his Throne,
where he spoke as an adult, saying I AM CYRODIIL COME.
Chapter 2: THE CHEVALIER RENALD, BLADE OF THE PIG
And in the days of interregnum, the Chim-el Adabal was lost again amid the </pre><pre id="faqspan-30">
petty wars of gone-heathen kings. West and east knew no union then and all the
lands outside of them saw Cyrodiil as a nest of snakemen and snakes. And for
four more hundreds of years did the seat of Reman stay sundered, with only the
machinations of a group of loyal knights keeping all its borders from throwing
wide.
These loyal knights did go by no name then, but were known by their eastern
swords and painted eyes, and it was whispered that they were descended from
the bodyguard of old Reman. One of their number, called the Chevalier Renald,
discovered the prowess of Cuhlecain and then supported him towards the throne.
Only later would it be revealed that Renald did this thing to come closer to
Talos, anon Stormcrown, the glorious yet-emperor Tiber Septim; only later
still, that he was under instruction by a pig.
Long glory was wife to the all the knights of the dragon-banner, who knew no
other and were brothers before beyond many seas and now were brothers under
the law named the blade-surrender of Pale Pass. And having vampire blood these
brother-knights lived for ages through and past Reman and then kept guard over
his ward, the coiled king, Versidue-Shaie. The snake-captain Vershu became
Renald became the protector of the northern west when the black dart was
hooked into Savirien-Chorak.
[Here torn pages indicate that the rest of this ancient book has been lost.]
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(Search Code: LOLZ220)
~~Report: Disaster at Ionith~~
Lord Pottreid, Chairman
Item ID: 00024558
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Report of the Imperial
Commission on the
Disaster at Ionith
Lord Pottreid, Chairman
Part I: Preparations
The Emperor's plans for the invasion of Akavir were laid in the 270s, when he
began the conquest of the small island kingdoms that lie between Tamriel and
Akavir. With the fall of Black Harbor in Esroniet in 282, Uriel V was already
looking ahead to the ultimate prize. He immediately ordered extensive
renovations to the port, which would serve as the marshalling point for the
invasion force and as the main supply source throughout the campaign. At this
time he also began the construction of the many large, ocean-going transports
that would be needed for the final crossing to Akavir, in which the Navy was
previously deficient. Thus it can be seen that the Emperor's preparations for
the invasion were laid well in advance, before even the conquest of Esroniet
was complete, and was not a sudden whim as some have charged.
When Prince Bashomon yielded Esroniet to Imperial authority in 284, the
Emperor's full attention could be devoted to planning for the Akaviri
campaign. Naval expeditions were dispatched in 285 and 286 to scout the sea
lanes and coastlands of Akavir; and various Imperial intelligence agents, both
magical and mundane, were employed to gather information. On the basis of all
this information, the kingdom of the Tsaesci, in the southwest of Akavir, was
selected as the initial target for the invasion.
Meanwhile the Emperor was gathering his Expeditionary Force. A new Far East
Fleet was created for the campaign, which for a time dwarfed the rest of the
Navy; it is said to be the most powerful fleet ever assembled in the history
of Tamriel. The Fifth, Seventh, Tenth, and Fourteenth Legions were selected
for the initial landing, with the Ninth and Seventeenth to follow as
reinforcements once the beachhead was secured. While this may seem to the
layman a relatively small fraction of the Army's total manpower, it must be
remembered that this Expeditionary Force would have to be maintained at the
end of a long and tenuous supply line; in addition, the Emperor and the Army
command believed that the invasion would not be strongly opposed, at least at
first. Perhaps most crucially, the Navy had only enough heavy transport
capacity to move four legions at a time.
It should be noted here that the Commission does not find fault with the
Emperor's preparations for the invasion. Based on the information available
prior to the invasion, (which, while obviously deficient in hindsight, great
effort had been made to accumulate), the Commission believes that the Emperor
did not act recklessly or imprudently. Some have argued that the Expeditionary
Force was too small. The Commission believes that on the contrary, even if
shipping could have been found to transport and supply more legions (an
impossibility without crippling the trade of the entire Empire), this would
have merely added to the scale of the disaster; it would not have averted it.
Neither could the rest of the Empire be denuded of legions; the memory of the
Camoran Usurper was still fresh, and the Emperor believed (and this Commission
agrees) that the security of the Empire precluded a larger concentration of
military force outside of Tamriel. If anything, the Commission believes that
the Expeditionary Force was too large. Despite the creation of two new legions
during his reign (and the recreation of the Fifth), the loss of the
Expeditionary Force left the Empire in a dangerously weak position relative to
the provinces, as the current situation makes all too clear. This suggests
that the invasion of Akavir was beyond the Empire's current strength; even if
the Emperor could have fielded and maintained a larger force in Akavir, the
Empire may have disintegrated behind him.
Part II: The Invasion of Akavir
The Expeditionary Force left Black Harbor on 23rd Rain's Hand, 288, and with
fair weather landed in Akavir after six weeks at sea. The landing site was a
small Tsaesci port at the mouth of a large river, chosen for its proximity to
Tamriel as well as its location in a fertile river valley, giving easy access
to the interior as well as good foraging for the army. All went well at first.
The Tsaesci had abandoned the town when the Expeditionary Force approached, so
they took possession of it and renamed it Septimia, the first colony of the
new Imperial Province of Akavir. While the engineers fortified the town and
expanded the port facilities to serve the Far East Fleet, the Emperor marched
inland with two legions. The surrounding land was reported to be rich, well-
watered fields, and meeting no resistance the army took the next city upriver,
also abandoned. This was refounded as Ionith, and the Emperor established his
headquarters there, being much larger than Septimia and better-located to
dominate the surrounding countryside.
The Expeditionary Force had yet to meet any real resistance, although the
legions were constantly shadowed by mounted enemy patrols which prevented any
but large scouting parties from leaving the main body of the army. One thing
the Emperor sorely lacked was cavalry, due to the limited space on the
transport fleet, although for the time being the battlemages made up for this
with magical reconnaissance.
The Emperor now sent out envoys to try to contact the Tsaesci king or whoever
ruled this land, but his messengers never returned. In retrospect, the
Commission believes that valuable time was wasted in this effort while the
army was stalled at Ionith, which could have been better spent in advancing
quickly while the enemy was still, apparently, surprised by the invasion.
However, the Emperor believed at the time that the Tsaesci could be overawed
by the Empire's power and he might win a province by negotiation with no need
for serious fighting.
Meanwhile, the four legions were busy building a road between Septimia and
Ionith, setting up fortified guard posts along the river, and fortifying both
cities' defences, activities which would serve them well later. Due to their
lack of cavalry, scouting was limited, and communication between the two
cities constantly threatened by enemy raiders, with which the legions were
still unable to come to grips.
The original plan had been to bring the two reinforcing legions across as soon
as the initial landing had secured a port, but the fateful decision was now
taken to delay their arrival and instead begin using the Fleet to transport
colonists. The Emperor and the Council agreed that, due to the complete
abandonment of the conquered area by its native population, colonists were
needed to work the fields so that the Expeditionary Force would not have to
rely entirely on the fleet for supplies. In addition, unrest had broken out in
Yneslea, athwart the supply route to Akavir, and the Council believed the
Ninth and Seventeenth legions would be better used in repacifying those
territories and securing the Expeditionary Force's supply lines.
The civilian colonists and their supplies began arriving in Septimia in mid-
Hearthfire, and they took over the preparation of the fields (which had been
started by the legionnaires) for a spring crop. A number of cavalry mounts
were also brought over at this time, and the raids on the two Imperial
colonies subsequently fell off. Tsaesci emissaries also finally arrived in
Ionith, purportedly to begin peace negotiations, and the Expeditionary Force
settled in for what was expected to be a quiet winter.
At this time, the Council urged the Emperor to return to Tamriel with the
Fleet, to deal with many pressing matters of the Empire while the army was in
winter quarters, but the Emperor decided that it would be best to remain in
Akavir. This turned out to be fortunate, because a large portion of the Fleet,
including the Emperor's flagship, was destroyed by an early winter storm
during the homeward voyage. The winter storm season of 288-289 was unusually
prolonged and exceptionally severe, and prevented the Fleet from returning to
Akavir as planned with additional supplies. This was reported to the Emperor
via battlemage and it was agreed that the Expeditionary Force could survive on
what supplies it had on hand until the spring.
Part III: The Destruction of the Expeditionary Force
The winter weather in Akavir was also much more severe than expected. Due to
the supply problems and the addition of thousands of civilians, the
Expeditionary Force was on tight rations. To make matters worse, the Tsaesci
raiders returned in force and harried any foraging and scouting parties
outside the walls of the two cities. Several watch forts on the road between
Septimia and Ionith were captured during blizzards, and the rest had to be
abandoned as untenable. As a result, communication between the two cities had
to be conducted entirely by magical means, a continuing strain on the
legions' battlemages.
On 5th Sun's Dawn, a large entourage of Tsaesci arrived at Ionith claiming to
bring a peace offer from the Tsaesci king. That night, these treacherous
envoys murdered the guards at one of the city gates and let in a strong party
of their comrades who were waiting outside the city walls. Their clear
intention was to assassinate the Emperor, foiled only by the vigilance and
courage of troopers of the Tenth who were guarding his palace. Once the alarm
was raised, the Tsaesci inside the city were hunted down and killed to the
last man. Needless to say, this was the end of negotiations between the
Emperor and the Tsaesci.
The arrival of spring only brought worse troubles. Instead of the expected
spring rains, a hot dry wind began to blow from the east, continuing with
varying strength through the entire summer. The crops failed, and even the
river (which in the previous year had been navigable by small boats far
upstream of Ionith) was completely dried up by Sun's Height. It is unknown if
this was due to a previously unknown weather pattern unique to Akavir, or if
the Tsaesci manipulated the weather through magical means. The Commission
leans towards the former conclusion, as there is no direct evidence of the
Tsaesci possessing such fearsome arcane power, but the latter possibility
cannot be entirely ruled out.
Due to prolonged bad weather, the supply fleet was late in setting out from
Black Harbor. It finally left port in early Second Seed, but was again
severely mauled by storms and limped into Septimia eight weeks later much
reduced. Because of the increasingly desperate supply situation in Akavir, the
Emperor dispatched most of his Battlemage Corps with the fleet to assist it in
weathering the storms which seemed likely to continue all summer. At this
time, the Council urged the Emperor to abandon the invasion and to return to
Tamriel with the Expeditionary Force, but he again refused, noting that the
fleet was no longer large enough to transport all four legions at once. The
Commission agrees that leaving one or more legions behind in Akavir to await
the return of the fleet would have damaged Army morale. But the Commission
also notes that the loss of one legion would have been preferable to the loss
of the entire Expeditionary Force. It is the unanimous opinion of the
Commission that this was the last point at which complete disaster might have
been averted. Once the decision was made to send the fleet back for
reinforcements and supplies, events proceeded to their inevitable conclusion.
From this point on, much less is known about what transpired in Akavir. With
most of the battlemages assisting the fleet, communication between the
Expeditionary Force and Tamriel was limited, especially as the situation in
Akavir worsened and the remaining battlemages had their powers stretched to
the limit attending to all the needs of the legions. However, it appears that
the Tsaesci may also have been actively interfering with the mages in some
unknown manner. Some of the mages in Akavir reported their powers being
abnormally weak, and the mages of the War College in Cyrodiil (who were
handling communications for the Council) reported problems linking up with
their compatriots in Akavir, even between master and pupil of long training.
The Commission urges that the War College make a particular study of the
arcane powers of the Tsaesci, should the Empire ever come into conflict with
Akavir again.
What is known is that the Emperor marched out of Ionith in mid-Sun's Height,
leaving only small garrisons to hold the cities. He had learned that the
Tsaesci were massing their forces on the other side of a mountain range to the
north, and he intended to smash their army before it could gather full
strength and capture their supplies (of which he was in desperate need). This
rapid advance seems to have taken the Tsaesci by surprise, and the
Expeditionary Force crossed the mountains and fell on their camp, routing the
Tsaesci army and capturing its leader (a noble of some kind). But the Emperor
was soon forced to retreat, and the legions suffered heavily on their retreat
to Ionith. The Emperor now found himself besieged in Ionith, cut off from the
small garrison at Septimia which was also besieged. By this time, it seems
that the efforts of the few remaining battlemages were devoted entirely to
creating water to keep the army alive, a skill not normally emphasized at the
War College. The fleet had arrived safely back to Black Harbor, thanks to the
Battlemage Corps, but all attempts to return to Akavir were frustrated by a
series of ever more savage storms that battered Esroniet throughout the rest
of 289.
The Council's last contact with the Emperor was in early Frostfall. By Evening
Star, the Council was extremely worried about the situation in Akavir and
ordered the fleet to sail regardless of the risk. Despite the continued
storms, the fleet managed to press on to Akavir. Hope was raised when contact
was made with the Emperor's battlemage, who reported that Ionith still held
out. Plans were quickly laid for the Expeditionary Force to break out of
Ionith and fall back on Septimia, where the fleet would meet them. This was
the last direct contact with the Expeditionary Force. The fleet arrived in
Septimia to find its garrison under savage assault from a large Tsaesci army.
The battlemages with the fleet threw back the enemy long enough for the
survivors to embark and the fleet to withdraw.
The few survivors of the Expeditionary Force who reached Septimia told how the
Emperor had led the army out of Ionith by night two days earlier, succesfully
breaking through the enemy lines but then being surrounded by overwhelming
forces on the road to Septimia. They told of a heroic last stand by the
Emperor and the Tenth Legion, which allowed a remnant of the Fourteenth to
reach Septimia. Two survivors of the Tenth arrived in Septimia that night,
having slipped through the enemy lines during their undisciplined victory
celebration. These men confirmed having seen the Emperor die, cut down by
enemy arrows as he rallied the Tenth's shield wall.
Part IV: Conclusion
The Commission believes that the invasion of Akavir was doomed from the start
for several reasons, none of which could have been foreseen beforehand,
unfortunately.
Despite extensive intelligence-gathering, the Expeditionary Force was clearly
unprepared for the situation in Akavir. The unexpected weather which plagued
the army and navy was particularly disastrous. Without the loss of a majority
of the Far East Fleet during the campaign, the Expeditionary Force could have
been withdrawn in 289. The weather also forced the Emperor to assign most of
his Battlemage Corps to the fleet, leaving him without their valuable
assistance during the fighting which soon followed. And of course the
unexpected drought which struck Ionith during 289 dashed the hopes of
supplying the army locally, and left the Expeditionary Force in an untenable
situation when besieged in Ionith.
The Tsaesci were also much stronger than intelligence reports had suggested.
Information on the size of the army the Tsaesci were eventually able to field
against the Expeditionary Force is vague, as the only serious fighting took
place after regular communications were cut off between the Emperor and the
Council. Nevertheless, it seems likely that the Tsaesci outnumbered the
Emperor's forces by several times, as they were able to force four crack
legions into retreat and then keep them under siege for several months.
As was stated previously, the Commission declines to criticize the initial
decision to invade Akavir. Based on what was known at the time, the plan
seemed sound. It is only with the benefit of hindsight does it become obvious
that the invasion had very little chance of success. Nevertheless, the
Commission believes several valuable lessons can be taken from this disaster.
First, the Tsaesci may have extremely powerful arcane forces at their command.
The possibility that they may have manipulated the weather across such a vast
region seems incredible (and it should be noted that three Commissioners
strongly objected to this paragraph even being included in this Report), but
the Commission believes that this matter deserves urgent investigation. The
potential danger is such that even the slight possibility must be taken
seriously.
Second, the Tsaesci appear to possess no navy to speak of. The Expeditionary
Force was never threatened by sea, and the Far East Fleet fought nothing but
the weather. Indeed, initial plans called for a portion of the Fleet to remain
in Akavir for use in coastal operations, but in the event there were very
few places where the large vessels of the Fleet could approach the land, due
to the innumerable reefs, sandbars, islands, etc. that infested the coastal
waters north and south from Septimia. Due to the utter lack of trees in the
plain around Septimia and Ionith, the Expeditionary Force was unable to build
smaller vessels which could have navigated the shallow coastal waters. Any
future military expeditions against Akavir would do well to consider some way
of bringing a means for inshore naval operations in order to exploit this
clear advantage over the Tsaesci, an advantage that was sadly unexploited by
the Expeditionary Force.
Third, much longer-term study needs to be made of Akavir before another
invasion could even be contemplated. The information gathered over the four
years prior to the invasion was extensive, but clearly inadequate. The weather
conditions were completely unexpected; the Tsaesci much stronger than expected;
and the attempted negotiations by the Emperor with the Tsaesci a
disaster. Akavir proved alien beyond expectation, and the Commission believes
any future attempt to invade Akavir should not be contemplated without much
greater knowledge of the conditions, politics, and peoples of that continent
than presently obtains.
Finally, the Commission unanimously concludes that given what we now know, any
attempt to invade Akavir is folly, at least in the present state of the
Empire. The Empire's legions are needed at home. One day, a peaceful, united
Empire will return to Akavir and exact severe retribution for the disaster at
Ionith and for our fallen Emperor. But that day is not now, nor in the
foreseeable future.
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(Search Code: LOLZ221)
~~Ruins of Kemel-Ze~~
Lord Pottreid, Chairman
Item ID: 00024575
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ222)
~~The Seed~~
Marobar Sul
Item ID: 000243FF
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Ancient Tales of the Dwemer, Part II
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ223)
~~Shezarr and the Eight Divines~~
Faustillus Junius
Subcurator of Ancient Theology and Paleonumerology
Imperial Library
Item ID: xx000ED4
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The position Shezarr enjoys in Cyrodilic worship if often misconstrued. He,
and a thousand other deities, have sizeable cults in the Imperial City.
Shezarr is especially venerated in the Colovian West, though he is called Shor
there, as the West Kings are resolutely, and religiously, Nordic.
The haziness of Shezarr's relationship to the Divines (he is often called
their 'Missing Sibling') begins with St. Alessia, the so-called 'Slave Queen
of Cyrodiil, the founder figure of the original Cyrodilic Empire. In the
earliest Cyro-Nordic stories of the Heartland, Shezarr fought against the
Ayleids (the 'Heartland Highelves') on mankind's behalf. Then, for some
unknown reason, he vanishes from the stage (presumably to help other humans
elsewhere), and, without his leadership, the Ayleids conquer the humans and
enslave them.
This slavery lasts for generations. The isolated humans eventually begin to
venerate the pantheon of their masters, or at least assimilate so much of High
Elven religious practices into their native traditions that the two become
indistinguishable.
In 1E242, under the leadership of Alessia, her demigod lover, Morihaus-Breath-
of-Kyne, and the infamous Pelinal Whitestrake, the Cyrodilic humans revolt.
When Skyrim lends its armies to the Slave-Queen of the South, the revolution
succeeds. The Ayleid Hegemonies are quickly overthrown. Shortly thereafter,
White Gold Tower is captured by Alessia's forces, and she promptly declares
herself the first Empress of Cyrodiil. Part of the package meant that she had
to become the High Priestess of Akatosh, as well.
Akatosh was an Aldmeri god, and Alessia's subjects were as-yet unwilling to
renounce their worship of the Elven pantheon. She found herself in a very
sensitive political situation. She needed to keep the Nords as her allies, but
they were (at that time) fiercely opposed to any adoration of Elven deities.
On the other hand, she could not force her subjects to revert back to the
Nordic pantheon, for fear of another revolution. Therefore, concessions were
made and Empress Alessia instituted a new religion: the Eight Divines, an
elegant, well-researched synthesis of both pantheons, Nordic and Aldmeri.
Shezarr, as a result, had to change. He could no longer be the bloodthirsty
anti-Aldmer warlord of old. He could not disappear altogether either, or the
Nords would have withdrawn their support of her rule. In the end, he had
become "the spirit behind all human undertaking." Even though this was merely
a thinly-disguised, watered-down version of Shor, it was good enough for the
Nords.
As for why Tiber Septim has not attempted to 'revitalize' Shezarr during his
wars against the Aldmeri Dominion, we can only speculate that, at this time,
memories of the Alessian Order’s follies (the Dragon Break, the War of
Righteousness, the defeat at Gelnumbria Moors) would only damage his campaign
for the Imperial Crown.
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(Search Code: LOLZ224)
~~Sir Amiel's Journal~~
Sir Amiel
Item ID: xx000EDE
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This journal is a record of failure. My failure.
In the immediate sense, this is no doubt obvious. If you are reading this, you
are probably standing over my body, slain in the depths of the Shrine of the
Crusader. Perhaps the gods granted me the gift of at least glimpsing the holy </pre><pre id="faqspan-31">
Helm before I died, undeserving though I am. I must believe that you are
indeed a holy knight, following in my footsteps in quest of the Crusader's
Relics. It is to you, Sir Knight of my hopes, that I direct these words. May
the account of my failures help you avoid my fate.
Know that my failures encompass far more than my own death (which is of little
account, at the end of a long life). The high ideals of the Knights of the
Nine, of service to the gods rather than men, of dedication to a higher
purpose -- these are my failures, as I shall record here.
As I write this, the scratching of my pen the only sound in the empty Priory,
I am preparing to embark on my last quest for the Helm of the Crusader. I know
that my chance of success is small. I am too old for such a task. This quest
should have been taken up by the next generation of Knights of the Nine, while
Sir Caius and Sir Berich and the rest of us stayed behind and spun tales of
our days of glory. Alas, there is no next generation. Sir Berich is my
embittered enemy, the rest of my old companions are all dead. There is only
me, the last stubborn Knight of a failed Order.
For many years I blamed Sir Berich for the dissolution of the Order, but in my
old age I have finally come to recognize my own part in those tragic events. I
now believe that the seeds of our destruction were sown early, although the
fruit did not ripen until late. Even in the first heady days, questing for the
Cuirass with Sir Caius and Sir Torolf, I set the pattern of personal glory.
The Cuirass was mine, and although it resided in the Priory, I wore it into
battle and accepted the acclaim of my fellows and the people for its recovery.
And so it went. The Sword and Greaves, recovered by Sir Berich, became his
personal arms, and the Gauntlets to Sir Casimir. Why not? Should the holy
weapons lie idle while there was evil to be vanquished? And who more fitting
to carry them than the knight who had proved himself worthy by their recovery?
So we told ourselves -- so I told myself -- but all that followed flowed from
this.
When Sir Berich wanted to take his Relics with him to the war, who was I to
forbid him? I, who had jealously considered the Cuirass my own and none
other's? Sir Berich was wrong, but I was wrong first, and the blame for the
dispute over the Relics falls first on me, the leader and founder of the
Knights, who should have set a higher example, but was instead first to claim
a Relic for my own.
Sir Berich's later actions I will leave for others to judge. But let it be
known that I do not blame him for the dissolution of the Knights. If he would
speak to me, I would tell him so myself. He and I are now all that are left of
the original Knights. The others are all dead, and I have dedicated myself to
recovering their bodies and interring them in the Priory Undercroft, as is
fitting for such holy warriors. Alas that they did not have the leader that
they deserved.
Now it is time for me to depart on my quest for the Helm. If you would follow
in my footsteps, Sir Knight, know that the Priory basement, at least, will
remain inviolate. I have sealed the stairs and only my ring will now open it.
My brother knights will sleep in peace, in company with the Cuirass, the only
Relic that remains in the Order's keeping. I say that, although the Order is
officially dissolved, hoping and believing that the Knights of the Nine will
one day be reborn. Perhaps you are the one to restore the Order. If so, go to
the Priory in the West Weald. Use my ring to enter the vaults beneath the
Priory House. There you will find the Cuirass, and claim it for your own if
you are a true knight.
May the Nine guard and guide you. Farewell.
Sir Amiel
Priory of the Nine
The West Weald
County Skingrad
Year 153 of the Septim Era
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(Search Code: LOLZ226)
~~The Song of Pelinal, v1~~
Anonymous
Item ID: xx000EDC
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Volume 1: On His Name
[Editor's Note: Volumes 1-6 are taken from the so-called Reman Manuscript
located in the Imperial Library. It is a transcription of older fragments
collected by an unknown scholar of the early Second Era. Beyond this, little
is known of the original sources of these fragments, some of which appear to
be from the same period (perhaps even from the same manuscript). But, as no
scholarly consensus yet exists on dating these six fragments, no opinions will
be offered here.]
That he took the name "Pelinal" was passing strange, no matter his later
sobriquets, which were many. That was an Elvish name, and Pelinal was a
scourge on that race, and not much given to irony. Pelinal was much too grim
for that; even in youth he wore white hair, and trouble followed him. Perhaps
his enemies named Pelinal of their own in their tongue, but that is doubtful,
for it means "glorious knight", and he was neither to them. Certainly, many
others added to that name during his days in Tamriel: he was Pelinal the
Whitestrake because of his left hand, made of a killing light; he was Pelinal
the Bloody, for he [drank] it in victory; he was Pelinal Insurgent, because he
gave the crusades a face; he was Pelinal In Triumph, as the words eventually
became synonymous, and men-at-arms gave thanks to the Eight when they saw his
banner coming through war; he was Pelinal the Blamer, for he was quick to
admonish those allies of his that favored tactics that ran counter to his,
that is, sword-theory; and he was Pelinal the Third, though whether this was
because some said he was a god guiser, who had incarnated twice before
already, or that, simpler, he was the third vision given to Perrif, anon
Alessia, in her prayers of liberation before he walked among the quarters of
rebellion, is unknown.
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(Search Code: LOLZ227)
~~The Song of Pelinal, v2~~
Anonymous
Item ID: xx000EDB
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Volume 2: On His Coming
[And then] Perrif spoke to the Handmaiden again, eyes to the Heavens which had
not known kindness since the beginning of elven rule, and she spoke as a
mortal, whose kindle is beloved by the Gods for its strength-in-weakness, a
humility that can burn with metaphor and yet break [easily and] always, always
doomed to end in death (and this is why those who let their souls burn anyway
are beloved of the Dragon and His Kin), and she said: "And this thing I have
thought of, I have named it, and I call it freedom. Which I think is just
another word for Shezarr Who Goes Missing... [You] made the first rain at his
sundering [and that] is what I ask now for our alien masters... [that] we
might sunder them fully and repay their cruelty [by] dispersing them to drown
in the Topal. Morihaus, your son, mighty and snorting, gore-horned, winged,
when next he flies down, let him bring us anger." ... [And then] Kyne granted
Perrif another symbol, a diamond soaked red with the blood of elves, [whose]
facets could [un-sector and form] into a man whose every angle could cut her
jailers and a name: PELIN-EL [which is] "The Star-Made Knight" [and he] was
arrayed in armor [from the future time]. And he walked into the jungles of
Cyrod already killing, Morihaus stamping at his side froth-bloody and
bellowing from excitement because the Pelinal was come... [and Pelinal] came
to Perrif's camp of rebels holding a sword and mace, both encrusted with the
smashed viscera of elven faces, feathers and magic beads, which were the
markings of the Ayleidoon, stuck to the redness that hung from his weapons,
and he lifted them, saying: "These were their eastern chieftains, no longer
full of their talking."
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~~The Song of Pelinal, v3~~
Anonymous
Item ID: xx000EDA
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Volume 3: On His Enemy
Pelinal Whitestrake was the enemy of all elfkind that lived in Cyrod in those
days. Mainly, though, he took it upon himself to slay the sorcerer-kings of
the Ayleids in pre-arranged open combats rather than at war; the fields of
rebellion he left to the growing armies of the Paravania and his bull nephew.
Pelinal called out Haromir of Copper and Tea into a duel at the Tor, and ate
his neck-veins while screaming praise to Reman, a name that no one knew yet.
Gordhaur the Shaper's head was smashed upon the goat-faced altar of Ninendava,
and in his wisdom Pelinal said a small plague spell to keep that evil from
reforming by welkynd-magic. Later that season, Pelinal slew Hadhuul on the
granite steps of Ceya-Tar, the Fire King's spears knowing their first refute.
For a time, no weapon of the Ayleids could pierce his armor, which Pelinal
admitted was unlike any crafted by men, but would say no more even when
pressed. When Huna, whom Pelinal raised from grain-slave to hoplite and loved
well, took death from an arrowhead made from the beak of Celethelel the
Singer, the Whitestrake went on his first Madness. He wrought destruction from
Narlemae all the way to Celediil, and erased those lands from the maps of
Elves and Men, and all things in them, and Perrif was forced to make sacrifice
to the Gods to keep them from leaving the earth in their disgust. And then
came the storming of White-Gold, where the Ayleids had made pact with the
Aurorans of Meridia, and summoned them, and appointed the terrible and golden-
hued "half-Elf" Umaril the Unfeathered as their champion… and, for the first
time since his coming, it was Pelinal who was called out to battle by another,
for Umaril had the blood of the 'ada and would never know death.
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~~The Song of Pelinal, v4~~
Anonymous
Item ID: xx000ED9
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Volume 4: On His Deeds
[Pelinal] drove the sorcerer armies past the Niben, claiming all the eastern
lands for the rebellion of the Paravania, and Kyne had to send her rain to
wash the blood from the villages and forts that no longer flew Ayleid banners,
for the armies of Men needed to make camps of them as they went forward. ...
[and] he broke the doors open for the prisoners of the Vahtache with the
Slave-Queen flying on Morihaus above them, and Men called her Al-Esh for the
first time. He entered the Gate at ... to win back the hands of the Thousand-
Strong of Sedor (a tribe now unknown but famous in those days), which the
Ayleids had stolen in the night, two thousand hands that he brought back in a
wagon made of demon-bone, whose wheels trailed the sound of women when ill at
heart... [Text lost]... [And after] the first Pogrom, which consolidated the
northern holdings for the men-of-'kreath, he stood with white hair gone brown
with elfblood at the Bridge of Heldon, where Perrif's falconers had sent for
the Nords, and they, looking at him, said that Shor had returned, but he spat
at their feet for profaning that name. He led them anyway into the heart of
the hinterland west, to drive the Ayleids inward, towards the Tower of White-
Gold, a slow retreating circle that could not understand the power of Man’s
sudden liberty, and what fury-idea that brought. His mace crushed the
Thundernachs that Umaril sent as harriers on the rebellion's long march back
south and east, and carried Morihaus-Breath-of-Kyne to Zuathas the Clever-
Cutting Man (a nede with a keptu name) for healing when the bull had fallen to
a volley of bird beaks. And, of course, at the Council of Skiffs, where all of
the Paravania's armies and all of the Nords shook with fear at the storming of
White-Gold, so much so that the Al-Esh herself counseled delay, Pelinal grew
furious, and made names of Umaril, and made names of what cowards he thought
he saw around him, and then made for the Tower by himself, for Pelinal often
acted without thought.
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~~The Song of Pelinal, v5~~
Anonymous
Item ID: xx000ED8
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Volume 5: On His Love of Morihaus
It is a solid truth that Morihaus was the son of Kyne, but whether or not
Pelinal was indeed the Shezarrine is best left unsaid (for once Plontinu, who
favored the short sword, said it, and that night he was smothered by moths).
It is famous, though, that the two talked of each other as family, with
Morihaus as the lesser, and that Pelinal loved him and called him nephew, but
these could be merely the fancies of immortals. Never did Pelinal counsel
Morihaus in time of war, for the man-bull fought magnificently, and led men
well, and never resorted to Madness, but the Whitestrake did warn against the
growing love with Perrif. "We are ada, Mor, and change things through love. We
must take care lest we beget more monsters on this earth. If you do not
desist, she will take to you, and you will transform all Cyrod if you do
this." And to this the bull became shy, for he was a bull, and he felt his
form too ugly for the Parvania at all times, especially when she disrobed for
him. He snorted, though, and shook his nose-hoop into the light of the Secunda
moon and said, "She is like this shine on my nose-hoop here: an accident
sometimes, but whenever I move my head at night, she is there. And so you know
what you ask is impossible."
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~~The Song of Pelinal, v6~~
Anonymous
Item ID: xx000ED7
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Volume 6: On His Madness
[And it is] said that he emerged into the world like a Padomaic, that is,
borne by Sithis and all the forces of change therein. Still others, like Fifd
of New Teed, say that beneath the Pelinal's star-armor was a chest that gaped
open to show no heart, only a red rage shaped diamond-fashion, singing like a
mindless dragon, and that this was proof that he was a myth-echo, and that
where he trod were shapes of the first urging. Pelinal cared for none of this
and killed any who would speak god-logic, except for fair Perrif, who he said,
"enacts, rather than talks, as language without exertion is dead witness."
When those soldiers who heard him say this stared blankly, he laughed and
swung his sword, running into the rain of Kyne to slaughter their Ayleid
captives, screaming, "O Aka, for our shared madness I do this! I watch you
watching me watching back! Umaril dares call us out, for that is how we made
him!" [And it was during] these fits of anger and nonsense that Pelinal would
fall into the Madness, where whole swaths of lands were devoured in divine
rampage to become Void, and Alessia would have to pray to the Gods for their
succor, and they would reach down as one mind and soothe the Whitestrake until
he no longer had the will to kill the earth in whole. And Garid of the men-of-
ge once saw such a Madness from afar and maneuvered, after it had abated, to
drink together with Pelinal, and he asked what such an affliction felt like,
to which Pelinal could only answer, "Like when the dream no longer needs its
dreamer."
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~~The Song of Pelinal, v7~~
Anonymous
Item ID: xx000ED6
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Volume 7: On His Battle with Umaril and His Dismemberment
[Editor's Note: This fragment comes from a manuscript recovered from the ruins
of the Alessian Order's monastery at Lake Canulus, which dates it to sometime
prior to the War of Righteousness (1E 2321). However, textual analysis
suggests that this fragment actually preserves a very early form of the Song,
perhaps from the mid-sixth century.]
[And so after many battles with] Umaril's allies, where dead Aurorans lay like
candlelight around the throne, the Pelinal became surrounded by the last
Ayleid sorcerer-kings and their demons, each one heavy with varliance. The
Whitestrake cracked the floor with his mace and they withdrew, and he said,
"Bring me Umaril that called me out!" ... [And] while mighty in his aspect and
wicked, deathless-golden Umaril favored ruin-from-afar over close combat and
so he tarried in the shadows of the white tower before coming forth. More
soldiers were sent against Pelinal to die, and yet they managed to pierce his
armor with axes and arrows, for Umaril had wrought each one by long varliance,
which he had been hoarding since his first issue [of challenge.]...
[Presently] the half-Elf [showed himself] bathed in [Meridian light] ... and
he listed his bloodline in the Ayleidoon and spoke of his father, a god of the
[previous kalpa's] World-River and taking great delight in the heavy-breathing
of Pelinal who had finally bled... [Text lost] ... [And] Umaril was laid low,
the angel face of his helm dented into an ugliness which made Pelinal laugh,
[and his] unfeathered wings broken off with sword strokes delivered while
Pelinal stood [frothing]... above him insulting his ancestry and anyone else
that took ship from Old Ehlnofey, [which] angered the other Elvish kings and
drove them to a madness of their own... [and they] fell on him [speaking] to
their weapons... cutting the Pelinal into eighths while he roared in confusion
[which even] the Council of Skiffs [could hear]... [Text lost] ...ran when Mor
shook the whole of the tower with mighty bashing from his horns
[the next morning], and some were slain-in-overabundance in the Taking, and
Men looked for more Ayleids to kill but Pelinal had left none save those kings
and demons that had already begun to flee... It was Morihaus who found the
Whitestrake's head, which the kings had left to prove their deeds and they
spoke and Pelinal said things of regrets... but the rebellion had turned
anyway... [and more] words were said between these immortals that even the
Paravant would not deign to hear.
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~~The Song of Pelinal, v8~~
Anonymous
Item ID: xx000ED5
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Volume 8: On His Revelation at the Death of the Al-Esh
[Editor's Note: This is the oldest and most fragmentary of all the extant
Pelinal texts. It is, however, likely closest to the original spoken or sung
form of the Song, and therefore has great value despite its brevity.
Strangely, it appears that Pelinal is present at Alessia's deathbed, although
he was killed by Umaril earlier in the saga (years before Alessia's death).
Some scholars believe that this fragment is not actually a part of the Song of
Pelinal, but most accept its authenticity although there is still much debate
as to its significance.]
"... and left you to gather sinew with my other half, who will bring light
thereby to that mortal idea that brings [the Gods] great joy, that is,
freedom, which even the Heavens do not truly know, [which is] why our Father,
the... [Text lost]... in those first [days/spirits/swirls] before
Convention... that which we echoed in our earthly madness. [Let us] now take
you Up. We will [show] our true faces... [which eat] one another in amnesia
each Age."
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~~Spirit of the Daedra~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024582
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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?
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~~Tamrielic Lore~~
Yagrum Bagarn
Item ID: 0002457A
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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 wielder 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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(Search Code: LOLZ236)
~~Ten Commands: Nine Divines~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024577
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By the intercession of St. Alessia, you may be so filled with grace, and the
strength and wisdom that comes from grace, that through these teachings you
may come to the true meaning of the Nine Divines and Their glories. To convey
to man's mind all the manifold subtleties of truth and virtue may not be done,
were all the seas ink, and all the skies the parchment upon which Their
wisdoms were writ. Yet Akatosh, in His wisdom, knowing how impatient is man,
and how loathe he is to travel upon the hard roads of truth, has allowed these
ten simple commands to be made manifest with powerful clarity and concise
definition.
1. Stendarr says: Be kind and generous to the people of Tamriel. Protect the
weak, heal the sick, and give to the needy.
2. Arkay says: Honor the earth, its creatures, and the spirits, living and
dead. Guard and tend the bounties of the mortal world, and do not profane the
spirits of the dead.
3. Mara says: Live soberly and peacefully. Honor your parents, and preserve
the peace and security of home and family.
4. Zenithar says: Work hard, and you will be rewarded. Spend wisely, and you
will be comfortable. Never steal, or you will be punished.
5. Talos says: Be strong for war. Be bold against enemies and evil, and defend
the people of Tamriel.
6. Kynareth says: Use Nature's gifts wisely. Respect her power, and fear her
fury.
7. Dibella says: Open your heart to the noble secrets of art and love.
Treasure the gifts of friendship. Seek joy and inspiration in the mysteries of
love.
8. Julianos says: Know the truth. Observe the law. When in doubt, seek wisdom
from the wise.
9. Akatosh says: Serve and obey your Emperor. Study the Covenants. Worship the
Nine, do your duty, and heed the commands of the saints and priests.
10. The Nine say: Above all else, be good to one another.
If only each man might look into the mirror of these Commands, and see
reflected there the bliss that might enfold them, were he to serve in strict
obedience to these Commands, he would be cast down and made contrite and
humble. The obedient man may come to the altars of the Nine and be blessed,
and may receive the comfort and healing of the Nine, and may give thanks for
his manifold blessings.
Heedless, the wicked man turns away, and forsaking the simple wisdoms granted
to him by the All-Wise and All-Knowing Nine, he lives in sin and ignorance all
the days of his life. He bears the awful burden of his crimes, and before Men
and God his wickedness is known, and neither blessing nor comfort may he
expect from the altars and shrines of the Nine.
Yet the wicked and foolish are not doomed, for in their infinite mercies, the
Nine have said, "Repent, and do Good Works, and the Fountains of Grace shall
once more spill forth upon you."
Repent your crimes! Tender unto the Emperor the fines of gold, that they may
be used to spread the Faith and its Benefits to all Men!
Do yourself good works! Redeem your infamy by shining deeds! Show to all Men
and the Nine the good Fame of the Righteous Man, and you may once again
approach the altars and shrines of the Chapel to receive the comfort and
blessings of the Nine.
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(Search Code: LOLZ237)
~~Thief of Virtue~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0001F112
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Let me tell the tale of the Thief of Virtue. In the land of Hammerfell in the
city of Sutch there lived a Baron who was quite wealthy. He was a noted
collector of rare coins. The Baroness Veronique found the whole thing quite
tedious. However, she did appreciate the lifestyle that the Baron's wealth
provided.
Ravius Terinus was a noted thief. He claimed to be a master thief in the
mythical guild of thieves. However, that was most like just braggadocio. The
only known Thieves Guild was wiped out over 450 years ago.
Ravius decided that the Baron should share his wealth. Specifically he should
share it with Ravius. The wily thief crept into the Baron's castle one night
intending to do just that.
The walls of the castle were noted for their height and unscalability. Ravius
cleverly used an Arrow of Penetration to affix a rope to the top of the
battlements. Once on the battlements, he had to evade the Baron's guards. By
hiding in the shadows of the crenelations, he was able to work his way to the
keep undetected.
Entering the keep was child's play for a thief of his caliber. However, a
cunning lock with no less than 13 pins protected the private quarters of the
Baron. Ravius broke only 9 lockpicks to open it. Using only a fork, a bit of
string, and a wineskin, he disabled the seven traps guarding the Baron's coin
collection. Truly Ravius was a master among thieves.
With the coins safely in his grasp, Ravius began his escape only to find the
way blocked. The Baron had found the opened door and was raising the guard to
scour the castle. Ravius fled deeper into the castle, one step ahead of the
questing guards.
His only way out led through the boudoir of Baroness Veronique. He entered to
find the lady preparing for bed. Now it should be said at this point that
Ravius was noted for his handsome looks, while the Baroness was noted for her
plainness. Both of these facts were immediately recognized by each of the
pair.
"Doest thou come to plunder my virtue?" asked the lady, all a tremble.
"Nay, fair lady," Ravius said, thinking quickly. "Plunder be a harsh term to
ply upon such a delicate flower as your virtue."
"I see thou hast made off with mine husbands precious coins."
Ravius looked deeply into her eyes and saw the only path by which he would
escape this night with his life. It would require a double sacrifice.
"Though these coins are of rarest value, I have now found a treasure that is
beyond all value," Ravius said smoothly. "Tell me, oh beauteous one, why doest
thy husband set seven deadly traps around these tawdry coins, but only a
simple lock upon the door of his virtuous wife?"
"Ignace protects those things that are dearest to him," Veronique replied with
ire.
"I would give all the gold in my possession to spend but a moment basking in
your radiance."
With that Ravius set down the coins he had worked so hard to steal. The
Baroness swooned into his arms. When the captain of the guard asked to search
her quarters, she hid Ravius most skillfully. She turned over the coins,
claiming the thief dropped them when he fled out the window.
With that sacrifice made, Ravius steeled himself for the second. He robbed the
lady Veronique of her virtue that night. He robbed her of it several times,
lasting well into the wee hours of the morning. Exhausted, yet sated, he stole
away in the pre-dawn hours.
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(Search Code: LOLZ238)
~~The Third Door~~
Annanar Orme
Item ID: 000243F3
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ239)
~~Tome of Unlife~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00003AA3
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NOTE: This book does not have any text but instead has two page of pictures
and has a small amount of Daedric text on the first page. Both pages have
blood on them and various Daedric circles.
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(Search Code: LOLZ240)
~~Traitor's Diary~~
Mathieu Bellamont
Item ID: 00003968
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It's all right, mother. It's almost over. I'm close. So very close. How long
have we struggled? How long have we waited? Too long, I know. But it's almost
over. I promise.
killhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimk
illhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhim
killhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimk
illhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhim
killhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhim
mommy mommy as you lie the dark man comes and makes you die my daddy's hands
are red with guilt because he killed the life we built
I hate it! All this lying, all this pretending! Sithis and the Five Tenets be
damned! How long do I have to live by their rules? How long before I get my
chance? I saw Lucien Lachance yesterday. He was in the Sanctuary talking with
Ocheeva. He was right there! So close I could have severed his spine in less
than a heartbeat! Oh Mother, never before have I had to exercise such self-</pre><pre id="faqspan-32">
control. What's sickeningly ironic is that it was the Dark Brotherhood's
discipline that allowed me to restrain myself. I've been a part of their
"family" for so long it's a part of me, whether I like it or not. And in all
that time I've fooled them all. They see me as a fellow member of the Brother,
a trusted family member. Some day soon I will learn the truth about the Night
Mother, and when I do, I will use that trust to get close to her. Close enough
so that I may rend the head from her body, just as Lucien Lachance did to you
so long ago!
Damn it, mother! Why did it have to be this way? Maria was so beautiful. She
was perfect in so many ways. Why couldn't she handle the truth? Why couldn't
she realize her "family" didn't really love her? She was a murderer like the
rest of us. Paid to kill in the name of Sithis. I really thought we could be
together. Make a real family, with real love. But she told me she could never
accept your place in my life. So now she's gone. She didn't deserve to live
after the horrible things she said about you. I never should have told her, I
know. I'm so sorry. It will never happen again, and the others will never find
her, don't worry. There's nothing left of her to find.
IliketolieinthegrassandwatchtheantsandwishIwereoneofthemintheirundergoundmazes
osafefromthedarknessofpeoplehorriblepeople
Iwillkillthemallkilltheantskillthepeoplekilleverything
I did it, mother! I killed them all! I killed them and I cursed them to wander
their ship in undeath for all eternity! They came to talk to the old man in
the lighthouse. When they saw me, they could have kept walking. But no. They
laughed! They laughed at me, mother! They called me names! They said I was
strange, that I was a human rat, living here in the cellar of the lighthouse.
They did not know who they were dealing with! So I snuck on board, later that
night, and I slit their throats. Every last one of them. So there the
Serpent's Wake sits. The ghost ship of Anvil they'll call it now! Ha ha ha ha
ha!
Some wonderful news, mother! Advancement at last! Lucien Lachance paid a visit
to the Sanctuary today, to talk with me! He told me the Black Hand needed my
services. One of the other Speakers is looking to replace his assistant, who
was killed fulfilling a contract. So Lucien Lachance suggested me! I met with
the Speaker, and will serve as his new "Silencer." Ha! Lachance might as well
have given me a contract to kill the Night Mother herself! I am now one step
closer to realizing our dream. I will learn the Night Mother's identity and
tear the heart from her chest. Oh yes, and I have something special planned
for Lachance himself...
mommy I so afrade. i mis yu mommy. i just wantyu to kis me agenn
father prayed and guess who came the hooded man in Sithis' name who left but
then he came once more to pass through window wall and door I lie in fear my
mouth agape as wicked blade did cleave your nape for I was watching 'neath the
bed to see the falling of your head and when your face lie on the floor our
loving eyes did meet once more and so I pledged to you that day the
Brotherhood would dearly pay and just as they took me from you I'd find and
kill their mother too but there's someplace I need to start and that's with
father's beating heart and when that's done I'll sing and dance to celebrate a
dead LaChance
greenblueREDyelloworangegreenblueREDyelloworangegreenblueREDyelloworangegreenb
lueREDyelloworangegreenblueREDyelloworangegreen
blueREDyelloworangegreenblueREDyelloworangeBLACKBLACKBLACKBLACKBLACK!!!!!!
I've been careless! Too careless. The bodies, the burnings. Killing that fool
Blanchard was the worst mistake I've made so far. I was seen! I was cloaked
and hooded, and escaped into shadow, so no one learned my true identity. But
now the Black Hand is suspicious. They suspect treachery, suspect a traitor! I
must be more cautious than ever.
when in the snow I like to lie and fold my arms and wait to die
I've been switching them! Switching the dead drops! It was so easy! I tracked
Lachance from his lair at Fort Farragut to the first dead drop location. After
Lachance placed the orders, when I was sure he was gone, I switched them! It
was so easy. Now Lachance's fool Silencer is working for us, mother! Oh, the
fun we'll have. One of the Black Hand told me they haven't seen such an
ambitious family member since I first joined the Dark Brotherhood. I will use
that very ambition to my own advantage. The fool will never question the dead
drops, and as I write this is en route to the first target -- one of the very
members of the Black Hand! And so it begins. Lachance's silencer will kill one
high ranking Brother member, then another, then another, and so on, until the
entire family implodes. Eventually, as is the custom, the survivors will
consult the Night Mother and seek her guidance. When that day comes, I will be
there, ready to punge a blade into that dark whore's fetid heart!
!eid lliw ecnahcaL neicuL
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(Search Code: LOLZ240)
~~Treatise on Ayleidic Cities~~
Mathieu Bellamont
Item ID: xx0014A2
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I will not be the first scholar to point to a combination of benign intent and
arrogance on behalf of the Ayleids as the source of many ruinous affairs for
the old heartland elves.
The Nefarivigum, a foul construct of Mehrunes Dagon, was erected to be ever
watchful for the pilgrim who would approach it and best an unknown trial of
worth. It is said that such a pilgrim would be rewarded with the blessing of
Mehrunes Razor, a vicious blade through which Dagon himself can claim the very
souls of those it strikes.
Benign intent compelled Ayleid folk to seek out the Nefarivigum. Arrogance let
them believe themselves capable of disbarring any who would seek the Razor. So
was built Varsa Baalim, a great, ringed, labyrinthine city, during the height
of Ayleid rule.
Sure as death, pilgrims came to Varsa Baalim, and for years the Elves drove
back many, until it came to pass that a vampire slipped into the city
unnoticed. Merfolk were touched with the foul affliction, throwing the city
into a gathering storm of madness and ruin, and soon it seemed none was left
to prevent the Razor from being recovered.
Then, suddenly, Varsa Baalim was gone. Historic accounts dispute whether it
happened through some final safety, a natural cataclysm, or by the touch of
the Divines themselves. Whatever the cause, history agrees on the result: the
mountains of the Eastern Niben swallowed Varsa Baalim, and the Nefarivigum
with it, where has remained hidden since the early days of the First Era.
If the tale is true, then somewhere on the eastern fringes of the Niben
Valley, where man's rule has scarcely reached through the years, the
Nefarivigum still lies in wait, among a city of unliving abominations entombed
within the cold bowels of the mountain.
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(Search Code: LOLZ241)
~~Trials of St. Alessia~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024579
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[from the Trials of St. Alessia]
Akatosh made a covenant with Alessia in those days so long ago. He gathered
the tangled skeins of Oblivion, and knit them fast with the bloody sinews of
his Heart, and gave them to Alessia, saying, 'This shall be my token to you,
that so long as your blood and oath hold true, yet so shall my blood and oath
be true to you. This token shall be the Amulet of Kings, and the Covenant
shall be made between us, for I am the King of Spirits, and you are the Queen
Mortals. As you shall stand witness for all Mortal Flesh, so shall I stand
witness for all Immortal Spirits.'
And Akatosh drew from his breast a burning handful of his Heart's blood, and
he gave it into Alessia's hand, saying, 'This shall also be a token to you of
our joined blood and pledged faith. So long as you and your descendants shall
wear the Amulet of Kings, then shall this dragonfire burn -- an eternal flame
-- as a sign to all men and gods of our faithfulness. So long as the
dragonfires shall burn, to you, and to all generations, I swear that my
Heart's blood shall hold fast the Gates of Oblivion.
So long as the Blood of the Dragon runs strong in her rulers, the glory of the
Empire shall extend in unbroken years. But should the dragonfires fail, and
should no heir of our joined blood wear the Amulet of Kings, then shall the
Empire descend into darkness, and the Demon Lords of Misrule shall govern the
land.'
-- from the liturgy of the Re-Kindling of the Dragonfires
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(Search Code: LOLZ242)
~~The True Nature of Orcs~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024592
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ243)
~~Varieties of Daedra~~
Aranea Drethan, Healer and Dissident Priest
Item ID: 00024592
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There is little chance of our ever understanding the various orders of Daedra
and their relationships to the Daedra Lords and their dominions. Of the
varieties of Daedra that appear in our world, and the varieties of their
relationships to their fellows and their Daedra patrons, there is no end. In
one place and time they are seen to be this, and in another place and time
they are seen to be the opposite, and in another place and time they are seen
to be both this and that, in completely contradictory terms.
What Daedra serves this Prince? What Daedra gives orders, and what Daedra
serves, and in what hierarchy, and under what circumstances? What Daedra exist
in fellowship with one another, and what Daedra have eternal enmity to one
another, and what Daedra are solitary, or social, and by turns solitary or
social? There are no limits to the varieties of behaviors that may be
observed, and in one place they may be this, and in another place they may
that, and all rules describing them are always found to be contradictory and
in exception to others.
Further, from whom may we seek answers to our questions about these orders?
From mortals, who know little but what they may observe of another world? From
the gods, who speak in riddles, of enigmas wrapped in mysteries, and who keep
things from us, the better to preserve their dominion over us? From the Daedra
themselves, who are never the models of straightforwardness or truthtelling,
but rather are famous for misstatements and obfuscations?
And even were the Daedra to speak the truth, how can we know if they know
themselves, or that there is any truth about them that is to be known, or are
all arrangements among the Daedra protean and ever subject to change?
In short, what is to be known is little, and and what is to be trusted is
nothing.
These things being said, I shall venture to relate what I have observed and
heard of the relationships of the servants of Lord Dagon in my brief service
to the Telvanni Wizard Divayth Fyr, when I sought him out and offered to bring
peace to the victims of corprus in his sanitarium, once the Prophecies of the
Incarnate had been fulfilled, and Dagoth Ur had been destroyed, and the Blight
had been banished from the island of Vvardenfell forever.
Divayth Fyr told me that he, by choice, trafficked only with two Daedra Powers
-- Mehrunes Dagon and Azura.
Azura, he said, knew and understood all things, and declined to speak of these
things, or only spoke in riddles.
Mehrunes Dagon, on the other hand, out of pride, fixity of purpose, and a
predictable lack of subtlety in thought, knew nothing and understood nothing,
and was inclined to speak freely and without falsehood.
Divayth Fyr said that Dagon's chief servants, the Dremora, were like him in
pride, fixed purpose, and lack of subtlety, with the addition of the peculiar
traits of honor and loyalty, both within their class and within their
relationship to Lord Dagon.
And Divayth Fyr said that the Dremora were ordered into clans and castes, and
these clans and castes were well-defined. Individual Dremora might rise or
fall in ranks, or move back and forth among clans, but only when regulated by
complex oaths, and only at the will and pleasure of their Lord Dagon.
The Dremora refer to themselves as 'The Kyn' ('the People'), contrasting
themselves to other Daedra, whom they consider unthinking animals. The term
'kynaz' refers to a member of the Dremora race ('he of the Kyn').
The least of kyn castes are the Churls, the undistinguished rabble of the
lowest rank of Dremora. Churls are obsequeous to superiors but ferociously
cruel to humans and other Daedra.
Next in rank are the Caitiffs, creatures of uncalculating zeal, energy without
discrimination. Caitiffs are used as irregulars in the faction wars of the
Daedra, as berserkers and shock troops, undisciplined and unreliable, but
eager and willing.
The highest of the regular rank-and file of Dremora troops are the Kynvals,
warrior-knights who have distinguished themselves in battle, and shown the
deliberate steadiness of potential war leaders.
Above the rank and file warriors of the Churl, Caitiff, and Kynval castes are
the officer castes.
A Kynreeve is a clan sheriff or clan officer. Kynreeves are typically
associated either with a clan fighting unit or an administrative office in the
order of battle.
The Kynmarcher is the lord and high officer of a Daedric citadel, outpost, or
gate. A Kymarcher's command is usually associated both with a unit and with a
'fief' -- a location or territory for which he is responsible.
Above the Kymarcher is the Markynaz, or 'grand duke'. A Markynaz is a lord of
lords, and member of the Markyn, Mehrunes Dagon's Council of Lords.
The highest rank of Dremora is the Valkynaz, or 'prince'. This warrior duke is
a member of the Valkyn, Mehrunes Dagon's personal guard. The Valkynaz are
rarely encountered on Tamriel; normally they remain by Mehrunes Dagon's side,
or serve as commanders of operations of particular importance or interest to
Dagon.
Of the varieties of other Daedra I encountered while I served in Divayth Fyr's
Corprusarium -- Ogrims and Golden Saints, Daedroths and Winged Twilights,
Scamps and Clannfear -- there is much that might be said, but little that is
helpful or reliable.
I did note, however, that when Divayth Fyr sought a Daedra of a character like
unto the Dremora, but of greater power, and greater inclination for
independence and initiative, or solely as a master, he summoned Xivilai, who
are like the Dremora in personality and temperment, except that they hate
subordination, and are liable to disloyalty and betrayal when they feel they
have not been treated with the proper deference and respect.
The feral, beastlike Daedra like the Clannfear and the Daedroth appear in the
service of many different Daedric Powers, and may represent common creatures
existing like wild animals in the wildernesses of Oblivion. Other savage,
semi-intelligent creatures like Scamps and Spider Daedra may also be found in
the realms of various Daedra Lords.
The case of the Elemental Atronachs, on the other hand, is less certain. Flame
and Frost Atronachs, for example, appear to be highly intelligent, but not all
varieties of Elemental Atronachs seem to be social or to have the power of
speech. Divayth Fyr preferred not to summon or deal with these creatures, had
little experience with them, and showed no inclination to speculate upon their
nature, so I learned little about them during my time at Tel Fyr.
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(Search Code: LOLZ244)
~~The Waters of Oblivion~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00024593
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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?
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(Search Code: LOLZ245)
~~The Wild Elves~~
Kier-Jo Chorvak
Item ID: 00024594
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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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ246)
~~The Wolf Queen, v8~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 00024581
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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
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.
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(Search Code: LOLZ240A)
~~Lord Kelvyn's Will~~
Lord Kelvyn
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Last Will and Testament
I, Lord Kelvyn, son of Jaren, and a sworn Knight of the True Horn, upon my
death do hereby bequeath Battlehorn Castle and all her lands, dependents, and
chattels to the bearer of this document.
Such an unusual document requires some explanation. I resort to such measures
out of desperation. I pen this while Battlehorn Castle lies besieged by a band
of ruthless marauders, with little hope that any of us will survive.
"Besieged" I say, although this petty battle would not have even rated a
footnote in the great days of the Knights of the True Horn. We have fallen on
hard times, indeed.
I will entrust this document to my last faithful retainers, with instructions
to destroy it in the last extremity, although I accept that I may have
provided the means for my murderers to legally take the lordship of Battlehorn
Castle. So be it.
To the new lord of Battlehorn Castle, whoever you are, know that you inherit a
stronghold with a proud tradition. Battlehorn Castle was built by a remnant of
the Knights of the True Horn who were exiled from our homeland of Lainlyn in
Hammerfell. After a failed battle to dethrone Baron Shrike of Lainlyn, our
leader, Lord Kain, ordered us to split up into as many small groups as
possible until the time should come that he would recall us. My father was
part of a group that settled here in Cyrodiil and built Battlehorn Castle as a
refuge while they waited for Lord Kain's message... a message that never
arrived.
Over the years, all the Knights of our little band either gave up or passed
on, all but one: my father Jaren. Since his untimely death, I have continued
to hold Battlehorn Castle in the hope that someday we will hear from Lord Kain
and our great exile will be at an end.
I am afraid that the fortunes of Battlehorn Castle have fallen on hard times.
What resources I had available I devoted to maintaining the castle itself --
its walls still stand strong and its hearths still provide warmth. Sadly, this
came at great cost, and many of the items within its walls had to be sold in
order to meet the enormous payments such maintenance begets. If you find
yourself with the means to restore Battlehorn Castle to its former glory, a
friend of my father's named Nilphas Omellian still holds many of the castle
accoutrements in storage and on account. All that is required is to repay the
Castle's debts to Nilphas, and I'm certain he'll happily return the items.
My final request for the new lord of Battlehorn Castle is to continue to
uphold the proud traditions of the Knights of the True Horn, and to honor the
memory of our brave service.
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(Search Code: LOLZ240B)
~~Lord Jaren's Journal~~
Lord Jaren
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I hope I have done well. I don't know. Perhaps I should tell the others. But
what hope would they have then? I will have to tell Kelvyn, one day, when it
is time for him to assume the lordship of the Castle. He, at least, may
forgive me, as I am his father.
I must collect my thoughts. Lord Kain returned last night, while the others
were gone to the city. Thank Onsi it was only myself and Garridan -- faithful
friend! I have sworn him to secrecy. He was only too happy to let me take
responsibility for what we did.
Later: I am more resolved than ever that the others must never find out. They
must never know what Lord Kain has become, our liege lord -- we sacrificed
everything for him!
I will set it all down here, clearly, so that others may judge whether I have
done right or wrong.
When Garridan woke me to tell me that Lord Kain had arrived, I was overjoyed
at first. Garridan's grim face soon warned me that all was not well, but he
would not tell me what was wrong. Only that Lord Kain was accompanied by
Arielle Jurard, a name to freeze the blood -- a Breton battlemage of sinister
reputation in Lainlyn.
Lord Kain was waiting in the great hall with Arielle Jurard. He was heavily
cloaked, unsurprisingly as it was a foul night, but I wondered why he had not
removed it upon entering the castle.
I greeted Lord Kain warmly, ignoring his companion for the moment, but when he
spoke, it was only haltingly, and with a grating edge that I had never heard
before. "Where are the others?" was all he said. Arielle Jurard quickly
intervened, explaining that Lord Kain was unwell and needed a place to rest.
By the time Kain was abed, I was fully alarmed. He moved like an old man, and
barely spoke in my presence. He left a foul odor in his wake, and remained
cloaked until I left him in my chambers. I then demanded that Arielle explain
herself, which she was only too willing to do. Her story was appalling.
Apparently Kain had perished in battle shortly after we left, but by her arts
she had returned him to life, and now planned to gather an army of Knights to
resume the war against Baron Shrike. Her eyes glittered with pride as she told
me all this -- she is so far gone in madness and evil that she actually
believed that I would go along with her plan to install a necromatic puppet on
the throne of Lainlyn! For all Baron Shrike's cruelties, he at least is mortal
and will one day pass on the rule to an heir.
Somehow I was able to hide my shock from Arielle Jurard, and pretended to
agree to her plan. "The other knights will need to have Lord Kain's...
condition... explained to them before they see him," I told her. "Otherwise
the surprise of seeing him may lead some to regrettable actions." Thinking
quickly, I suggested that she tend to Lord Kain in the grotto until I had
prepared the others. She agreed without suspicion -- I wonder if her mind has
become disordered by her evil practices -- my performance could not have been
all that convincing.
Once they were inside, I shut them in, with Garridan's help. May Tu'whacca
have mercy on Lord Kain's soul... As for Arielle Jurard, I wish nothing but
endless night on her foul spirit.
I've had workmen cover up the doorway. Only a few of the others were ever
aware of that passage behind the training room -- luckily Kelvyn was not among
them. I'll have to come up with some story to satisfy those who ask about the
grotto -- or tell them the truth and face the consequences.
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(Search Code: LOLZ247)
~~Black Horse Courier: Assassination!~~
Item ID: 000274EE
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SPECIAL EDITION!
EMPEROR AND HEIRS ASSASSINATED!
Elder Council Named as Regents!
Emperor Uriel Septim VII is dead, at the age of 87, having ruled Tamriel for
65 years. He was killed by assassins unknown. At the same time, in separate
locations, the late emperor's three sons and heirs (Crown Prince Geldall, 56;
Prince Enman, 55; Prince Ebel, 53] were slain by other assassins. An
investigation into the identity and motives of the assassins is under way, but
the Elder Council, Imperial Guard, and Blades Guard have forbidden the
publication of reports and rumors concerning the event until further notice.
By ancient precedent, the Elder Council rules the empire until a new emperor
is crowned. No direct heirs survive, and the council has proposed no list of
candidates. Chancellor Ocato, Imperial Battlemage, speaking for the Elder
Council, presented an appeal to the empire's citizens for calm, and asked that
the people remember the Emperor, his sons, and the Elder Council in their
prayers.
Emperor Uriel's early reign was marked by peace and prosperity. The Empress
Caula Voria bore him three healthy sons, was a loving companion to the
Emperor, and a great favorite of the people. However, the emperor and the
empire suffered terribly during the Imperial Simulacrum (3E 389-399], when he
was held captive in Oblivion while the usurper Jagar Tharn assumed his
appearance and ruled in his stead. Emperor Uriel was finally rescued and
restored and the impostor defeated by the agency of the sorceress Ria Silmane
and her shadowy protégé, but the affairs of the empire were in great disorder,
and Empress Caula Voria, exhausted by her ordeal, withdrew from public life.
The decades following the Restoration were once again peaceful and prosperous,
but increasing political tensions among the petty states of northwest Tamriel
finally erupted in the Wars of the Iliac Bays, resulting in the establishment
of the modern borders of Daggerfall, Sentinel, Wayrest, and Orsinium, and
culminating with the remarkable events associated with the Warp in the West.
The latter years of the Emperor's reign have seen a flourishing of Imperial
influence in the provinces, and with the fortunate resolution of the religious
wars and the Vvardenfell Crisis, and with the wise and firm guidance of King
Helseth and his mother, Queen Barenziah, an extension of high Imperial culture
even into the more remote parts of Morrowind.
The Emperor's murder, and the murder of his three sons, is a terrible crime,
and a great tragedy for the Empire. Battlemage Ocato assures us that all the
resources of the Elder Council, the Legions, the Guard, the Arcane University,
and the Imperial Battle College are being employed to bring the assassins to
justice. But, in the meantime, the greatest tribute we citizens can offer to
the memory of our beloved Emperor is to go earnestly and diligently about our
daily affairs, honoring the life of the great Empire he loved so much, and
served so faithfully for so long.
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(Search Code: LOLZ248)
~~Black Horse Courier: Gray Fox, Man or Myth?~~
Item ID: 0006D6EE
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GRAY FOX, MAN OR MYTH?
Is a so-called Thieves Guild masterminding all the thefts in the Imperial
City? Captain Hieronymus Lex of the Imperial Watch seems to think so.
When asked about the Thieves Guild and its mythical leader, the Gray Fox, the
captain was quite emphatic. "This one man is responsible for all crime in the
city!" The energetic and tenacious Captain Lex has therefore devoted himself
to apprehending this masked menace.
When questioned on the subject, Adamus Phillida, Legion Commander and Captain
Lex's immediate superior, had the following response. "Ridiculous! The Gray
Fox is just a fairy tale. There is no such thing as a Thieves Guild, and there
never has been."
Stories of an unstoppable thief called the Gray Fox have been circulating
around the Imperial City for centuries. The stories claim he can turn
invisible at will, shrink himself down to the size of a mouse, turn to mist
and seep under locked doors, and perform any number of other truly
unbelievable feats. If even half of these stories are true, Captain Lex will
have his hands full capturing the Gray Fox.
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(Search Code: LOLZ249)
~~Black Horse Courier: Gray Fox Unmasked!~~
Item ID: 0006D6EF
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GRAY FOX UNMASKED!
Vlanarus Kvinchal recently admitted to being the notorious thief, the Gray
Fox. Under questioning by the Imperial Watch, he also confessed to being the
reincarnation of Tiber Septim, the love-child of Lord Stendarr, a were-shark,
and the mother of Hieronymus Lex. Only after he spent a night in the Imperial
prisons was it discovered that Vlanarus had recently consumed a near-lethal
dose of skooma.
Vlanarus is now back home and recuperating from the hospitality of the
Imperial Watch and from the close attention he received during his
interrogation. He speculates that he might be able to work again in a month or
two, so long as it doesn't involve walking or lifting anything heavier than a
beer mug. The sometimes- dockworker has sworn a solemn oath never to trifle
with Skooma again, and earnestly warns everyone to stay away from the Orum
gang.
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(Search Code: LOLZ250)
~~Black Horse Courier: New 'Doomstones' Series!~~
Item ID: 0006BD47
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QUILL-WEAVE PLANS NEW 'DOOMSTONES' CYCLE
"Doomstones not Magical" Says Noted Argonian Writer
The author of 'The Goblin with the Golden Arm' and 'Red Crater' plans a new
series of historical works set in the early days of the Reman emperors. The
stories will center around the sorcerers and battlemages that play such a
prominent part in the legends of the Reman emperors' rapid rise to power in
the closing years of the Second Era. She plans to call the series "The Paths
of the Doomstones."
The Argonian authoress declined to reveal any details of the characters and
themes of these books. However, Quill-Weave clearly has quite ambitious plans
for this series, since she plans titles to correspond with each of Cyrodiil's
twenty-one Doomstones. These ancient monuments are scattered throughout
Cyrodiil, and each is known in legend by its own name.
"I always carefully research my subjects," Quill-Weave says, "and I find no
evidence at all to support the popular notion that these runestones were once
artifacts of great magical power." She noted that thirteen of these stones are
associated with the common birthsigns by which people have always marked the
aspects of the heavens when children are born. "Such stones as the 'Mage
Stone' and the 'Serpent Stone' were certainly associated with the primitive
sky worships of the Beast Folk of the Mythic Era. Other stones, like the
'Aetherius Stone' and the 'Magnus Stone' were also doubtless associated with
other long-forgotten cults."
The Courier asked Quill-Weave why she might choose to abandon the popular
tales of thieves, outlaws, murderers, and low-lifes that have made her so
famous in Cyrodiil and throughout the Empire. She explained that she has long
sought material with more mature and epic themes to celebrate the noble
virtues of Cyrodiil and the Empire. She assured the Courier that she will fill
the Doomstones series with the lusty and colorful characters we've come to
know and love. "But this time," Quill-Weave says, "my characters will uproot
trees, devastate cities, and summon rains of boiling blood before slipping
away to explore the private and intimate mysteries of the heart."
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(Search Code: LOLZ251)
~~Black Horse Courier: A New Guild for Fighters?~~
Item ID: 00098682
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FIGHTERS GUILD FACES TOUGH COMPETITION
The Fighters Guild has been an institution in Tamriel for as long as most
anyone can remember. These brave men and women have, for countless years,
always been available to do those jobs that the average citizen is simply not
qualified to handle. Whether it be ridding a homeowner of a plague of rats or
rescuing a wayward scholar, the Fighters Guild has always been available for
anyone with enough coin to pay their modest fees. Now, however, it seems that
the Fighters Guild is not the only game in town.
A new group has recently been making a lot of waves in Cyrodiil. They call
themselves the Blackwood Company, and they've let it be known that they'll
handle any job that the Fighters Guild will, and many that they won't.
While the Fighters Guild has always maintained the strictest standards on both
the quality of their members and the legality of the contracts they accept,
the Blackwood Company makes none of the same claims. They have no screening
process when accepting new members, and they seem willing to accept any
contract, assuming one can afford the price tag.
Some have questioned the Blackwood Company's methods. They are rumored to be
reckless and indiscriminant. Many have spoken of needless damage to person and
property during the fulfillment of a contract. None of those we spoke to were
willing to go on the record for this article.
What the future holds for this upstart group remains to be seen. Are they the
perfect solution for a quickly changing world? Will their methods force the
Fighters Guild to adopt more lenient business practices? Only time will tell.
Until then, if you need a job done, and the Fighters Guild won't do it, check
with your local Blackwood Company!
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(Search Code: LOLZ252)
~~Black Horse Courier: Night Mother Rituals!~~
Item ID: 0007BEA0
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SPECIAL EDITION
NIGHT MOTHER RITUALS ON THE RISE!
"And won't be tolerated!"
warns Imperial Legion.
by Agnes "the quill is mightier than the ebony sword" Earheardt
The Imperial City -- pinnacle of art, entertainment, scholarship... and
ritualistic murder? So says Adamus Phillida, commander of the Imperial Legion
forces in the Imperial City, and a staunch opponent of the mysterious
assassin's guild known as the Dark Brotherhood. According to Phillida,
Imperial Legion soldiers have discovered thirteen separate instances of the
macabre "Black Sacrament," a sinister rite purportedly used to summon a member
of the Dark Brotherhood, in order to arrange an assassination.
Whether or not a card-carrying killer shows up on a ritual performer's
doorstep remains to be seen, but the Black Sacrament itself is very real, and
truly the stuff of nightmares. As documented in the rare and taboo work "A
Kiss, Sweet Mother," the Black Sacrament involves an effigy of the intended
victim -- created from actual body parts, including a heart, skull, bones and
flesh -- within a circle of candles. To proceed with the ritual, one must stab
the effigy repeatedly with a dagger rubbed with the petals of a Nightshade
plant, while whispering the plea, "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child
unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear." As
gruesome as this ritual may be, even more frightening is its intention -- the
summoning of a mysterious assassin (who some witnesseses claim is always clad
in a black hooded robe) who will then receive money to kill an innocent
victim. No remorse. No regret. It is, as the merchant's say, simply business.
And that's what worries Adamus Phillida.
"This brazen increase in Night Mother rituals is an affront to the decent,
peace-loving citizens of the Empire. The Imperial Legion exists for one reason
and one reason only -- to protect and serve the people of Tamriel. How in
Azura's name can we do that when people take it upon themselves to contact
paid assassins and have innocent people murdered? How can I sleep at night
knowing my Legion can't possibly save the life of someone marked for death by
the Dark Brotherhood? Anyone who carries out this "Black Sacrament" makes a </pre><pre id="faqspan-33">
mockery of the Imperial Legion, and as Commander, that's something I just
can't tolerate. From this point forward, any citizen found in the possession
of items related to the Night Mother ritual will be incarcerated in the
Imperial Prison indefinitely, and their property seized by the Empire. There's
no fine high enough, no standard prison sentence long enough, for the type of
malcontent who would show such a blatant disregard for our dear Emperor's laws
and the wellfare of the fine people of Tamriel"
To be sure, Adamus Phillida is not one to issue empty threats. Indeed, the
Black Horse Courier has learned that one Claudius Arcadia, until recently a
resident of the Talos Plaza District of the Imperial City, is now residing in
a cold, dank cell in the Imperial Prison, and his house has become the newest
Imperial Legion outpost. So before you take the law into your own hands, dear
reader, remember -- you'll go further in life with a warm smile than a cold
blade. And if you've got a grudge that won't be soothed, a score that can't be
settled, you can always move to Morrowind and have the government-sanctioned
Morag Tong do the killing for you.
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(Search Code: LOLZ253)
~~Black Horse Courier: Adamus Phillida Slain!~~
Can only be obtained after the quest "Permanent Retirement."
Item ID: 0006D6ED
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
SPECIAL EDITION!
ADAMUS PHILLIDA SLAIN
BY DARK BROTHERHOOD!
by Waldorf Wordswell
In what can only be described as a blatant assault on the security and liberty
of the civilized people of Cyrodiil, retired Imperial Legion commander Adamus
Phillida was brutally murdered by the secretive assassins guild known as the
Dark Brotherhood. The slaying occurred in the sleepy town of Leyawiin, where
Phillida had chosen to spend the remainder of his days. It was to be a life of
quiet solitude, far removed from the hustle and bustle of the Imperial City,
where Phillida had served the Imperial Legion proudly for more than twenty-
five years.
But even in retirement, the noble Legion commander could not escape his past.
Throughout the years, Adamus Phillida had become a rather vocal opponent of
the Dark Brotherhood and its practices, and vowed to expose the
organizations' secrets and bring its leaders to justice. Indeed, Phillida had
been targeted for assassination twice in the past, but both attempts were
thwarted by the commander and his Legion soldiers. Sadly, his luck ran out in
Leyawiin.
When asked if there was any doubt as to the Dark Brotherhood's involvement in
Phillida murder, newly appointed Imperial Legion commander Giovanni Civello
had this to say:
"It was the Dark Brotherhood, all right. No question about it. This was a
crime of vengeance, a despicable act of hatred and evil against a pinnacle of
nobility and virtue. Adamus fought the Dark Brotherhood every day of his life,
and he died for what he believed in. Adamus Phillida was a great man. He
taught me everything I know, and I'll be damned if I let his dream die with
him. From this day forward, I vow to destroy the Dark Brotherhood and
everything they stand for!"
Adamus Phillida may be dead, but it would seem his fight against the Dark
Brotherhood lives on in Giovanni Civello and the rest of the Imperial Legion.
There may soon come a day when those bloodthirsty assassins have more to fear
than the good people of the Imperial Province.
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(Search Code: LOLZ254)
~~Black Horse Courier: Anvil Tarts Thwarted!~~
Can only be obtained after the quest "The Siren's Deception" if all
the Siren's are killed.
Item ID: 00066CD5
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
SPECIAL EDITION!
GANG OF TARTS THWARTED!
Temptresses Terrorize Anvil No More!
A ruthless crime ring of female thieves plaguing Anvil's men folk has finally
been broken. These shameless women employed feminine wiles to seduce the men,
lured them to remote locations, then robbed them, leaving them without a
stitch of clothing.
The gang's ringleader, Faustina Cartia, had preyed upon Anvil's male
population for some time, but the shamefaced victims had been reluctant to
admit what was happening. Now, thanks to an extensive undercover operation by
two unnamed Anvil Guard Investigators, and with the aid of an anonymous
private operative, this menace to Anvil's men has been summarily dealt with,
and the wives of Anvil may rest easier knowing their gullible husbands will no
longer be imperiled by predatory seductresses.
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(Search Code: LOLZ255)
~~Black Horse Courier: Cheydinhal Heir Saved!~~
Can only be obtained after the quest "The Wayward Knight" if Farwil
lived.
Item ID: 00066CD3
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
SPECIAL EDITION!
CHEYDINHAL HEIR SAVED
FROM CERTAIN DOOM!
Sir Farwil and Companions Close Gate Threatening City!
Farwil Indarys, son and heir of His Lordship Andel Indarys, Count of
Cheydinhal, has been delivered from the sulfurous torments of Oblivion by a
questing hero. The count's courageous son and his boon companions, the Knights
of the Thorn, had boldly entered an Oblivion Gate threatening Cheydinhal,
intent on slaying its monstrous horrors and protecting the city and its
citizens.
Sources report that the Knights were outnumbered a hundred to one, and only
the dauntless courage and strength of arms of Farwil and one other brave soul
managed to hold them at bay. Thanks to an allied adventurer who entered the
gate to offer his aid, the Knights of the Thorn, led by the noble Sir Farwil,
were able to assault the main citadel and shut the gate forever. Cheydinhal
and its people are forever in the debt of Sir Farwil and his brave companions.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ256)
~~Black Horse Courier: Greatest Painter Safe!~~
Can only be obtained after the quest "A Brush With Death."
Item ID: 00066CD4
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
SPECIAL EDITION!
CYRODIIL'S GREATEST PAINTER SAFE!
Disappearance Still a Mystery!
Rythe Lythandas of Cheydinhal, one of this period's most noted landscape
painters, is finally back in his studio after an unexplained absence. He'd
reportedly been missing for several days.
Neither the artist nor his wife would comment on the circumstances of his
disappearance, though both expressed deep gratitude to the unnamed citizen
responsible for his safe return. [The citizen remains anonymous at the request
of the happy couple.] Speculation by sources within the Cheydinhal Guard of a
kidnapping and ransom demand behind the disappearance cannot be confirmed.
A grateful Empire expresses its appreciation to Lythandas' anonymous
benefactor. The Courier is pleased to report that Lythandas is back to work in
his studio, and anticipates a new exhibition by our great living painter in
the near future.
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(Search Code: LOLZ257)
~~Black Horse Courier: New Watch Captain Named~~
Can only be obtained after the quest "Taking Care of Lex."
Item ID: 0006D6F2
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
New Watch Captain Named
Servatius Quintilius was recently promoted to Watch Captain to replace
Hieronymus Lex. Captain Lex's career was marked by frequent tirades against
the mythical thief and master criminal, the so-called "Gray Fox." At the same
time, Hieronymus Lex announced that he has been retained by Countess Millona
Umbranox of Anvil to be her new Captain of the Guard.
Captain Quintilius is a practical man who does not believe in the Thieves
Guild or its imaginary grandmaster, the Gray Fox. He has promised peace and
order in the districts under his protection. Guard patrol routes will be
posted so that all citizens will know where to find a Watchman when they need
one.
When asked if this would also make things easier for thieves, Captain
Quintilius responded, "Never. Criminals are dumb. Wouldn't be criminals
otherwise, right? Stands to reason. You smart Courier boys should just leave
the crime-fighting in this city to professionals like me."
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(Search Code: LOLZ258)
~~Black Horse Courier: Palace Break-In?~~
Can only be obtained after the quest "The Ultimate Heist."
Item ID: 0006D6F4
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Palace Break-In?
The Legion Centurion in command of the Palace Guard was charged with
dereliction of duty. Although the Council has officially denied the stories of
a palace break-in, the rumors persist. Muddled accounts of the events and
principles range from a madman intent on spit-polishing the Emperor's shoes to
a master thief stealing one of the legendary Elder Scrolls.
The Palace Guard has made no arrests in connection with the break-in. However,
the Watch has been making peculiar inquiries all around the city. The Guard
and the Legion are in complete agreement on one matter at least... neither the
fictitious Thieves Guild nor its mythical leader, the Gray Fox, could have
been in any way involved. Although rumor has long insisted that the Thieves
Guild has been a significant factor in Imperial City criminal activities,
representatives of the Guard and Legion insist that even the mythical Gray Fox
would never dare to break into the Imperial Palace.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ259)
~~Black Horse Courier: Pale Pass Discovery!~~
Can only be obtained after the quest "Lifting the Vale."
Item ID: 00066CD2
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
SPECIAL EDITION!
FORT PALE PASS DISCOVERED!
First Era Secrets Revealed!
Fort Pale Pass, the fabled headquarters of Tamriel's First Era Akaviri
invaders, has been located by an agent of the Countess of Bruma. This fortress
was thought to be long lost to the ages, buried in the frozen wastes of the
Jeral Mountains. Thanks to an expedition funded by Her Ladyship Narina
Carvain, Countess of Bruma, the secret entrance to this great ruin was found.
Previously, scholars have offered no persuasive account for why the Akaviri
juggernaut, having swept aside Tamriel's defenders, should collapse suddenly
and completely crossing the Jeral Mountains. Now evidence uncovered at the
site indicates a great landslide had covered the fort, trapping the hapless
Akaviri commanders within, leaving the Akaviri columns leaderless and isolated
in the alpine wilderness passes.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ260)
~~Black Horse Courier: Poor Burdened by Taxes!~~
Can only be obtained after the quest "Untaxing the Poor."
Item ID: 0006D6F0
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Poor Burdened by Taxes!
Recently Captain Hieronymus Lex of the Imperial Watch collected the taxes from
all citizens in the Waterfront district of the city. Although the laws are
clear that all citizens of the Imperial City must pay taxes, it has been 53
years since anyone applied that law to the poor and destitute of the
Waterfront.
Although members of the Watch approached by the Courier declined to comment on
the success of the venture, one of the Watchmen who asked not to be named
suggested the operation was "a complete... wossitsname? You know. Starts with
an 'f'. Right. Complete fee-ass-ko, is what it was."
In a related story, miscreants have recently broken into the South Watchtower.
An anonymous source reports that a small sum of money was stolen from the
office of Hieronymus Lex. By remarkable coincidence, the sum corresponds
exactly to the taxes collected by Captain Lex from the Waterfront.
The ever-vigilant Captain Lex has renewed his call to capture the infamous
thief, the Gray Fox. He is petitioning for a bounty to be put on the legendary
master thief's head.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ261)
~~Black Horse Courier: Pranks Spoils Society Gathering!~~
Can only be obtained after completeing Sanguine's Quest.
Item ID: 00098689
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
SPECIAL EDITION!
DINNER PARTY MARRED BY PRANKSTER
Countess Alessia Caro is a lady of great beauty, wit, and grace. Her face is
known throughout Cyrodiil. Unfortunately, thanks to one deviant prankster, the
rest of her has become known to a good deal of her castle staff as well.
During what started as a formal dinner party for some close friends of the
Countess, an unknown assailant cast a spell that affected all who attended.
Though it did no physical damage, it certainly left a lasting impression. The
Countess and all of her invited guests suddenly found themselves altogether…in
the altogether.
The spell apparently stripped everyone affected of all of their possessions,
including the clothes on their backs. From all reports, the frightened guests
handled the situation calmly, maintaining proper decorum at all times.
"Everybody was acting like ladies and gentleman," said one palace staffer who
asked not to be identified. "I don't think they was trying to sneak no glances
at anyone's naughty bits."
As to the identity of the assailant, castle guards have remained silent. Some
reports maintain that the culprit was apprehended at the scene; others claim
that he was able to escape without detection. One witness even claims that the
assailant was affected by his own spell, and fled the scene in haste when he
realized he, too, had been a victim.
Whatever the case, castle security has been on high alert since the incident.
It is not known as of press time whether Countess Caro has any dinner parties
planned in the near future.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ262)
~~Black Horse Courier: Rain of Burning Dogs!~~
Can only be obtained after completeing Sheogorath's Quest.
Item ID: 00098683
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
SPECIAL EDITION!
RAIN OF BURNING DOGS!
Experts Bewildered!
The quiet life of the idyllic Border Watch community was shattered recently by
a meteorological phenomenon local experts are unable to explain. On an
otherwise normal day, the skies above the small village suddenly darkened, and
burning dogs rained down from the heavens.
The carnage was terrible, according to witnesses. Charred dog carcasses
littered the village, and the smell alone was enough to drive many residents
into their homes. When asked about the event, local mage and weather expert
Castus Philidus had this to say:
"There seems to be no precedent for this in all of Tamrielic history. While
there have been stories of insects, frogs, and the occasional wayward mage
crashing to the earth, I've never encountered tales of burning dogs raining
from the skies. It is possible that the dogs were the part of some mage's
experiments with summoning gone bad, or perhaps the dogs were swept up in a
great wind and hurled into the sky. This might explain the dogs falling onto
the unfortunate Border Watch community. Of course, that still doesn't explain
why they were on fire."
While the experts seem puzzled, the residents of Border Watch see only one
explanation.
"It is the end of the world!" said one resident, who asked not to be named in
this article. "The K'Sharra Prophecy tells us that this will happen! The rats!
The sheep! We are all doomed! Doomed!"
Prophecy? Mages? Freak weather occurrence? We may never know. And the small
village of Border Watch will definitely never be the same.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ263)
~~Black Horse Courier: Tragic Accident! Baenlin Dead!~~
Can only be obtained after completeing "After Accidents Happen" quest
and only if Gromm lives.
Item ID: 000732B7
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
SPECIAL EDITION!
BRUMA'S BAENLIN DIES IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT!
Nephew inherits estate
by Phineas Farnsworth
For the residents of Bruma, a city known for its snowy avenues and frigid,
Skyrim-like temperatures, nothing is quite as important as the warmth and
safety of one's own home. But even the most secure dwelling can harbor a
deadly secret. In the case of Baenlin, an elderly Elf nobleman who had called
Bruma home for nearly forty-three years, death came not from the icy cold, nor
from the sting of a burglar's blade, but from a killer far more insidious --
structural instability.
According to Gromm, Baenlin's longtime live-in manservant, the day of his
master's death was like any other. Baenlin lived as a recluse, and rarely left
the comfort of his home. He spent his morning breakfasting, and his afternoons
reading or napping, but it was in the late evening hours before bedtime, when
Baenlin relaxed in his favorite chair as was his custom, when disaster struck.
A stuffed Minotaur head mounted on the wall directly over the chair came
crashing down, killing the unsuspecting noble instantly.
As horrible as Baenlin's death may seem, even more horrible is the revelation
that this was not an isolated incident, as previously thought. In fact,
through a series of interviews and an in-depth investigation, the Black Horse
Courier has learned that many of Bruma's homes are actually deathtraps waiting
to spring.
"Me and my boys, we done repair work on half these houses. They're a bleedin'
mess! Rotted wood, rusty nails, misaligned foundations. Them Nords, they're
good for drinkin' and killin', but they can't build a house worth a damn!"
So said Antoine Dubois, owner of Dubois and Sons Carpentry, a thriving house-
building business headquartered in the Breton nation of High Rock. Because of
his expertise, Dubois has been known to offer his services throughout the
Empire, and has visited Bruma on numerous occasions. In his opinion, this
predominantly Nord city features some of the most poorly-constructed dwellings
in all the Empire.
"Yeah, I know what the Nords say. It's the snow! It's rots the wood, it does
this, it does that. Whine, whine, whine! The mead-swillin' savages wouldn't
know oakwood from oranges. Truth is, they just don't know anything about the
latest architectural methods. The work is unsafe and sloppy. That head that
fell on the Elf? An infant could've secured those bindings better! It's no
wonder they came loose! But I've seen this type of thing all over Bruma. Did
you know that until I came in to do repair work on the roof, you couldn't
attend a service in the Chapel without getting snowed on? Now that's just
wrong."
When asked what he thought of the issues, Baenlin's nephew, Caenlin, who
inherited his uncle's estate and is now residing in the very house where he
was killed, had this to say:
"It was a tragic, tragic accident. I always told my poor uncle that head would
fall on him some day, but would he listen? Now, I've heard the rumors that
some think there was foul play involved, but that's nonsense, of course.
Everybody knows this city is falling apart. It could have happened to anyone."
And so, as the city of Bruma mourns the loss of one of its oldest and most
respected residents, there are those who can't help but wonder -- am I next?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ264)
~~Black Horse Courier: Vampire Nest in the City!~~
Can only be obtained after completeing the "Boots of Springheel Jak" quest.
Item ID: 0006D6F3
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Vampire Nest in the City!
A nest of vampires was recently discovered in the home of the Earl of Imbel.
The Courier is shocked to learn that Earl Jakben, a local noble of previously
unblemished reputation, is revealed to have [been] one of these vampires!
Responding to a tip by the Earl's servant, the Imperial Watch raided the Imbel
estate and slew all of the foul creatures. Captain Quintilius has
categorically denied the rumors that most of the terrible creatures of the
night were already dead by the time the Watch arrived.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ265)
~~Black Horse Courier: Waterfront Raid Fails!~~
Can only be obtained after completeing the "Misdirection" quest.
Item ID: 0006D6F1
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Daring Waterfront Raid Fails!
Stymied in his attempts to capture the legendary thief, the Gray Fox, Captain
Hieronymus Lex of the Imperial Watch raided the Waterfront. Extra Watchmen
were pulled from duty in other parts of the city to search the slums of the
Waterfront. A small amount of contraband was confiscated, but the Gray Fox
escaped.
The Arcane University has filed a formal complaint against Captain Hieronymus
Lex for dereliction of duty. The guards normally posted at the Arcane
University were sent to the Waterfront during the raid. An attempted break-in
at the University was foiled. University spokesmen insist that nothing was
taken. They scoffed at the idea that any mere thief could make off with one of
their treasures.
_____ _ _ _ _____ _
/ ____| | (_) (_) |_ _| | |
| (___ | |__ ___ _____ _ __ _ _ __ __ _ | | ___| | ___ ___
\___ \| '_ \| \ \ / / _ \ '__| | '_ \ / _` | | | / __| |/ _ \/ __|
____) | | | | |\ V / __/ | | | | | | (_| | _| |_\__ \ | __/\__ \
|_____/|_| |_|_| \_/ \___|_| |_|_| |_|\__, | |_____|___/_|\___||___/
__/ |
|___/
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ266)
~~Alyssa's Journal~~
Alyssa
Item ID: 0008209A
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Second Seed, Tirdas
Traelius surprised me when he brought me to this place. It is quite beautiful
here. This will be a much-needed vacation from the city.
I have found the cool water from the stream nearby to be quite refreshing.
The spot above the waterfall is a great area to clear my thoughts; I shall
bathe there frequently.
7th Mid Year, Turdas
His continual reference of this place as our 'home' is beginning to annoy me.
How do I tell him that it is not my wish to spend the rest of my days here?
11th Mid Year, Morndas
Traelius informed me that he plans on making this dwelling our permanent
home. I will try and convince him otherwise; I do not see us living here for
the rest of our lives!
15th Mid Year, Fredas
This place is beginning to feel like a cage. I need to get out. I am in much
need of fresh air, of sunlight, of life. I am going to try and find some way
out of here so I might be able to grab a bit of freedom from time to time.
20th Mid Year, Middas
I have been spending more time at my daily baths scouting the area below,
trying to find safe passage. I do not think he suspects anything, so I will
continue my search.
22nd Mid Year, Fredas
I climbed down the cliff face today and into the cavern below to scout out a
safe passage. I was careless in my steps and alerted a nearby creature. I
quickly retreated up the walls and bruised my arms and legs in the process. I
do not think Traelius has noticed the bruises, as he has not mentioned
anything about them as of yet. I need to be more careful.
24th Mid Year, Sundas
I think I have found a way around the creatures! Yes, I am certain. Before I
try to escape I will attempt to convince him to leave this place once and for
all.
27th Mid Year, Middas
My confession of last night to Traelius worked -- he is letting me return to
the city! In some ways I am sad. Sad that I will not see him for a while, for
I know he loves me and I, he. I just cannot stay here for the rest of my
days. I leave as soon as I am finished packing.
Turdas
Traelius! Why do you not come for me? I am hurt. I am scared. I scream your
name, I beg of you to come for me, but I do not see you. Why do you leave me
here, alone and injured? I am at your mercy.
Loredas
After three days of yelling for help near the waterfall with no response from
Traelius, I have given up hope. With my fractured leg, I cannot possibly go
on. I can neither go forward nor return. I can only suffer.
Morndas? Tirdas?
I managed to drag myself down the stream a bit, but cannot go on. It is not
so bad. I have now what I have been craving for a long time -- freedom,
although not as I had planned. Nonetheless, I am free. It is not so bad. The
cool water from the stream is quite refreshing after all.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ267)
~~Brief Journal~~
Unknown
Item ID: 0008239F
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I decided that I had better start a new journal today. I haven't seen Ardwe
in four months since he began restoring Ebrocca, and he's finally asked me to
come spend time with him while he finishes the work. I know the death of his
mother was traumatizing. I'm just glad that he'll finally allow me to be near
enough to try and console him.
Cousin Garwedh should have returned from Ebrocca in time for my own departure
today, but he must have been delayed. I was hoping to ask him about the
conditions of the crypt in case I ought to bring any special supplies with
me. No matter, I'm sure I can run such errands after my arrival.
I'm amazed at the scope of Ardwe's accomplishments here. The crypt is massive
beyond anything I had expected. I realized that the death of his mother would
appoint him Clanfather, but I didn't anticipate him to take the role so
seriously. He feels a sense of duty in establishing this as a place to honor
the family. I'm worried he may be distracting himself from mourning his
mother, but I'm still proud of all he's done.
I'm glad Ardwe called me out here. He must have been so lonely by himself
before now. He regularly complains of how empty this place feels. It must be
difficult to pour so much effort into a thing that only sees use in a time of
grief.
Today the supply wagon brought with it a bed for Ardwe and myself. I suppose
he was trying to surprise me -- or at least quiet my complaints of using
bedrolls to sleep on the stone floors, but I don't like the precedent this
establishes. I was hoping we would move back to New Sheoth before his
birthday celebration next month.
Why haven't we gone home yet? I've been here months, and I'm sick of the arid
climate between these rock walls. I haven't seen or heard from the architect
in weeks, and the sounds of construction have all but stopped. What possible
reason is there to stay here?
I'm sure that Ardwe's sending out correspondence, but he doesn't admit it
when I confront him. Just two nights ago, I was sure I heard a voice calling
out from somewhere below, and not the usual rasp of our Argonian courier. If
he won't tell me, then I'll just have to look through his drawers before he
wakes tomorrow.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ268)
~~Bark and Sap~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00044407
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Disclaimer:
[The editors wish to express that the views contained herein belong solely to
the author and have been printed posthumously and anonymously.]
Foreword:
Before this present volume, little existed detailing the Root System tunnels
and Gnarl but rumors, superstitions, and outright falsities. After
consideration of such rumors, and after much research and expedition into the
Root Systems to see the Gnarl in their natural habitat firsthand, this author
will elucidate the ecology and culture of the Gnarl, the nature of the Root
System, and their symbiotic relationship.
The Root System:
Commonly believed to be a series of natural caverns and rock formations with
roots and foliage growing within, the Root System tunnels are, in fact, part
of a giant living organism. Not only are these tunnels a living organic root-
like entity, but each of the so-called "root dungeons" represents a smaller
piece of a larger whole. The roots of all the trees (indeed of most the plant
life on the Isles) all connect directly to the large Root System.
The various twisting and turning tunnels have been created slowly over past
millennia. Indeed, the growth and motion of the roots is imperceptible,
though definitely recordable. The very fastest-growing tunnels increase at a
rate of a few feet every month, and the slowest a few inches every few
decades.
Amber:
Amber is a colorful resin formed from hardened sap. Much like skin bleeds and
scabs over to protect a wound, the Root System tunnels "bleed" a sap that
congeals and hardens into Amber deposits. Even still, the walls of the roots
are very resilient; swinging a sword at the wall is not enough to puncture
it. The large fissures that cause the appearance of Amber are the result of
the massive pressures and frictional forces encountered by the giant roots as
they push through tons of rock and dirt.
The Gnarl:
The current and best theory describes the Gnarl as the caretakers and
stewards of the Root System. The creatures tend to the general maintenance
and cleaning of the tunnels, clearing away excess Amber. This behavior has
been observed directly, but observation time was limited due to the
aggressive nature of the Gnarl. However, the abundance of Amber found on the
corpses of the creatures further supports this view.
There has been some conjecture, though at present very little evidence to
support the claim, that as Gnarl grow, they eventually become too large to
maneuver the tunnels, and eventually fuse with the walls, becoming themselves
part of the Root System. As to the recent claims of giant Gnarl, it should be
noted that no creditable sources exist to corroborate. However, even were
these reports to be true, the rarity of such sightings would suggest that
only a very few Gnarl ever grow large enough to ascend to this root-state.
Little is known about the natural life span of the Gnarl or their social
behavior, since observational expeditions into the Root System are difficult
at best. We do know with certainty that they are very territorial. The Gnarl
are so protective of their tunnels that they will respond aggressively to
anyone who comes within sight, which makes studying their social systems nigh
impossible. This behavior has, however, provided us with an abundance of
corpses to study at our leisure.
When we analyze the corpses of dead Gnarl, we can see clearly that these
creatures are made entirely of plant material. They are covered in bark and
leaves, and over time they decompose similarly to other plant detritus. All
attempts to "plant" Gnarl or parts thereof into the ground have been proven
simple folly. To date, we don't actually know how the Gnarl reproduce.
Upon examination, we have found nothing that looks like a brain as found in
other sentient creatures. This does lend credence to the symbiotic caretaker
theory, suggesting a kind of hive mentality -- though there have been no
substantiated sightings of any such "queen-Gnarl" who might be controlling
the drones. The other available explanation is that it is magic that animates
these creatures, though this author finds resolving difficult questions in
this manner to be counter-productive to the development of a rational theory.
Conclusion:
The complex Root is a living organism that grows little by little each month,
tunneling beneath the land. Virtually all the plant life on the Isles is
connected to this Root System. Severe trauma to the system walls results in
the formation of Amber deposits as part of its natural defense mechanism. The
Root System has a symbiotic relationship with the Gnarl, who act as its
protectors and caretakers, and who may be phyletically and physiologically
connected to the Root System itself. In short, we have a living system, with
its own dedicated staff of protector-caretakers, growing and developing
largely unnoticed beneath our very feet.
[Here the editors wish to acknowledge that the author was found dead near the
entrance to one of the "root dungeons." We again wish to remind the reader
that the opinions expressed by this author are his own. While we do not
dismiss the rational method employed by the author in his studies, we
certainly do not deny that magic is explanation enough for Our Lord
Sheogorath's many wondrous Blessings. We did, however, carefully consider
omitting this clearly treasonous second half. We have decided to include it
for journalistic integrity and at the request of his generous widow.]
Afterword:
And now, I will venture towards that theoretical discussion which draws near
heresy (which I daresay will one day be the end of me), but which I must put
forward, for good or ill.
The common belief is that our Lord Sheogorath has blessed our land with two
temperaments, Mania and Dementia. However, after much study and reasoning, I
believe that it is the very realm itself that imposes upon us these two
spheres of polar extremes!
I have devised a clever experiment, whereby I seek to prove this theory. If
you take a flower from a common plant, cut it and place its stem in water
with dye in it, you will notice that the petals will slowly take on the color
of the dye. Clearly, the veins of the plant transport the color to the
leaves.
Now, when we look at the Dementia side of the land, colors are muted and
dark, and in the Mania side bright and colorful. I believe the Root System,
and the Gnarl that serve it, are draining the color from the land of Dementia
and giving it to the land of Mania!
For what purpose, it isn't clear, but my experiment shows how color is
transported through plant veins, and what bigger system of plant veins is
there than the giant Root System tunnel network? Is it not then obvious that
this System is the conduit of the forces of Mania and Dementia?
And do we not eat the plants and the fruit of the trees that connect to the
Root System and the beasts that feed on them, and drink the waters that fall
from their leaves? Do we not breathe the air that carries their spores and
seeds? Do we not throw our own waste onto the ground to be absorbed into the
soil? Thus, are we not intimately connected to the giant Root System under
our feet? Surely, we are one with it!
Clearly, the Root System is feeding those of us in the Mania brilliant color,
giving us our mood swings, filling our hearts with passions and sensations,
and giving us powerful urges by stealing these things from our fellows in
Dementia, leaving them dark, desperate, angry, violent, and disturbed!
Sheogorath is not the source of our "gifts." It is the land itself that has
unbalanced us so!
The Gnarl are the servants and lifeblood of this parasitic process.
If we were to kill all the Gnarl, the balance would be restored!
Mania would be less bright, true, but so would Dementia be less dark.
We and our world would become whole again!
Let go of your belief in the collective fantasy of Sheogorath!
Let go of your belief in your own special "gifts!"
We must destroy the Gnarl and the Root System!
We must destroy those who shackle us to belief in some haughty and aloof
ruler, who toys with our emotions and well-being!
To arms, brothers and sisters!
To arms!
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(Search Code: LOLZ269)
~~Blessings of Sheogorath~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0006A800
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For Our Lord Sheogorath, without Whom all Thought would be linear and all
Feeling would be fleeting.
Blessed are the Madmen, for they hold the keys to secret knowledge.
Blessed are the Phobic, always wary of that which would do them harm.
Blessed are the Obsessed, for their courses are clear.
Blessed are the Addicts, may they quench the thirst that never ebbs.
Blessed are the Murderous, for they have found beauty in the grotesque.
Blessed are the Firelovers, for their hearts are always warm.
Blessed are the Artists, for in their hands the impossible is made real.
Blessed are the Musicians, for in their ears they hear the music of the soul.
Blessed are the Sleepless, as they bask in wakeful dreaming.
Blessed are the Paranoid, ever-watchful for our enemies.
Blessed are the Visionaries, for their eyes see what might be.
Blessed are the Painlovers, for in their suffering, we grow stronger.
Blessed is the Madgod, who tricks us when we are foolish, punishes us when we
are wrong, tortures us when we are unmindful, and loves us in our
imperfection.
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(Search Code: LOLZ270)
~~Cindanwe's Notebook~~
Cindanwe
Item ID: 000781CB
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The sun listens to my greenness. But where did the moon frown? The sky is
empty of children, and the earth eats strawberries. Yet, why do the worms
taste of bitter-plumb?
Everyone is bereft of spores. Or the spores have devoured us all and we are
left with nothing. Or everything is inside us, though we find ourselves
swimming in rock, where strange things remain, and known things fall outside
of their own selves - let alone from each of us!
Why play the paintbrush against her? She always stands close to being far
away. And what of the farm then? Shall it twinkle in the breeze of lyricism?
How should I know?
What I do know is this: the grass drinks flower dust like a glass bead
swallowed tastes nothing like water. And furthermore, wherever one finds the
absence of something, that something surely exists someplace else, or else
how could it be absent. There is wisdom in this!
Yes, and everything has its place, and every place its thing belonging to it.
It is the way of all things. Even those things misplaced know where they
belong. They long to be. That is the whole point of belonging, is it not? And
yet we are never so lonely as the stars, as when we find ourselves possessed.
Of love? Of death? Of what then? Life?
But they call me Enemy, even as they exalt me. Yet even the wind is slave to
the clouds... But the rain? It bounces against the sky like apples in a
basket, and for what? What shall become of us when the pod pits die?
I would like to think that the bleak summer does not herald the death of the
rain. But who is to say one way or the other? If the butterflies make up the
walls, how does one see inside a room at night? Perhaps the room is already
inside us and we are the ones who need occupants, and our occupants are the
ones needing the light.
But I digress.
The spoon that slays monsters is always the last to enter the mouth, and the
first to leave. Nor do eyes in the back of one's head mean that one can walk
backwards... do the knees bend that way? Do the shoes point heavenward? No,
we are stuck falling forward until we smash against the door of eternity.
That is the essence of life. To be devoured in our own banality, though we
wish to be something more.
I love this life, but I hate the aftertaste. Like waking from a dream with
someone's fingers in your mouth. How did they get there? Whose hand do they
belong to? Whose hand do any of us belong to, really?
It always comes back to belonging, does it not? It does. As the question
knows the answer, the answer belongs to the question. And that is the whole
point, I think: to know the question, and thus to belong to the answer.
That is why I must write in this book. Everyday. Sometimes twice. The others
are jealous of the windflowers that bloom in these pages. They desire to
swallow the ink through their nostrils, tasting the bitterness of all that
life has in store for them... but it is my life that belongs to me. Even as
my house belongs to the things inside it. And insides belong to outsides, and
outsides are never quite as free to do as they think they are.
Always this. One thing after another, but not some things. Some things are
better left where they think they are, not where they really are. Not all
places are equal, nor all things belonging to the same spot. How could that
be? No. Surely not.
When my sun shines through the moon's teeth, then it will be time. But not
until. Until then I shall continue to smash my head through windows so that I
might see. Where I am. Where here is. Where I belong. And all things being
just so, so I be just. And justice is important in this life, is it not? How
else can a life be justified, but by this?
The sun is forever moving. I must get back to work. I am grateful I have this
place to put my thoughts, lest they become lost and confused as I am (though
I'll never let the others see that... they think I have everything in
control)...
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(Search Code: LOLZ271)
~~An Elytra's Life~~
Karmelle
Item ID: 00069876
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Is a strange life that I have chosen, here amongst the beasts of these
Shivering Isles. These Elytra -- a most gentle creature if ever there were a
gentle creature - they have welcomed me among their brood as one of their
own. I have made my life and home in their tunnels as if they were my own
humble cabin, and indeed, I have been invited into their warm family unit.
Many who encounter the Elytra are initially set to unrest by their
appearance. Their size alone is sufficient to unsettle most of the humanoid
races. The enlarged thorax can grow to be as large as a human male and nearly
a full span in girth. When I first encountered my insectoid friends, I
believed the enlarged thorax to be a method to manufacture the ichor that is
vital to the lives of the Elytra. In truth, the thorax is the precious womb
where their noble lives begin.
However, one cannot discount the significance of the ichor that gathers at
the spike near the base of the thorax. This precious substance emits a smell
that most will describe as acidic and sour (although I find it to be a
delight). The ichor serves the most brilliant purpose of the Elytra. It is
used to paralyze living tissue of other creatures, rendering them unable to
resist the advances of the Elytra. Here is where the true brilliance takes
place.
When choosing a suitable host, the Elytra will impose itself on the creature.
Any creature that draws breath seems to be biologically suitable for this
purpose. I myself have witnessed Elytra Matrons choose creatures that range
from simple wolves to a brilliant Khajiit alchemist. Each time, the host is
chosen carefully. Oh, I know that the superstitious farmers of the Isles will
say that the Elytra will attack any creature, but after what I've seen, I
know that they approach each host with the utmost care.
The host is injected and their body becomes enriched with the flowing
sweetness of the ichor. They relax and quickly expire as the magical nature
of the Elytra's sting takes ahold of the host in its gentle grasp. After the
host moves on, the Elytra nests its eggs in the still warm shell of the host.
There, the eggs warm and grow over a period of mere days, feeding on the
giving flesh of the host. Soon after, the hatchlings emerge and stumble
forward into the world.
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(Search Code: LOLZ272)
~~Fall of Vitharn~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0006987F
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Chapter I
In which the Keep Vitharn is established and passes from the first generation
of rule to the second.
Count Vitharn, who built and appointed his keep from the mud of Dementia,
gathered to himself any who would pledge themselves as liege. Nearby tribes
of Fanatics were united as vassals to protect his lands and line, and thus
the Count lived out his days in the Isles. He and his Countess Mawean bore
Csaran and Nweala, the first son and daughter of Vitharn.
Csaran's mother and father believed that with the proper political influence,
Csaran could certainly usurp Sheogorath and carry the Shivering Isles into a
prosperous age. For his part, Count Vitharn refused even to acknowledge
Sheogorath, thinking himself and his heirs irrefutable rulers of the Isles.
This, of course, amused the Madgod to no end, and so he allowed the marriage
of Csaran to Sheen-in-Glade, daughter of an Argonian midwife who believed
that the mortal sphere would afford her daughter nothing but hatred and
oppression.
Sheen-in-Glade was as excellent a Countess to Csaran as any in the Isles
could ask for, wanting nothing but to bring pride and honor to her adopted
house and Court. For years her mind was untouched, even living as she did in
the heart of Dementia. Alas, none may reside too long in the Isles without
the blessing of Lord Sheogorath, and so Sheen-in-Glade was finally pushed to
the brink by the infidelity of her Husband, the Count.
Csaran was obsessively nepotistic, and distrustful of anyone with whom he
shared no blood relation including his bride. Though Sheen-in-Glade bore a
son by the Count (who disappeared from the Isles in his twentieth year), it
is known that the two shared their bed with decreasing frequency as Csaran's
paranoia grew, and he found himself in the arms of his birth-sister Nweala,
who bore of their incestuous affair the heir apparent, Cesrien. There are
those of us who remember personally the reign of Cesrien, and his
contribution to the fall of Vitharn.
Chapter II
In which the birth of Count Cesrien heralds a glorious, bloody, and brief age
for Vitharn.
Violent-natured and quick of temper, Cesrien sought enemies where there were
none. His early days on the seat of Vitharn saw the extermination of every
tribe of man, mer, or beast within sight of the keep, until none were left.
During his brief reign, much of the southeastern coastline of Dementia was
unsafe to travel, littered with the corpses of trespassers in the lands of
Vitharn, staked to trees as territorial markers. Beside his sadistic temper,
Count Cesrien of Vitharn was known also for his slow wit and ailing health.
Indeed, Cesrien was born with legs that seemed mismatched in length, and
breathed with a laborious rasp. As a youth, tutors were hard-pressed to
school the dull boy. Midwives and nurses surrounded him, attending his every
ailment with balms and vapors from every corner of the Isles, but when he
came of age he sent them away, often becoming violent in their dismissal.
Perhaps showing the influence of his father, Cesrien became increasingly
introverted, allowing only a select few courtiers in his presence. He was
seen in pubic only when organizing his vassal Fanatics for yet another raid
on the countryside.
Atypically adhering to the desperate counsel of his advisors, Cesrien paused
in his plundering to take a wife and ensure the continuation of Vitharn's
noble line. The increasingly ill Count chose a vibrant peasant women as his
betrothed, from a Heretic Commune in the wilds of Mania. Indeed, Countess
Jideen could not have been any more his opposite. Vassal Fanatics, long loyal
to their ancestral agreement with Count Vitraen, were inflamed by this
heresy, and tensions grew as the health of Cesrien finally failed, and his
young son, Cirion, ascended the throne of Vitharn.
Chapter III
In which conflict besets Vitharn and the Irenic Count Cirion is overwhelmed.
Young Count Cirion had scarcely been seen in public before his hasty
coronation in the bailey of Vitharn Keep. Some say he still bore bruises from
beatings at the feeble hand of his father during his final hours during the
ceremony. Had Cirion been old enough to govern, his gentle, reserved demeanor</pre><pre id="faqspan-34">
may have been enough to ease the seething tension among the Vassal tribe, but
his mother, Countess Jideen was forced to assume many of the duties her
husband had so long ignored.
By all accounts, Jideen was a fit Countess; loved by her people -- but the
leaders of the Vassal Fanatics could not contain indefinitely their personal
sentiments of outrage at her Manic heritage. Despite her exceedingly tactful
attempts at diplomacy, the animosity against her was deep-seated, and grew
over the years. It is perhaps admirable that the Vassals remained true to the
oaths so long.
When Cirion finally came of age to rule, the sheepish boy-Count tried in
earnest to ascend gracefully, but his fear of the world was so great that
even the shadow of a passing bird would startle him visibly. He was all but
unable to address the people publicly, and when he attempted to placate the
Vassals -- still outraged by his Mother's heritage -- he could scarcely
contain his fright, and some say that he even soiled himself before fleeing
the throne chamber.
Certain as the march of fate, the tolerance of the Vassal Fanatics snapped,
and warriors encircled Vitharn. The Count's personal guards were ill-suited
to repel the attack and the siege lasted a single day. Since the day of that
battle, no living soul has wandered away from Vitharn. Local myth tells of a
tireless struggle between the spirits of the Fanatic vassals and Vitharn's
meager defenders, damned by the treachery of Fanatics and the cowardice of
Cirion to replay their final moments in perpetuity.
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(Search Code: LOLZ273)
~~From Frog to Man~~
Meekus Ralbrek
Item ID: 00069875
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The life cycle of the Grummite is rather unique. They appear to be a deviant
version of frogs and may even be distantly related to Argonians, although I
have no direct evidence of that. Like the humble frog, the Grummite is born
from eggs found in or near water. The eggs hatch into tiny pollywogs, no
bigger than my hand.
The pollywog grows quickly, and inside of a few weeks grows limbs and changes
into an amphibious Baliwog. The Baliwog will live for up to two years,
growing to be larger than a man in both length and weight.
Eventually, the adult Baliwog will feel the urge to seek out deep water and
bury itself in the mud. It hibernates there for many months, gestating into a
Grummite. I have been unable to determine the exact time of gestation. The
Grummite emerges from the mud fully grown.
New Grummites never leave the water and are consumed with the urge to mate.
Females leave the water to hang their eggs. They are hung over the water to
keep them out of reach of aquatic predators, while still allowing the
pollywogs to fall into the water when they hatch.
Once a female has laid her eggs, she turns her back on them. She will live
her life more on land than in the water, although never far from it. The
male's mating urges subside after six months to a year. He too takes to the
land and like the female does nothing to protect his eggs.
Adult Grummites have a sort of primitive culture. Kraften Highbrow maintains
that they are cunning craftsman that make jewelry and weapons, even mining
ore. This is plainly ridiculous. Although I have not determined the source of
their tools and adornments, I am certain that they trade with other civilized
races for such things.
As for tales of magic casting Grummites, that is even more ridiculous. While
their primitive brains are surprisingly large, they clearly do not have the
intelligence to learn the arcane crafts. I do not know how Kraften managed to
train his pet Grummite to cast spells, but I assure all my readers that it is
a trick of some sort.
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(Search Code: LOLZ274)
~~Grommok's Journal~~
Grommok gro-Barak
Item ID: 0007F3E7
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3 Rain's Hand 3E431
We were finally able to convince that idiot rogue Lewin that it was time to
give up that strongbox of money he stole from Lelles Quality Merchandise in
Anvil and ditch it outside the castle. All the heat he brought on the group
was starting to chafe. Syndelius pretty much sat him down and made him do it,
because I was ready to put my foot in his face. I know he's a rogue, but
we're adventurers; we get our loot from raiding old crypts, and ruins, and
places that ain't got guards. He can be a real horse's ass sometimes, I tell
ya.
12 Rain's Hand 3E431
What a bad Fredas we've had. We hit what was left of old Fort Wariel, and
after slaughtering a bunch of no good Marauders and grabbing their loot, made
our way north. We came to the ruins of Trumbe. Syndelius said they were Ale
Lid or Eyelid or some kind of old civilization, but all I cared about was how
loaded with gold they were. He said usually they were, so in we went. What a
mistake! The place was crawling with skeletons and ghosts. Those things give
me the creeps. How can I fight something that ain't even alive? Lewin took a
few good hits and had to pop all his potions. Syndelius broke his arm when a
trap almost crushed him to death and I got a nice nasty scar across my
forehead. Close call. Best of all, when we got to the treasure horde, Lewin
was out of lockpicks! Why do we even keep him with us? We had to drag the
damn container out of Trumbe and all the way back to Camp Atrene. Now I'm
sitting here staring at a stupid metal box wishing I could use Lewin's head
to bash it open. What a dolt.
13 Rain's Hand 3E431
After a night of deciding whether or not to snap off Lewin's legs and use
them as firewood, I sent Syndelius and Lewin to Anvil to buy more lockpicks
while I guarded the box. They came back in a few hours and Lewin picked the
lock in the first try. Good thing too, I was still pretty mad at the guy. I
don't like sitting around all day. Anyway, Syndelius got all excited when he
saw something wrapped up in some sort of fancy cloth. Inside the cloth was a
bunch of stuff, but the best was the sword. What a beauty! Blade looks like a
mouth with teeth, handle like golden snakeskin and the gem in the middle of
it... a perfect fiery orange and red, like the sky at dawn. Syndelius was
going crazy and I asked him what was all the noise for. He told me it was
Akaveery or something like that and made by the Snake People or the Sayessie
or whatever. Syndelius says that Sayessie starts with a T just now when he
saw me writing this, but that doesn't make any sense. T-s-a-e-s-c-i. Fine,
there, I wrote it. By the nine, Syndelius is nosy sometimes. Well, anyway,
the best was yet to come. Right as the sun was setting the sword vanished for
a moment and was suddenly replaced by another weapon that looked almost the
same, but the gem on it was deep blue and purple. Syndelius said he was
certain that at dawn, it would change back to the orange and red gem! Well,
this was good enough for me. That alone made the sword the best thing I had
ever seen. Lewin muttered something about Akaveery magic, but I told him to
shut up. I decided to call the sword Dawnfang when it was orange and red and
Duskfang when it was blue and purple.
14-16 Rain's Hand 3E431
Things are getting better and better with my new sword in these last few
days. I found out Dawnfang is a fire blade and Duskfang is a frost blade...
handy for extra killing power! But the best was what I found out when a
Minotaur decided to jump us and I landed the killing blow. I heard a voice in
my head. Or maybe a thought? I dunno. It was weird. But it felt like the
sword knew it had just killed the Minotaur, like it was counting or
something. At first I thought maybe I was just tired, but after tearing
through a camp of bandits, it kept counting. After the twelfth kill, it told
me its thirst was satisfied. At least, I think it told me. Then it stopped.
Syndelius said it's possible the sword was a blood drinker... my kind of
sword... but he didn't know what would happen. It didn't take that long to
find out. When dusk came around, and the blade changed... I almost fell off
the campfire log. The new blade was still Duskfang... but it somehow seemed
stronger. I could just tell. I couldn't wait to try it out! I ran right out
and looked for something to kill. Didn't take long to come across a few of
those stupid imps. Sure enough, not only did it do more frost damage than
normal, but also I could feel the energy from the creature transfer to me
every time I hit it! What a weapon this was! Yeah! Duskfang Superior! That's
what I'll call it. Sometimes I amaze even myself. Syndelius said he was sure
Duskfang would blood drink too and I could power up Dawnfang with it. I spent
all night looking for twelve things to kill, and when the sun came up, he
was right! Dawnfang Superior is to be this one's name. It's like having four
blades in one!
17-19 Rain's Hand 3E431
It's been the most fun I have ever had in my life cutting a bloody swath
across the ruins of Cyrodiil with my new double sword. Syndelius and Lewin
are even more confident now that we have such a powerful weapon among us.
We've gathered tons of loot in the last three days, but nothing compares to
this. We're going to head north and explore the area around Niben Bay today.
I hope that something else like this turns up on our adventures. Then I'm
going to retire!
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(Search Code: LOLZ275)
~~Guide to New Sheoth~~
Brenith Aralyn
Item ID: 0006A7FE
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New Sheoth is generally recognized as the jewel of the Shivering Isles, the
culinary and cultural epicenter of the entire realm. Founded at the whim of
Our Lord Sheogorath, the city is a model of the Madgod's own perfect vision.
First-time visitors to New Sheoth are often impressed by the warmth,
generosity, and general good humor of its residents. Visitors are welcomed
with open arms, and generally made to feel as if they are a part of the large
New Sheoth family. The sheer scope of the sights and sounds in the city can
be daunting to the new visitor, and this Guide aims to make the transition as
easy as possible for newcomers.
Visitors will find the city is divided into three main sections: Bliss,
Crucible, and the Palace. Bliss and Crucible house the majority of
residential and commercial buildings in the city, while the Palace area
houses the magnificent Palace of Sheogorath, as well as the residences of the
reigning Dukes of Mania and Dementia.
Though located in the same city, visitors will find that the Bliss and
Crucible areas of New Sheoth offer distinct experiences. The shining parapets
and golden roads of Bliss stand in stark contrast to the rustic buildings and
unpaved streets of Crucible. Travelers interested in a bustling nightlife and
fine cuisine might prefer time spent in Bliss, renowned for its extravagant
galas and spirited affairs. Visitors who seek a quieter experience would do
well to spend their time exploring Crucible, where Dark Seducer patrols
encourage a more serene way of life.
No matter your tastes, New Sheoth promises an experience like no other. This
Guide will give advice on how to best navigate the oft-confusing, though
ultimately rewarding channels of this magnificent city.
Arriving in New Sheoth
Travelers to New Sheoth will arrive at its gates from either the highlands of
Mania or the swampy lowlands of Dementia. Many make the mistake of hurrying
directly to the gates of the city without exploring the beautiful and
majestic countryside outside the city walls. This is certainly a mistake, as
the forests and glades of the Shivering Isles are unlike those found anywhere
else in all the realms. Some discussion of these areas is warranted, as
exploring them is vital to experiencing all that the region has to offer.
Mania, Vibrant Land of Towering Flora
Walking amongst the giant mushroom trees of Mania is an experience any new
visitor to the Shivering Isles is not soon to forget. Hours spent wandering
in the forests of spore trees, breathing deeply of the spore-laden air-these
are the times destined to remain a part of you forever. Feelings of peace and
contentment wash over the body and calm the soul. It can seem as if you
haven't a care in the world.
Take the time to examine the beautiful plant life found in the region. Treat
yourself to Alocacia Fruit, which is known to have restorative properties, or
pluck an Aster Bloom Core, which some locals believe has the ability to ward
off the attacks of evil spirits.
If you plan on spending some time in the Mania countryside, consider visiting
the small community of Hale. The residents are mostly local artists, and are
very welcoming to weary travelers. Be sure to explore the lovely areas
surrounding Hale, and enjoy the peaceful atmosphere.
A cautious traveler is a safe traveler, though, even in the idyllic lands of
Mania. While the paths that wind through the scenic countryside are generally
safe, the surrounding regions pose some danger for the careless traveler.
Mania is home to a number of indigenous animal species, some of which could
be threatening to a less-seasoned adventurer. We recommend sticking to the
clearly marked paths when traveling anywhere within the Shivering Isles.
The Slow Grace of Dementia
It is often said, "Time spent in Dementia is time not spent elsewhere." Truer
words were never spoken.
Many have spent days roaming the small islets of Dementia, enjoying the
scenic views over the majestic lowlands. Travel over the quaint bridges that
span the small islands of southern Dementia, and enjoy a beautiful sunset
among the moss-covered trees.
If you're looking for a place to relax while exploring the lands of Dementia,
we suggest a visit to Deepwallow. The small community is a working farm,
where the residents use a unique method of raising crops of some of the
extraordinary local plant life. The residents of Deepwallow are private
people, so care should be taken in approaching them. Once you've learned
their customs, we've found them to be a most interesting group with whom to
spend some time.
Tip: For an exciting day trip, visit the Hill of Suicides, a site unlike any
other in all the Shivering Isles. Located in central Dementia, travelers
should not pass up the opportunity to take in the sights at this unique and
fascinating location. There is no fee to visit the Hill, though some
travelers have found it almost impossible to leave.
Getting to the Shivering Isles
Arrival to the Shivering Isles is solely at the discretion of Our Lord
Sheogorath, Prince of Madness.
Getting Around
The best way to explore the Shivering Isles is by foot. Take the time to
meander along the paths that stretch across the beautiful landscape. A weary
traveler can often find a place to rest at one of the many campsites found
dotted across the world.
Accommodations
Expensive
The Choosy Beggar, Bliss. Raven-Biter and his wife, Sheer-Meedish run a fine
restaurant and Inn in the Bliss district of New Sheoth. The rooms are nicely
appointed, and the food is above-average for the area. We highly recommend
trying the wine-it's some of the best in the city. Many travelers find lunch
to be an especially good time to visit the Choosy Beggar. Though the prices
are no lower, the earlier hour often finds Sheer-Meedish in a more
accommodating mood.
Moderate
Sickly Bernice's Taphouse, Crucible. Don't let the name fool you: Sickly
Bernice's Taphouse is exactly what you'd expect from an inn located in
downtown Crucible. The lodgings, while not as opulent as those found at the
nearby Choosy Beggar, are satisfactory. Sickly Bernice is an affable hostess,
when she is well enough to work. The food is palatable, as are the beverages.
After a visit, make sure to see Earil at Earil's Mysteries. He sells a wide
assortment of magicks, including some wonderful, low-cost Cure Disease
spells.
Shopping
Common Treasures, Bliss.
If you're looking for... well... anything, Common Treasures in Bliss is a
good place to start. Trader Tilse Arelith has a wide assortment of wares
available to the discerning customer. She's also more than willing to
negotiate a good price for those unwanted items you may find in your travels.
Cutter's Weapons, Bliss.
There's not a finer weapon shop to be found in all of New Sheoth. Cutter runs
a fine establishment, and usually keeps a good variety of weapons in stock
and ready for use. She'll do repairs for you on the spot, and she seems to
take extra-special care with your bladed weapons. This shop is not to be
missed.
Books of Bliss, Bliss.
If you're looking for reading material on your journey, this is the place to
get it. Sontaire is a very, very friendly bookseller with a keen eye for more
than just books. You won't be disappointed if you spend some of your hard-
earned gold in this establishment.
The Missing Pauldron, Crucible.
If it's armor you're in the mood to buy, look no further than The Missing
Pauldron in Crucible. Recently re-opened under new manager Dumag gro-Bonk,
the shop seems to be doing quite well. Dumag will be happy to sell you some
new armor, repair you old favorites, or just sit a while and tell you the
rather long and interesting story of his life.
Earil's Mysteries, Crucible.
Many adventurers don't like to travel without a full spell book, and Earil's
is the place to go in New Sheoth to stock up on the latest in spellmaking. It
sometimes seems time stands still as you browse through the excellent
selection of spells. Highly recommended.
Things Found, Crucible.
It's an odd assortment of items, to be sure, but it's never a dull day when
you visit Things Found in Crucible. Owner Abhuki has scoured the realm in
search of the most intriguing and varied assortment of magical items to be
found almost anywhere. Take some time and browse around-you never know what
you might find!
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(Search Code: LOLZ276)
~~Heretical Thoughts~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0006987E
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Zealotry is an abomination that must be wiped from the Shivering Isles. We
cannot suffer their beliefs to spread to even one more soul. They name us
Heretics for our lack of belief. We gladly accept the name, and will make a
honorable one.
It is not heresy to speak truth. It is not heresy to speak out against an
unjust lord. It is not heresy to take arms and action in defense of true
belief. We are the so-called Heretics of the Shivering Isles, but we do not
speak heresy. We speak the truth.
Our Lord, Sheogorath, is but a man. He is only flesh and blood, not a god,
and certainly not a Daedric Prince. There are no princes in the realms of the
Daedra, only vile servitors such as the Hungers that we summon to do our
bidding.
Sheogorath the False is a mad despot. Years of dabbling in foul magic and
consorting with Daedra have driven him mad. He is not a fit ruler, let alone
divine. He perverts the teachings of Arden-Sul, He Who Gave His Heart's
Blood. When the truth of our cause is common knowledge among the people, we
will drive him from New Sheoth and put that cesspool to the sword. His four
limbs will be scattered to the four winds. His head will rest upon the Hill
of Suicides and his heart shall be burnt in the flames of freedom. His
entrails shall be fed to the dogs.
We will make all the people of the Shivering Isles wear the robes of the
Heretics. By these robes we know each other to be true non-believers. The
people shall return to the wilderness and live among the wild things, as we
do. They will see the wisdom and purity of the life we lead and they will
hail us as saviors.
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(Search Code: LOLZ277)
~~The Liturgy of Affliction~~
Anias Gae
Item ID: 00043F77
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Dearest reader, the tome that you hold in your hand is a chronicle of pain,
of torment, and of discovery. In these memoirs, I shall impart to you an
autobiography of a foolish and failed attempt to achieve a great power. Walk
with me as I break the bonds of propriety, throw off the restraints of the
ancient laws of the arcane, and cast aside the bonds of magical ethics. For
contained herein, you shall find the dying words of Vexis Velruan.
Let it be known to you, loyal reader, that I remain until my dying moment, a
student of Magicka. But no typical apprentice, am I. I am one who has forged
a unique path to the deeper understanding of the mechanics of Magicka.
Through the infliction of destruction magic upon my own flesh, I have
accomplished more than any student before me has.
It is by that folly that I come to you now, lucid as ever, fully alert in my
faculties, and acutely cognizant of the sacrifices that I have made in my
quest. I have long since lost the capacity to feel any physical sensation
beyond absolute agony. I've become so accustomed to it, so detached from the
feeling, that to me, pain is simply always there. You do not think of the air
around you as a sensation, do you?
How is it, you ask, that I came to be what I am? It began innocently enough.
I was once a healer, one of the most promising students of the temple. Which
one? It doesn't matter. I was eventually expelled. Fools. You see, we had a
number of patients interred in our humble sanctuary who had been infected
with the Red Fever. My attempts to use the magical arts to turn the disease
on itself were less than successful in their early stages. For trying to find
a cure, I was cast out.
It was not long after my exile that I discovered the means to eradicate
infection using the destructive energies of magicka. In my explorations of
the school of Destruction I discovered that by pulling the elemental energies
through my own body, I was able to increase the raw output of energy. From
the experience of a lighting bolt surging through my own body, I was able to
deepen my understanding of the raw forces of magicka.
At first, the pain was bearable. I directed only a minor amount of the energy
back in towards myself. I learned to couple the destruction with restorative
energies. It helped to abate the damage done to my body, but did nothing to
stop the pain itself.
As my tolerance for the pain increased, I began to channel more and more
through my own body. My understanding of Destruction outgrew my knowledge of
Restoration. While it could still lessen the damage, it could not stop it. My
skin became charred and blackened; it dried, flaked off, and cracked. I stunk
of cooked meat. But I could not resist the draw of more and more energy.
I became like a skooma fiend of the worst sort. I no longer used magic for
any practical purpose. I simply sought out more and more energy -- I relished
the pain. Anticipated the moment when the energy and the pain would wash over
me as one, freezing my flesh, burning it beyond recognition. My skin became a
network of scars, sores, lesions, and burns. But it was never enough. Never.
I needed more. More pain. More power.
I lost my sight. My eyes melted into boiling pools of vitreous humor so hot
that they left streaks of blistered skin as they ran down my face like
burning tears. My right hand froze solid and shattered into a thousand
pieces, when I carelessly bashed it against a doorjamb in terror, once I
realized what had happened. The bones of both my legs shattered outward like
broken glass, shredding the flesh and muscle surrounding them.
While this may sound like a fate of terrible consequence, my dearest reader,
I can assure you that you will never know what it is to be a creature of
flesh and bone like I have. You will never have the degree of knowledge of
frailty of the flesh that I have grown to know. I achieved a level of
understanding of Magicka beyond that of the grand masters of the guild, but
that accomplishment pales in comparison to the grander discoveries that this
experience has bestowed upon me.
People like you think that pain is to be avoided. Hidden from. Feared.
Through my suffering and the numbness that now robs me of the ability to feel
it, I can say this to you: Pain is a simple factor of human existence. It
affords us the opportunity to feel -- to appreciate the temporary shell that
our spirits occupy. Pain is the greatest gift that the gods have ever given
mortal man.
And now, as I tell you this story by way of a scribe, I am a stump of a man,
wrapped in seeping bandages, never to know pleasure again. Even still, I have
but one message to impart to you: Embrace what you are.
Glory to lord Sheogorath, for he has opened my eyes.
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(Search Code: LOLZ278)
~~The Living Woods~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00069877
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The Gnarl is a creature of the forest like no other. Away from the walls of
New Sheoth, they are called the Walking Trees. Gnarl are known for their
affinity with the elements. If a Gnarl is struck by elemental forces of fire,
frost, or shock, it uses that energy to grow stronger and larger.
Fortunately, this effect only lasts for a short time.
It is the will of Sheogorath that the Gnarl confuse and bewilder the unwary
mage. To that end, it gains resistance to the element it is struck with, but
becomes weaker to the other two. The wily mage will quickly switch between
elemental spells to take advantage of this. Lesser wizards will suffer if
they continue to use the same spell over and over.
In recent years there have been rumors of smiths that are able to use the
amber sap extracted from Gnarl to make sturdy armor and weapons. As of yet,
this gossip has not been confirmed.
More is not known about the Gnarl than is known. No-one has been able to
determine the gender of Gnarl, or if they even have them. Young or immature
Gnarl have never been seen. One academic suggested that Gnarl are born full-
formed from trees that are struck by lightning. This absurd suggestion has
not been confirmed.
Similarly, we have no knowledge of their diet or social habits. Presumably
they feed directly from the sun and earth, like trees do. There are no
reported cases of them communicating, even among each other. However, they do
seem to have a truce of sorts with other woodland creatures such as the
Baliwog and Elytra.
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(Search Code: LOLZ279)
~~Manual of Xedilian~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 000181E1
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On the subject of Xedilian's construction, Lord Sheogorath, let me begin by
extending the warmest regards to you and your noble being. The construction
was completed on time and well under budget as you demanded ("under pain of
fun," I believe you are quoted as saying) and with only the most
infinitesimal loss of life. I am proud to say that by harnessing the energy
of that most unusual crystalline formation, Xedilian should maintain itself
for years to come (with proper maintenance of course). At your request, I
have included the full operation instructions for each section of the site.
If you have any other questions, please feel free to bother me anytime (like
when you originally thought of this idea in the middle of the night).
The heart of Xedilian is its power source, the Resonator of Judgment. By
tuning this huge chunk of crystal with the Attenuator of Judgment (a "tuning
fork" of sorts), we have released a wave of siren-like sound that will draw
anyone from outside the Isles. Three Focus Crystals have been placed
throughout the site to assist in keeping this wave of sound even and stable.
This site will not function without all three Focus Crystals running in
unison, so it's important to keep them clean and safe on their "cradles"
(which I have called their Judgment Nexus). The Focus Crystals are
irreplaceable at this time, so take proper precautions guarding the site when
not in use.
Xedilian is split into three encounter areas all linked with the latest in
arcane transport technology. As the hapless "Xedilianites" (it was fun to
experiment on them, thank you for that) make their way through each room,
they are subjected to a test based either on the Manic philosophy or that of
the Demented... whichever suits your whim at the time. All you need do is
push a single button, then sit back with your favorite wine (we've provided
luxurious observation platforms from which to enjoy the show) and watch the
results.
Each encounter area has a unique theme that matches your requests as close as
we could provide. I think you'll be pleased with the results. Below I have
detailed each room and the effects you can expect from them (in brief, as I
know your lordship is busy):
Chamber of Conversion
A fairly empty room with a large grating on the floor and single, half-sized
"harmless" Gnarl wandering in the center.
Manic Result
Our small, harmless Gnarl will be grown in size to nearly thrice that of the
average Xedilianite. Most we observe run around in an attempt to escape the
lumbering creature. Eventually, it will stop and fade away. The magic of the
room is enhanced by the spore gas we pump in through the grating.
Demented Result
Our tiny friend Gnarl is joined by a small swarm of its brethren and they
attack our surprised guests! Genius!
Chamber of Avarice
In this room, a huge mound of treasure sits atop a half-ziggurat inside a
securely locked cage (to which there is no key).
Manic Result
We drop several hundred keys to the ground that are all exact duplicates.
It's amusing to watch Xedilianites scramble through the keys for the correct
one. Some spend days. Amazing.
Demented Result
When the Xedilianite reaches the top of the ziggurat; we blast them with a
highly concussive flame spell. The blast always sends them flying... good fun
for all, discounting those that do not survive.
Chamber of Anathema
As you requested, we saved this one for last. The Xedilianite that has the
mettle to make it this far now faces the toughest challenge of all. This room
features freshly killed corpses, blood, and plenty of hanging bodies (for
your darker moods, my lord).
Manic Result
We kill the Xedilianite, and cause a specter of his former self to rise from
the body. Not many Xedilianite minds can handle this one... most go insane
this far into the site. I must confess, this room is a favorite of mine.
Demented Result
Nothing better than a good old-fashioned battle! We raise at least double the
number of zombies as there are Xedilianites and let them all have at it!
Simple, elegant, and deadly.
I hope you are pleased with the results of Xedilian. I know you'll have just
as much fun using it as we had fun constructing it. Strangely, we have yet to
receive payment for the site, but I am sure it is just a minor oversight and
it will be corrected as soon as your lordship has a mome...
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(Search Code: LOLZ280)
~~Myths of Sheogorath~~
Mymophonus
Item ID: 000552C9
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Sheogorath Invents Music
In the earliest of days, in a time when the world was still raw, Sheogorath
decided to walk amongst the mortals. He donned his guise of Gentleman With a
Cane, and moved from place to place without being recognized. After eleven
days and eleven nights, Sheogorath decided that life among mortals was even
more boring than his otherworldly existence.
"What can I do to make their lives more interesting?" he said to himself. At
that same moment, a young woman nearby commented wistfully to herself, "The
sounds of the birds are so beautiful."
Sheogorath silently agreed with her. Mortals could not make the beautiful and
inspired calls of birds. Their voices were wretched and mundane. He could not
change the nature of mortals, for that was the purview of other Daedric
Princes. However, he could give them tools to make beautiful sounds.
Sheogorath took hold of the petulant woman and ripped her asunder. From her
tendons he made lutes. From her skull and arm bones he made a drum. From her
bones he made flutes. He presented these gifts to the mortals, and thus Music
was born.
Sheogorath and King Lyandir
King Lyandir was known to be an exceedingly rational man. He lived in a
palace that was a small, simple structure, unadorned with art and ugly to
look upon. "I do not need more than this," he would say. "Why spend my gold
on such luxuries when I can spend it on my armies or on great public works?"
His kingdom prospered under his sensible rule. However, the people did not
always share the king's sense of practicality. They would build houses that
were beautiful to look upon, although not necessarily very practical. They
devoted time and energy to works of art. They would celebrate events with
lavish festivals. In general, they were quite happy.
King Lyandir was disappointed that more of them did not follow his example
and lead frugal, sensible lives. He brooded on this for many years. Finally,
he decided that his subjects simply didn't understand how much more they
could accomplish if they didn't waste time on those frivolous activities.
Perhaps, he reasoned, they just needed more examples.
The king decreed that all new buildings must be simple, unadorned, and no
larger than was necessary for their function. The people were not happy about
this, but they liked their king and respected the new law. In a few short
years, there were more plain buildings than ornate ones. The citizens used
the money saved to make and buy even more lavish art and hold even more
excessive celebrations.
Once again, King Lyandir decided to provide them a strict example of how
beneficial it would be to use their time and resources for more practical
purposes. He banned all works of art in the city. The people were quite put
out by this, but they knew that their king was doing what he thought was best
for them. However, human nature is not so easily denied. In a few more years
the city was filled with plain, simple buildings, and devoid of any sort of
art. However, the people now had even more money and time to devote to their
parties and festivals.
With a heavy heart, King Lyandir decided that his people were to be treated
like children. And like all children, they needed rules and discipline laid
down by great figures of authority to make them understand what was truly
important in life. He decreed that there should be no revelry in the city.
Singing, dancing, and music were all banned. Even food and drink were limited
to water and simple foodstuffs.
The people had had enough. Revolt was out of the question, since King Lyandir
had a very well trained and equipped army. They visited the shrines and
temples in droves, praying to all the gods, and even to some of the Daedric
Princes, that King Lyandir would revoke these new, oppressive laws.
Sheogorath heard their pleas and decided to visit King Lyandir. He appeared
to the king in his dreams as a field of flowers, each with arms instead of
petals and the face of the Madgod in the center. "I am Lord of the Creative
and Lord of the Deranged. Since you have no use for my gifts of creativity, I
have decided to bless you with an abundance of my other gift."
From that day forward, every child born in the city was born into madness.
Since infants do not reveal illnesses of the mind, it was several years
before this was realized. The king's own son was among the victims, suffering
from seizures and delusions. Yet, King Lyandir refused to change his ways.
When his son, Glint, was 12 years old, he stabbed his father while Lyandir
was sleeping. With his dying breath, King Lyandir asked, "Why?" His son
replied, "It is the most practical thing I could do."
The new, young king ordered all the palace servants slaughtered. He ordered a
grand festival to celebrate his new reign and the repeal of Lyandir's laws.
He served the crowds a stew made from the carcasses of the palace servants.
He ordered the east facing walls of every building painted red, and the west
facing walls painted in stripes. He decreed that all citizens wear ornate
masks on the backs of their heads. He then burned down the palace and began
construction of a new one.
In the new palace, the young king ordered his personal chambers to not have
any doors; for fear that small woodland creatures would attack him. He
ordered that it have no windows for fear that the sun and moon were jealous
of him and plotting his death.
And thus ended the line of King Lyandir. The people of the city returned to
their grand works of art and raucous celebrations. They talked and acted as
if they still had a living king, and even kept up the palace, using it to
house and care for their mad children. Sheogorath was mightily pleased with
this outcome. From that day forward the city was blessed with more than the
normal number of gifted artists and deranged citizens.
The Contest of Wills
A mighty wizard named Ravate once walked the Winds of Time to find Lord
Sheogorath. His intent was to win a favor from this most capricious of the
Daedric Princes. Upon finding Sheogorath, Ravate spoke humbly to him, "Lord
Sheogorath, I beg a favor of you. I would gladly drive a thousand men mad in
your name if you would but grant me the greater magical powers."
Fortunately for Ravate, Sheogorath was in a playful mood. He proposed a game,
"I will grant your wish, if you are still sane in three days. During that
time, I will do my utmost to drive you mad. It shall be great fun."
Ravate was not so certain that he liked this new deal. He had been really
looking forward to driving a thousand men mad. "Lord Sheogorath, I regret
having disturbed you with my shallow, selfish request. I withdraw my
unfortunate plea and will humbly leave this place."
Sheogorath just laughed, "Too late, mighty Ravate. The game is afoot, and you
must play." Ravate fled, only to find that all exits from the Daedric realm
were now sealed. He wandered aimlessly, constantly looking over his shoulder,
jumping at every noise. Each moment brought new terror as he waited for
Sheogorath to begin.
After three days, Ravate was convinced that every plant and animal was a tool
of Sheogorath. He hadn't eaten or drunk for fear that Sheogorath had poisoned
the food or drink. He hadn't slept for fear of Sheogorath invading his
dreams. (Which was foolish, as dreams are the domain of Vaermina, may She
grant us Restful Sleep.)
It was then that Sheogorath appeared to him. Ravate cried out, "You have set
the whole world to watching me! Every creature and plant are doing your
bidding to drive me mad."
Sheogorath replied, "Actually, I have done nothing. You have driven yourself
mad with your fears. Your delusions prove that you are truly deranged, and
therefore I win. While you wanted to make a thousand men mad, I only wanted
to break one man's mind, yours."
From that day forward Ravate served Sheogorath's every whim. Whenever daring
travelers try to approach Sheogorath, Ravate warns them, "Sheogorath is
already inside each of us. You have already lost."
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(Search Code: LOLZ281)
~~The Predecessors~~
Yngvar the Wanderer
Item ID: 00043981
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The ancient ruins that dot the countryside are a familiar sight to the
inhabitants of the Shivering Isles. So familiar that their true significance
has escaped the notice of most, until now. I have recently discovered the
terrible secret hidden in these ruins, and I will now share this secret with
you. But be warned - this knowledge may be too much for some, as you will
know the awful fate that lies in store for you, but will be powerless to do
anything to prevent it. If you are strong enough of mind to withstand the
psychic shock of having your grim future laid bare, read on.
My interest in the ruins began with a simple observation: all the ruins
visible on the surface appear to be of roughly the same age and architectural
style. Who created these once-mighty structures, and what happened to them?
Further investigation revealed an even stranger truth: although the ruins
superficially all appear to derive from the same era, they are in fact of
wildly differing ages. Many of thousands of years separate the ruins of
Cylarne (by far the oldest extant on the surface, despite its relatively
well-maintained state) from the ruins of Ebrocca, which at almost 1,000 years
old is one of the youngest sites in the Isles. For those who would dismiss
this conclusion, I invite you to visit the ruins and examine the evidence for
yourselves: the depth of strata covering the buried portions of the
structures; the weathering of the exposed stone; the growth of vegetation on
and around the structures; etc. (I have compiled the evidence in a separate
monograph, "Dating the Predecessor Ruins: Shocking New Evidence
Comprehensively Explained," which is presently unpublished, though I will
gladly make it available for those scholars wishing to delve further into the
minutiae of this subject.)
Once I began to accurately establish the dates of the various ruins, a
disturbing pattern emerged. The ruins fell into distinct periods, each period
separated by exactly 1,000 years from the other (although Cylarne remains the
exception, being many thousands of years older than the next oldest extant
ruin - suggesting only that the ruins from many earlier eras lie waiting to
be discovered, or have been lost to the ravages of time).
What could account for this process of destruction, repeating itself every
1,000 years without fail? The legend of the Greymarch sprang immediately to
mind, that ancient tale of a vengeful god venting his wrath upon the land.
What if it were more than a legend? What if it were the dimly-remembered
account of a real event?
I suddenly realized the significance of the dating of the most recent ruin
that I had discovered: Ebrocca, which my tests proved to be about 1,000 years
old. Yes, Dear Reader, we come to it at last. The Cataclysm is upon us again.
I have dated the ruins at Ebrocca to great accuracy; I know the very year of
our Doom. I refrain from publishing the exact date, as this knowledge is a
terrible burden that I would not inflict on others.
For a long time I hesitated from issuing even this general warning, fearful
of inciting panic or despair. But I have concluded that it is better to have
time to prepare for the End in whatever way one sees fit than to have it
thrust upon them unawares. I no longer doubt that the legend of the Greymarch
is based on historical events, and that the last days of our civilization
will be terrible - the blasted and tumbled stones of the mighty cities of
bygone eras are testament enough to that. But I find it strangely comforting
to know that our end is already written in the stones of our Predecessors,
and that our struggling against our Doom is as pointless as shouting against
the incoming tide. I hope that at least a few of my readers will find equal
solace in this bleak knowledge.
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(Search Code: LOLZ282)
~~The Prophet Arden-Sul~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00043523
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When one approaches the walls of New Sheoth, the eyes are unavoidably drawn
to a magnificent sight: a mystical flame rises from a simple tower that juts
from a circular building. To some, the flame is a beacon of strength and
guidance, to others, a mockery of their beliefs. It is the epicenter of a
most interesting conflict; two sides of the same coin vying for the favor of
their God. It is an unremarkable building with a most remarkable past. It is
the Sacellum Arden-Sul.
Although the Sacellum itself predates Arden-Sul's life, both the Manics and
the Demented contest the history of the Sacellum heavily. The Manics believe
that on that very spot before New Sheoth existed, Arden-Sul was first
afflicted with the Grand Enlightenment and became blinded. The Demented
postulate that the Sacellum was the location where Arden-Sul endured the
Hundred Day Torture. However, it was not these purported events of Arden-
Sul's life that aligned the Sacellum with the prophet's name... it was his
death.
Here again, the Manics and the Demented are divided. The Manics story of
Arden-Sul's death begins with a night of superlative revelry in the Sacellum.
The event was replete with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of Greenmote and
spirits. Arden-Sul and his 213 followers engaged in a veritable orgy of
merrymaking and overindulgence, a night fraught with a profusion of singing,
dancing, and fornicating. As the celebration reached a crescendo and the
event reached its whirlwind apex, one by one, Arden-Sul's followers began to
drop to the ground--their lifeblood draining from their bodies until the
ground was soaked a crimson red. The excesses of their hedonism had taken its
toll and had caused their very hearts to explode. Although details are
uncertain, it was said Arden-Sul was the last to die with the look of pure
bliss upon his face.
The Demented have a radically different story of the events leading to Arden-
Sul's demise. Fearing that one of his followers would one day turn traitor
and bury a blade in his back, Arden-Sul sought a method to see deep into a
man's soul and reveal his true feelings. After an exhaustive search, he
uncovered the secrets of visceromancy, the science of divination through the
observation of the entrails of others. Armed with this knowledge, he summoned
his flock to the Sacellum. After imbibing the wine Arden-Sul gave them, his
followers suddenly felt themselves paralyzed... aware of their surroundings
but unable to move. Then, one by one, Arden-Sul cut out the still-beating
hearts of his followers and read their lifeblood. After removing all 213
hearts, he still hadn't located the traitor. Furious, he reached into his
chest and tore out his own heart. Before the light faded from his eyes,
Arden-Sul was reported to have realized the ironic truth; he was the traitor,
destined to kill himself.
Whether or not one chooses to take either of these stories seriously is of
little import. The truth remains that the Sacellum is a significant location
of a highly regarded prophet's death. To this day, the building is still
shared among the Manics and the Demented, and depending on Lord Sheogorath's
whim, the favored side becomes its ruling body.
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(Search Code: LOLZ283)
~~The Ravings of Fenroy~~
Fenroy
Item ID: 00081F8D
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[The following pieces were gathered from the author's cell shortly before his
untimely death at his own hands. Written primarily on bedsheets and the bare
stone of his floor, using only his own bodily fluids for ink, some of the
transcriptions represent the editors' best guesses at the author's true
intent.]
Mother said there was no reason
It's just the way it is
Mother lies
I can see rain, I can feel rain
I can only feel wind
Someone is hiding
If I walk through the forest, the birds stop singing. They're talking about
me. I'm sure of it. They're just too scared to do it to my face.
Boat
Moat
Coat
Float
Goat
Note
Wrote
secretnamesecretnamesecretname
He touches me when I'm not looking
Sometimes I hear the people talking about their days. They talk about family
and the weather and yesterday and tomorrow. They say What a good day it was
and How was your day and Have a nice day. I say talk talk talk talk. How can
you enjoy your day when you share it with everyone? Time is a private thing.
The dragon hides it from us all, parceling it out in dribs and drabs. Save
your time. Save your time. I keep mine locked up tight. Where no one can find
it. Not even Him.
Hold me now
Rock me gently
My tears are burning, dear
Don't jinx it
Don't jinx it
Hold your breath, one big one now
One last gasp
And we're done
He talks all the time, but his words are useless. Talking, talking. Let's
talk. Never doing. Always talking. Words become meaningless. They float on </pre><pre id="faqspan-35">
the air. Dissipate like passed gas. Make him stop talking. Make him stop
talking to me.
Always take care when dealing with women. They see things we do not. A smile.
A glance. They mean nothing to us, everything to them. They twist their
smiles to meet our own. They avert a gaze just so. Watch them closely. They
rule the world; they just don't know it.
Am I indecisive? Yes and no.
They came to bring me food today. I ate it, though I know it was poisoned.
They lace it with black flour and edgeroot. They think it keeps me quiet,
sedate. I know better. Sometimes I chew up the bread and spit it into the
corners of my cell. No one notices, and the rats eat it after a time. It
keeps them quiet, sedate. When I eat the rats, the poison is more dilute. And
I gain their memories.
I don't believe it's fair that I'm forced to deal with the stupid. Or the
obtuse. Or the pedantic. Yet they give me rules, like Go here and Do that and
Eat this and Kill that. They don't know that I know their names. Eventually
I'll get to them. And I'll make the rules.
Just You wait and see
Good Gods come and go, but
All Lords eventually fall
A God can wake up mortal.
If I learn from my mistakes, will I eventually stop making them? Is there a
balance I can achieve, a perfect harmony with my self? Shall I seek that
point where there are no more mistakes to be made? All the lessons learned?
When that happens, do we die? Do we become gods? Do the gods even want us?
Maybe all dogs go outside deliberately. Maybe a decision gets overly
deliberate. Might a dream grow overly demented? He knows. He knows. He knows.
Stories are for children and dreamers. Poetry is for weaklings and madmen.
Epics glorify the vile and vilify the glorious. Read minds, not words.
I think it's time to go. He's still in my head, but I think he might leave if
I'm quiet. Shh. Shh.
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(Search Code: LOLZ284)
~~Saints and Seducers~~
Andoche Marie
Item ID: 0006A835
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Author's Note
This volume attempts to catalogue and analyze known, suspected, and rumored
facts about the two races that serve to maintain order within the Shivering
Isles. It is by no means intended to serve as the authoritative work on the
matter; rather, it is a personal effort on the part of the author to better
understand these unique creatures.
In the Service of the Lord
It is beyond the scope of this work to determine the origins of the Golden
Saints and Dark Seducers. They are Daedra, and as such their base existence
is a mystery to those mortal-born. The commonly held belief that all Daedra
are incapable of Creation suggests that even Lord Sheogorath himself is not
responsible for the genesis of these races. Yet, it is worth noting that the
Prince of Madness has motives and powers that none may guess; to attempt to
do so would only confuse the subject further.
It is enough, then, to see that they exist and know that it is so. Beyond
this knowledge, however, it is curious that the Saints and Seducers serve
Lord Sheogorath unerringly. This allegiance is ultimate and eternal, from all
indications, but its source is unknown. Could it be that they themselves were
tricked into service by the Madgod? Or do they simply ally themselves with
the greatest power in the realm? Previous literary works suggest that Daedra
choose to serve their masters so they might find protection and safe harbor.
Clearly the Saints and Seducers have this in the Shivering Isles; indeed,
they have fortresses which few not of their race are allowed to enter. They
have power in the realm, acting as guardians of those who serve Lord
Sheogorath. Constantly they vie for the favor of Our Lord, fighting any who
oppose him and, at times, even each other. It is reasonable to assume, then,
that they have made a willing choice to take up their role in the Isles.
Character and Society
The immediate image called to mind when hearing the name "Golden Saint"
suggests an angelic figure, elegant and benevolent. It is ironic then, that
while the Golden Saints embody this image in form, their behavior is in stark
contrast to it. The Saints are a proud, arrogant race, quick to anger and
cruel in their punishment. There is no question that they view all in the
Isles as inferior, and make no effort to hide this in their interactions.
Dark Seducers also exhibit little beyond their appearance to match their
names. While they too assert their superiority over all others in the realm,
they appear to have a more patient, introspective nature about them. They
often appear humble in their dealings with mortals, and are known to be
patient with the "lesser races."
In fact, the terms "Golden Saint" and "Dark Seducer" are external constructs.
While the two groups recognize and respond to these names, they have their
own names for their races: The Aureal and the Mazken, respectively. It is
possible the Daedra simply have no concern for the names and titles given to
them by lesser beings, or perhaps they find amusement in the names. Further
research into this subject is necessary but daunting, as the Saints and
Seducers do not freely offer personal information about themselves.
Other information can be gathered from observation. It is easy to see that
the two groups are strongly militaristic in their societal structure; one's
strength and discipline determines one's place in society. Military
commanders, for example, are revered by their subordinates. With further
observation, a second distinction becomes apparent: both societies are
Matriarchal in nature. Females lead the guards within New Sheoth, and have
the highest positions of power. Males, while not openly denigrated, are
clearly subservient to their female superiors. It is unclear where this
practice began, but has been wholly integrated into the daily lives of both
races.
Conflict and Conquest
Any resident of the Shivering Isles can confirm that it is unwise to provoke
the Golden Saints and Dark Seducers. They thrive on conflict and warfare, and
are quick to punish any and all who disobey. Acting in their capacity as
guardians of the realm does not satisfy them, however, and so they often
engage in combat with one another, despite being garrisoned in areas where
they are unlikely to interact. It is possible that this is more than an
outlet for aggressive behavior; repeated engagements between the two races
may be an effort to gain favor with Lord Sheogorath. If one can triumph over
the other, it would prove superiority and a right to gain sole control over
the realm. The battle for Cylarne is of particular interest, as both sides
have been locked in combat with no hope of resolution for time beyond memory.
Does this combat serve to sharpen the skills of the two sides, or weaken them
when they could be directed elsewhere? If the conflict cannot be resolved,
why then does Lord Sheogorath not step in and settle it himself?
Religion and Ceremony
Little is known about the private customs of the Golden Saints and Dark
Seducers. They are reclusive when it comes to matters specific to their race,
particularly regarding the mysterious process by which they return to the
realm in the unlikely event of their death.
It is common knowledge that Golden Saints and Dark Seducers, as Daedra,
cannot be killed. The Animus of the Daedra is cast back into the darkness of
Oblivion, and can return to the realm to take form once more. But reports of
the time it takes for a Daedra to return to the realm from the Waters of
Oblivion are anecdotal and inconclusive; the process by which this return
occurs remains shrouded in mystery. Based on behavior patterns and strength
of numbers, it can be deduced that the stronghold for each race plays some
major part in this process. Common phrases in language (such as "May the
chimes call you home") suggest that rather than merely a metaphor, sound may
play some role in the sequence of events. It is believed that the chimes
referenced by Saints and Seducers do indeed exist and are considered almost
holy relics. Attempts to gain information about these chimes, or the process
by which they are used, has been met with exceptional hostility and so have
been abandoned.
Any and all information regarding the Golden Saints and Dark Seducers,
particularly relating to private customs and origins, should be brought to
the attention of the author immediately. The greater the scope of our
knowledge, the better our ability to understand these compelling creatures.
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(Search Code: LOLZ285)
~~The Shivering Apothecary~~
Cinda Amatius
Item ID: 0006A801
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Many, many things.
Wet things and dry things. Things from plants, things from animals, things
from stone and sky and tree and man and mer.
So many beautiful things for potions. All of them there for the taking,
waiting to be plucked and put to use. "Grind me! Take my essence and turn me
into something new, something wonderful!" they cry out to me.
I have given my life to finding so many of the wondrous things of Tamriel,
and now the things that lie beyond. The realm of the Madgod, dangerous and
beckoning, has so many new things to offer that I have trembled with
excitement over it. I stop to take note of what I have found, so that I may
not forget it in the coming days when I spend my time searching, mixing, and
discovering.
The Apprentice will find that Marrow from the Shambles and fins from Scalons
merge to make a deadly poison that strikes at one's very heart, damaging the
health of those who ingest it. Many a blade did I sink into wet flesh and dry
bone to learn this, but what I have found pleases me.
Flame stalks and the very essence of Flesh Atronachs can be mixed by even a
Novice to counter that damage, as one can drink a potion made from these two
to feel healthy again. The Expert may find that rather than risk himself
against those walking monstrosities, the Screaming Maw can be used instead.
For Magicka (and without Magicka where would I stand now?) the ichor of an
Elytra can be mixed with Withering Moon by a Novice or Thorn Hook by a
Journeyman. No explorer in the Shivering Isles should venture forth without
looking for these.
The tongue of a Hunger -- by itself a marvel of anatomy -- can be eaten to
cure poisons or matched with Withering Moon to cure disease. (I cannot help
but wonder what disease would be so dire as to risk one's life against a
Hunger....)
I have been most pleased to find that to the Expert Alchemist, Rot Scale, and
Worm's Head Caps can be mixed to paralyze one's enemies. This has proven most
useful in extracting ingredients from the Isles' less cordial residents.
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(Search Code: LOLZ286)
~~The Shivering Bestiary~~
Cinda Amatius
Item ID: 0006A808
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For my good friend and colleague Venristwie, who protected the creatures of
all the Realms.
Although my early education involved extensive research into all forms of
fauna, nothing prepared me for the surprises I've uncovered while exploring
the Shivering Isles on the Great Expedition. Even though I've lived here all
of my life, I am just now discovering how wonderful and unique the creatures
of the Isles can be.
The Expedition was an extensive six-year exploration of every nook and cranny
of the Isles in an attempt to categorize the indigenous fauna and record this
information back for posterity and science. Below, I've done my best to
describe each creature in detail. Please note that this information was
obtained at the cost of many lives, and this work should be regarded as the
most complete and definitive reference of its kind.
Baliwog
The Baliwog is an extraordinarily ugly aquatic-dwelling creature that
frequents the lakes, rivers and bogs of the Shivering Isles. Although the
Baliwog, or "Wog" as some of the locals call it, walks on all fours, it
should by no means be considered stupid or docile. A fully-grown adult
Baliwog can deliver a nasty blow from its claws or a potentially deadly bite
from its razor-sharp teeth. The lethality of this beast comes not from the
actual damage it can deliver, but from the horrible diseases it seems to
generate. Also of note is the Baliwog's uncanny ability to regenerate when
immersed in water. From our observations, it's best just to avoid these
brutes, although it's said some of them carry flawless pearls in their
bodies, though it is not known why they would swallow them, or what use they
may serve to the creatures.
Elytra
The Elytra are large insect-like creatures indigenous to much of the Isles.
Although there is a marked color difference between the Northern (Mania)
Variety and the Southern (Dementia) Variety, they are remarkably similar in
behavioral patterns and physical makeup. The Elytra pose a serious threat to
the casual traveler, as they have two interesting mechanisms that benefit
them in combat. The first is their uncanny ability to block weapon attacks.
Through my observations, I have deduced that they utilize their antennae as
an early warning system to detect incoming attacks, say from a sword blade or
an arrow. The antenna sends a signal to their brains, and they instinctively
lift their arms to block. Their second ability is natural venom in their
sting. This venom is very deceiving, as it is very low yield, but its real
deadly nature comes from its duration. Gone unchecked, the venom can slay the
average man over a period of hours. Especially deadly is the Elytra Matron's
venom, which can last much longer than the poisons found on the lesser
varieties of the creature.
Flesh Atronach
One of the most unusual creatures in the Isles, the Flesh Atronach appears as
a sewn-together conglomeration of skin and muscle adorned with mystical
symbols and wearing an iron collar. Although it's uncertain whether
Sheogorath or some other Daedric Prince created this creature, it's obvious
that the intent was to use them as guardians. Usually found inhabiting
underground ruins, the Flesh Atronach will defend areas it's set to guard
until it's destroyed. A unique visual feature of this creature is the energy
spots located on its body. These colored areas seem to glow with an inner
light and denote the power of the Atronach. In increasing order of magnitude,
these seem to be Yellow, Purple, and Red. The function for these spots is
still a mystery, but from my observations, I suspect them to be a magic
dampening gland of some kind. As expected, the Flesh Atronachs are all
completely impervious to disease and poison and highly resistant to fire and
frost. Shock magic seems to affect them adversely, which appears to be their
largest weakness. The Purple and Red varieties also seem to possess innate
magic abilities, including healing and fireballs.
Gnarl
Perhaps the strangest creature of all is the Gnarl, or "Walking Tree" as it's
sometimes called. Like the Elytra, this animated plant can be found roaming
almost anywhere on the Isles. One of Sheogorath's truly unique creations, the
Gnarl has the most unusual trait of being able to use magic cast upon it, and
harness that power to bolster its own defense. Once struck with fire, frost
or lightning, the Gnarl grows physically larger and becomes resistant to just
that element for short time. Interestingly, this is where the Gnarl's
vulnerability comes into play. At the same time the Gnarl is resisting that
element it was struck with, it becomes vulnerable to all of the other
elements. Our guide on the expedition demonstrated this by striking the Gnarl
with a flame arrow then a frost arrow and then back to a flame arrow and so
on.
Grummite
The Grummite represents the only native weapon-wielding creature in the
Shivering Isles. These primitive aquatic-born humanoids are organized in a
tribal-like system, though it is uncertain who or what they worship. It would
be presumed the Grummite worship Sheogorath, their creator, but their
religious totems don't seem to bear the Madgod's likeness. What is known is
that they maintain a simple hierarchy, including Shaman and Boss Grummites
who seem to command the rest. The Grummite have mastered the art of
spellcasting as well, evidenced by the Magus Grummite, which can be quite
deadly. Curiously, the Grummite possess a defense mechanism similar to the
Baliwog: when immersed in water, the Grummite will begin to regenerate
damaged flesh. Unlike the Baliwog, this regeneration extends to rain as well,
making them quite formidable on a stormy day. This aquatic healing ability
leads me to believe the Baliwog and Grummite are somehow related, but even in
my extensive research, I was unable to come up with a solid connection.
Hunger
If any creature represents the darker side of Sheogorath, it's the Hunger.
These are pure-born Daedric creatures placed here on the Isles as servitors
and guards. The Hunger is not to be trifled with; it boasts superior speed
and lightning reflexes along with its primary ability of draining its
victim's fatigue. My best advice when encountering this horrible creature is
to give it a wide berth or slay it quickly. Be wary, as it is said that
conjuration magic exists that is able to summon the Hunger and unleash it
upon the caster's foes.
Scalon
Another aquatic native of the Shivering Isles is the Scalon. Looking
strikingly similar to an upright Baliwog, the Scalon features large fin-laden
appendages and dorsal spines. These creatures are usually quite fearsome,
lumbering slowly after its prey. Don't mistake its speed for its weakness, as
the Scalon has an incredible leaping attack that allows it to strike at its
victims from a surprising distance. Another connection that it shares with
the Baliwog is the fact that its bite or claws can transfer disease to its
victim. It's recommended that these creatures be dealt with at extreme range
with spells or missiles, as the can be quite ferocious in close proximity.
Shambles
The Shambles appears to be some sort of an undead construct made of bone and
lashed together with wire or bits of cloth. Oddly, the bones used in their
makeup appear to have no correlation to one other. They might have skulls for
kneecaps or leg bones for arms, to cite a few examples. The Shambles may be
undead, but they pursue any victim as if they were a predator chasing down
its prey. Like its undead bony brethren, the Shambles is fully resistant to
disease, poison and paralysis; however, they possess a unique resistance to
all frost magic. Furthermore, upon death, the Shambles will explode in a
spectacular shower of frost. This ability seems to have been added by its
creator as an interesting last-ditch defense mechanism. This fact was
initially unknown to me, and one of our best guides was lost when his hammer
struck the fatal blow. If you intend to combat these undead creatures, be
certain to carry frost protection or destroy them at range.
Skinned Hound
These nasty undead beasts are generally encountered inside and around the
ruins that dot the Isles. The Skinned Hound is extremely fast and agile, and
has an insatiable hunger for flesh. Like the Flesh Atronach, it appears to be
all skin and muscle that is roughly sewn together, but I am uncertain whether
they are summoned or merely constructed. The Skinned Hound is not an
adversary to be taken lightly; they feature an incredible invisible charging
attack not unlike a ghost, limited frost resistance, and a complete immunity
to disease and poison. This beast's weakness is fire. They don't seem
intelligent enough to be frightened by it, but it's certainly very efficient
at dispatching them quickly.
Although this work only touches upon the combat related aspects of the
creatures, I feel this is of primary importance to any traveler within the
confines of the Shivering Isles. In future works, I will touch upon the other
aspects of these creatures such as reproduction or creation, magical origins,
and even some delicious recipes I've discovered in my travels. My best advice
when walking the roads and paths of the Isles is to remain ever vigilant and
always be prepared. Knowing your foe can mean the difference between a
gruesome death and survival.
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(Search Code: LOLZ287)
~~16 Accords of Madness, v. VI~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0008DCCB
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Ever proud and boastful, Oblivion's Mad Prince stood one fifth day of mid
year among the frigid peaks of Skyrim, and beckoned forth Hircine for parlay.
The Huntsman God materialized, for this was his day, and the boldness of
Sheogorath intrigued him.
Wry without equal, Sheogorath holds in his realm giggling loons, flamboyant
auteurs, and craven mutilators. The Mad Prince will ply profitless bargains
and promote senseless bloodshed for nothing more than the joy of another's
confusion, tragedy, or rage. So it was that Sheogorath had set a stage on
which to play himself as rival to Hircine.
Without haste, the coy Prince proffered his contest; each Prince was to groom
a beast to meet at this place again, three years to the hour, and do fatal
battle. Expressionless behind his fearsome countenance, Hircine agreed, and
with naught but a dusting of snow in the drift, the Princes were gone to
their realms.
Confident, but knowing Sheogorath for a trickster, Hircine secretly bred an
abomination in his hidden realm. An ancient Daedroth he summoned, and imbued
it with the foul curse of lycanthropy. Of pitch heart and jagged fang, the
unspeakable horror had no peer, even among the great hunters of Hircine's
sphere.
In the third year, on the given day, Hircine returned, where Sheogorath
leaned, cross-legged on a stone, whistling with idle patience. The Prince of
the Hunt struck his spear to the ground, bringing forth his unnatural,
snarling behemoth. Doffing his cap, sly as ever, Sheogorath stood and stepped
aside to reveal a tiny, colorful bird perched atop the stone. Demurely it
chirped in the bristling gusts, scarcely audible.
In a twisted, springing heap, the Daedroth was upon the stone, leaving only
rubble where the boulder had been. Thinking itself victorious, the monster's
bloodied maw curled into a mock grin, when a subdued song drifted in the
crisp air. The tiny bird lightly hopped along the snout of the furious
Daedroth. Sheogorath looked on, quietly mirthful, as the diminutive creature
picked at a bit of detritus caught in scales betwixt the fiery eyes of the
larger beast. With howling fury, the were-thing blinded itself trying to
pluck away the nuisance. And so it continued for hours, Hircine looking on in
shame while his finest beast gradually destroyed itself in pursuit of the
seemingly oblivious bird, all the while chirping a mournful tune to the
lonesome range.
Livid, but beaten, Hircine burned the ragged corpse and withdrew to his
realm, swearing in forgotten tongues. His curses still hang in those peaks,
and no wayfarer tarries for fear of his wrathful aspect in those obscured
heights.
Turning on his heel, Sheogorath beckoned the miniscule songbird to perch atop
his shoulder, and strolled down the mountain, making for the warm breezes and
vibrant sunsets of the Abecean coast, whistling in tune with the tiniest
champion in Tamriel.
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(Search Code: LOLZ288)
~~16 Accords of Madness, v. IX~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0008DCCA
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Darius Shano found himself running as fast as he could.
He had no idea what he was running from or towards, but he didn't care. The
desire saturated his mind -- there was nothing in the world except flight. He
looked around for landmarks, anything to place himself or to use as a target,
but to no avail -- the featureless grasslands through which he was sprinting
extended as far as the eye could see. "Just have to keep running", he thought
to himself. "I have to run as fast as I can". On and on he ran, with no end
in sight or in mind....
Standing over Darius Shano while he lay quietly in his bed were his mistress,
Vaermina the Dreamweaver, and the Madgod Sheogorath. Vaernima looked down
with pride at this disciple of hers, and was boastful of her little jewel.
"Such potential in this one! Through dreams of inspiration, I have nurtured
literary talent into fruition, and now he stands in acclaim as an emerging
bard and poet! He will gain much favor before I tire of him." Sheogorath,
too, gazed at the young Breton and saw that he was indeed famous among the
other mortals.
"Hmmm," mused Sheogorath, "but how many are there who hate this mortal whom
you have built? It is the hatred of the mortals which confirms greatness, and
not their love. Surely you can accomplish this as well?"
Vaernima's eyes narrowed. "Yes, the mortals are indeed often foolish and
petty, and it is true that many of their most bold have been despised. Do not
worry, mad one, for I have the power to achieve many forms of greatness with
this one, hatred among them."
"Perhaps, Dreamweaver, it would be amusing to show who has this power?
Inspire foolish, arrogant hatred of this mortal for ten years, and then I
will do the same. We shall see whose talents are most efficient, free of aid
or interference from any of the Daedra."
At this, she relaxed into confident pleasure. "The Madgod is indeed powerful,
but this task is suited to my skills. The mortals are repulsed by madness,
but rarely think it worthy of hate. I shall take pleasure in revealing this
to you, as I bring the more subtle horrors out of this mortal's
subconscious."
And so, in the 19th year of his life, the dreams Darius Shano had been
experiencing began to change. Fear had always been part of the night to him,
but now there was something else. A darkness began to creep into his slumber,
a darkness that sucked away all feeling and color, leaving only emptiness
behind. When this happened, he opened his mouth to scream, but found that the
darkness had taken his voice as well. All he had was the terror and the void,
and each night they filled him with a new understanding of death. Yet, when
he woke, there was no fear, for he had faith that his Lady had a purpose.
Indeed, one night Vaernima herself emerged from the void. She leaned in close
to whisper into his ear.
"Watch carefully, my beloved!" With that, she pulled the void away, and for
hours each night she would reveal to Darius the most horrible perversions of
nature. Men being skinned and eaten alive by other men, unimaginable beasts
of many limbs and mouths, entire populations being burned -- their screams
filled his every evening. In time, these visions gnawed at his soul, and his
work began to take on the character of his nightmares. The images revealed to
him at night were reproduced on the page, and the terrible cruelty and hollow
vice that his work contained both revolted and fascinated the public. The
reveled in their disgust over every detail. There were those who openly
enjoyed his shocking material, and his popularity among some only fed the
hatred of those who found him abhorrent. This continued for many years, while
the infamy of Darius grew steadily. Then, in his 29th year, without warning,
the dreams and nightmares ceased.
Darius felt a weight lifted, as he no longer endured the nightly tortures,
but was confused. "What have I done to displease my Mistress?", he wondered
aloud. "Why has she abandoned me?" Vaernima never answered his prayers. No
one ever answered, and the restless dreams faded away to leave Darius in
long, deep sleeps.
Interest in the works of Darius Shano waned. His prose became stale and his
ideas failed to provoke the shock and outrage they once had. As the memory of
his notoriety and of his terrible dreams faded, the questions that raced in
his mind eventually produced resentment against Vaernima, his former
mistress. Resentment grew intro hatred, from hatred came ridicule, and over
time ridicule became disbelief. Slowly it became obvious -- Vaernima had
never spoken to him at all; his dreams were simply the product of a sick mind
that had righted itself. He had been deceived by his own subconscious, and
the anger and shame overwhelmed him. The man who once conversed with a deity
drifted steadily into heresy.
In time, all of the bitterness, doubt, and sacrilege focused in Darius a
creative philosophy that was threaded throughout all of his subsequent work.
He challenged the Gods themselves, as well as the infantile public and
corrupt state for worshiping them. He mocked them with all his perverse
caricatures, sparing no one and giving no quarter. He challenged the Gods in
public to strike him down if they existed, and ridiculed them when no such
comeuppance was delivered. To all of this, the people reacted with outrage
far greater than they had shown his previous work. His early career had
offended only sensibilities, but now he was striking directly at the heart of
the people.
His body of work grew in size and intensity. Temples, nobles, and commoners
were all targets of his scorn. Finally, at age 39, Darius wrote a piece
entitled "The Noblest Fool," ridiculing The Emperor God Tiber Septim for
integrating into the pathetic Nine Divines cult. The local King of Daenia,
who had been humiliated by this upstart in the past, saw his chance -- for
his sacrilege against the Empire, Darius Shano was executed, with a
ceremonial blade, in front of a cheering crowd of hundreds. His last, bitter
words were gurgled through a mouthful of his own blood.
20 years after their wager was first placed, Vaernima and Sheogorath met over
Darius Shano's headless corpse. The Dreamweaver had been eager for this
meeting; she had been waiting for years to confront the Daedric Prince over
his lack of action.
"I have been deceived by you, Sheogorath! I performed my half of the bargain,
but during your ten years you never contacted the mortal once. He owes none
of his greatness to you or your talents or your influence!"
"Nonsense," croaked the Madgod. "I was with him all along! When your time
ended and mine began, your whispers in his ear were replaced with silence. I
severed his link to that from which he found the most comfort and meaning,
and withheld the very attention the creature so desperately craved. Without
his mistress, this man's character could ripen under resentment and hatred.
Now his bitterness is total and, overcome by a madness fueled by his rage, he
feeds me in my realm as an eternal servant." Sheogorath turned and spoke to
the empty space by his side.
"Indeed; Darius Shano was a glorious mortal. Despised by his own people, his
kings, and even by the Gods he mocked. For my success, I shall accept three-
score followers of Vaernima into my service. And the dreamers will awaken as
madmen."
And thus did Sheogorath teach Vaernima that without madness, there are no
dreams, and no creation. Vaernima will never forget this lesson.
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(Search Code: LOLZ289)
~~16 Accords of Madness, v. XII~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0008DCC8
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In the days before the Orsinium's founding, the spurned Orc-folk were
subjected to ostracism and persecutions even more numerous and harsh than
their progeny are accustomed to in our own age. So it was that many champions
of the Orsimer traveled, enforcing what borders they could for the
proliferation of their own people. Many of these champions are spoken of yet
today, among them the Cursed Legion, Gromma the Hairless, and the noble Emmeg
Gro-Kayra. This latter crusader would have certainly risen to legendary
status throughout Tamriel, had he not been subject to the attention of
certain Daedric Princes.
Emmeg Gro-Kayra was the bastard son of a young maiden who was killed in
childbirth. He was raised by the shaman of his tribe, the Grilikamaug in the
peaks of what we now call Normar Heights. Late in his fifteenth year, Emmeg
forged by hand an ornate suit of scaled armor, a rite of ascension among his
tribe. On a blustery day, he pounded the final rivet, and draping a heavy
cloak over the bulky mantle, Emmeg set out from his village for the last
time. Word of his exploits always returned home, whether defending merchant
caravans from brigands or liberating enslaved beast folk. News of the noble
Orc crusader began to grace even the lips of Bretons, often with a tinge of
fear.
Less than two years after ascending to maturity, Gro-Kayra was making camp
when a thin voice called out from the thickening night. He was surprised to
hear the language of his people spoken by a tongue that obviously did not
belong to an Orc.
'Lord Kayra', said the voice, 'tales of your deeds have crossed the lips of
many, and have reached my ears.' Peering into the murk, Emmeg made out the
silhouette of a cloaked figure, made wavy and ephemeral by the hazy campfire.
From the voice alone he had thought the interloper an old hag, but he now
decided that he was in the presence of a man of slight and lanky build,
though he could discern no further detail.
'Perhaps,' the wary Orc began, 'but I seek no glory. Who are you?'
Ignoring the question, the stranger continued, 'Despite that, Orsimer, glory
finds you, and I bear a gift worthy of it.' The visitor's cloak parted
slightly, revealing nothing but faintly glinting buttons in the pale
moonlight, and a bundle was withdrawn and tossed to the side of the fire
between the two. Emmeg cautiously removed the rags in which the object was
swathed, and was dazzled to discover the item to be a wide, curved blade with
ornately decorated handle. The weapon had heft, and Emmeg realized on
brandishing it that the elaborate pommel disguised the more practical purpose
of balancing the considerable weight of the blade itself. It was nothing much
to look at in its present condition, thought the Orc, but once the tarnish
was cleaned away and a few missing jewels restored, it would indeed be a
blade worthy of a champion ten times his own worth.
'Her name is Neb-Crescen' spoke the thin stranger, seeing the appreciation
lighting Gro-Kayra's face. 'I got her for a horse and a secret in warmer
climes, but in my old age I'd be lucky to even lift such a weapon. It's only
proper that I pass her on to one such as yourself. To possess her is to
change your life, forever.' Overcoming his initial infatuation with the arc
of honed steel, Emmeg turned his attention back to the visitor.
'Your words are fine, old man,' Emmeg said, not masking his suspicion, 'but
I'm no fool. You traded for this blade once, and you'll trade for it again
tonight. What is it that you want?' The stranger's shoulders slumped, and
Emmeg was glad to have unveiled the true purpose of this twilight visit. He
sat with him a while, eventually offering a stack of furs, warm food, and a
handful of coins in exchange for the exotic weapon. By morning, the stranger
was gone.
In the week following Emmeg's encounter with the stranger, Neb-Crescen had
not left its scabbard. He had encountered no enemy in the woods, and his
meals consisted of fowl and small game caught with bow and arrow. The peace
suited him fine, but on the seventh morning, while fog still crept between
the low-hanging boughs, Emmeg's ears pricked up at the telltale crunch of a
nearby footfall in the dense snow and forest debris.
Emmeg's nostrils flared, but he was upwind. Being unable to see or smell his
guest, and knowing that the breeze carried his scent in that direction,
Emmeg's guard was up, and he cautiously drew Neb-Crescen from its sheath.
Emmeg himself was not entirely sure of all that happened next.
The first moment of conscious memory in Emmeg Gro-Kayra's mind after drawing
Neb-Crescen was the image of the curved blade sweeping through the air in
front of him, spattering blood over the virginal powder coating the forest
floor. The second memory was a feeling of frenzied bloodlust creeping over
him, but it was then that he saw for the first time his victim, an Orc woman
perhaps a few years younger than himself, her body a canvas of grisly wounds,
enough to kill a strong man ten times over.
Emmeg's disgust overwhelmed the madness that had overtaken him, and with all
his will enlisted, he released Neb-Crescen from his grip and let the blade
sail. With a discordant ringing it spun through the air and was buried in a
snowdrift. Emmeg fled the scene in shame and horror, drawing the hood of his
cloak up to hide himself from the judging eyes of the rising sun.
The scene where Emmeg Gro-Kayra had murdered one of his own kind was a
macabre one. Below the neck, the body was flayed and mutilated almost beyond
recognition, but the untouched face was frozen in a permanent expression of
abject terror.
It was here that Sheogorath performed certain rites that summoned Malacath,
and the two Daedric Lords held court in the presence of the disfigured
corpse.
'Why show me this, Mad One?' began Malacath, once he recovered from his
initial, wordless outrage. 'Do you take such pleasure in watching me grieve
the murder of my children?' His guttural voice rumbled, and the patron of the
Orismer looked upon his counterpart with accusing eyes.
'By birth, she was yours, brother outcast,' began Sheogorath, solemn in
aspect and demeanor. 'But she was a daughter of mine by her own habits. My
mourning here is no less than your own, my outrage no less great.'
'I am not so sure,' grumbled Malacath, 'but rest assured that vengeance for
this crime is mine to reap. I expect no contest from you. Stand aside.' As
the fearsome Prince began to push past him, Lord Sheogorath spoke again.
'I have no intention of standing between you and vengeance. In fact, I mean
to help you. I have servants in this wilderness, and can tell you just where
to find our mutual foe. I ask only that you use a weapon of my choosing.
Wound the criminal with my blade, and banish him to my plane, where I can
exact my own punishment. The rights of honor-killing here belong to you.'
With that, Malacath agreed, took the wide blade from Sheogorath, and was
gone.
Malacath materialized in the path of the murderer, the cloaked figure
obscured through a blizzard haze. Bellowing a curse so foul as to wilt the
surrounding trees, the blade was drawn and Malacath crossed the distance more
quickly than a wild fox. Frothing with rage, he swung the blade in a smooth
arc which lopped the head of his foe cleanly off, then plunged the blade up
to its hilt in his chest, choking off the spurts of blood into a steady,
growing stain of red bubbling from beneath the scaled armor and heavy cloak.
Panting from the unexpected immediacy and fury of his own kill, Malacath
rested on a knee as the body before him collapsed heavily backwards and the
head landed roughly upon a broad, flat stone. The next sound broke the
silence like a bolt.
'I - I'm sorry...' sputtered the voice of Emmeg Gro-Kayra. Malacath's eyes
went wide as he looked upon the severed head, seeping blood from its wound,
but somehow kept alive. Its eyes wavered about wildly, trying to focus on the
aspect of Malacath before it. The once-proud eyes of the champion were choked
with tears of grief, pain, and confused recognition.
To his horror, Malacath recognized only now that the man he had killed was
not only one of his Orismer children, but very literally a son he had blessed
an Orc maiden with years hence. For achingly long moments the two looked upon
each other, despondent and shocked.
Then, silent as oiled steel, Sheogorath strode into the clearing. He hefted
Emmeg Gro-Kayra's disembodied head and bundled it into a small, grey sack.
Sheogorath reclaimed Neb-Crescen from the corpse and turned to walk away.
Malacath began to stand, but kneeled again, knowing he had irreversibly
damned his own offspring to the realm of Sheogorath, and mourned his failure
as the sound of his son's hoarse pleas faded into the frozen horizon.
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(Search Code: LOLZ290)
~~The Standing Stones~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0006A83A
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Any visitor to the Shivering Isles will soon come across the dreadful shape
of a tall, crystalline stone looming over them like an accusing finger.
Variously known as standing stones or obelisks, they cannot be avoided in
traveling the Shivering Isles, no matter how hard you might try.
There are many theories on the origin and purpose of these stones. (Purpose?
Can a stone have a purpose? Is it a sentient being, or an inanimate object?
Is it listening to you - watching you - whispering to you?). Some claim they
are simply interesting geological formations. Not so. Not so. They cannot be
chipped or cracked or even scorched. Believe me, I've tried. Nothing harms
them. (Although perhaps they still feel the blows. They seemed angry for a
while. I sang to them and that seemed to soothe them. I can't say why.) And
if you've tried to dig one up, as I have, you know that they go down forever.
(Months I spent, digging down. No matter how deep, there it was, still
gleaming in the secret darkness beneath the earth. They know the secrets,
even those that are buried deep.)
I have spent many years trying to understand these stones. (Avoiding doesn't
work. As I said, they're everywhere. So try for understanding, as I have.
What is the humming? What do the whispers mean?) I can't say that I know
everything about them, but I have learned many things, some of which I can
share with you. (But I don't know what they want. Not yet. Perhaps if I knew
what they wanted, I wouldn't be so afraid. They whisper secrets to me, but I
promised not to tell. They know many secrets. They're always watching. They
never sleep. Not even at night, in the dark of the moon.)
I know they are old, older perhaps than the world itself. They have seen
civilizations rise and fall. And they hate us. They are waiting for their
master to return. (They don't tell me who, or when. If they hate me so, why
do they tell me their secrets? Is it because they know my secrets already?)
You may not believe me. Most don't, but most have not spent the time I have
in trying to learn about these stones. I have spent days listening to their
secret whispers and learning their language. (They talk, you know. To each
other, mostly. But now to me.) At first it was just a humming, which you can
hear if you lean against a stone and listen very carefully. It may take
hours, or days, but you will hear them. And once you hear the voice of the
standing stones, you will never be able to shut it out.
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(Search Code: LOLZ291)
~~Traelius' Journal~~
Traelius
Item ID: 00082099
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4th Mid Year, Morndas
Alyssa has been very nervous these past few days, even thinking about packing
up and moving out of here. I will hear nothing of it. She does not understand
the importance of this place to me. The city is too busy and too noisy for me
to think clearly. Only here can I practice my studies in peace and not have
to deal with the Inferiors back in the city. Nothing soothes the soul like
the gentle sound of rushing water. She will grow to love this place.
19th Mid Year, Tirdas
Alyssa is beginning to spend more and more time at her daily baths. I have
not pressed the matter, for I know she is true to me. Maybe I will follow her
tomorrow. No. I cannot. I cannot afford to lose her trust. I have worked too
hard to get her here.
22nd Mid Year, Fredas
Spent two hours waiting for my Alyssa to return from her daily bath near the
waterfall. She apparently fell asleep. I did not inquire any further, but I
did notice scratches and bruises on her forearms and legs. She probably
tripped and fell, but was too embarrassed to tell me about it.
266th Mid Year, Morndas
The past few days Alyssa has brought up the subject of leaving this place.
Has she already forgotten why we came here in the first place? Has she
already forgotten the daily mental torture of conversing with the Inferiors
in the city? This constant bickering between us is starting to wear on me and
I fear I will not be able to take much more of it.
27th Mid Year, Middas
Alyssa spent nearly four hours today at the waterfall. She said she fell
asleep again. I will not be made a fool. I demanded she tell me where she had
been. She burst into tears and confessed she no longer wished to stay here
with me. That night I did not sleep and the day's events played over and over
in my head. In the morning, I made the decision to let Alyssa leave. Let her
be free. Let her live life the way she wants. She thanked me, parted with one
final kiss, and then took off toward the waterfall. That was the last I saw
of my dear Alyssa.
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(Search Code: LOLZ292)
~~Wabbajack~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00043F75
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Little boys shouldn't summon up the forces of eternal darkness unless they
have an adult supervising, I know, I know. But on that sunny night on the 5th
of First Seed, I didn't want an adult. I wanted Hermaeus Mora, the daedra of
knowledge, learning, gums, and varnishes. You see, I was told by a beautiful,
large breasted man who lived under the library in my home town that the 5th
of First Seed was Hermaeus Mora's night. And if I wanted the Oghma Infinium,
the book of knowledge, I had to summon him. When you're the new king of
Solitude, every bit of knowledge helps.
Normally, you need a witches coven, or a mages guild, or at least
matching pillow case and sheets to invoke a prince of Oblivion. The Man Under
the Library showed me how to do it myself. He told me to wait until the storm
was at its height before shaving the cat. I've forgotten the rest of the
ceremony. It doesn't matter.
Someone appeared who I thought was Hermaeus Mora. The only thing that
made me somewhat suspicious was Hermaeus Mora, from what I read, was a big
blobby multi-eyed clawed monstrosity, and this guy looked like a waistcoated
banker. Also, he kept calling himself Sheogorath, not Hermaeus Mora. Still, I
was so happy to have successfully summoned Hermaeus Mora, these
inconsistencies did not bother me. He had me do some things that didn't make
any sense to me (beyond the mortal scope, breadth, and ken, I suppose), and
then his servant happily gave me something he called the Wabbajack.
Wabbajack. Wabbajack. Wabbajack.
Wabbajack. Wabbajack. Wabbajack.
Wabbajack. Wabbajack. Wabbajack.
Maybe the Wabbajack is the Book of Knowledge. Maybe I'm smarter
because I know cats can be bats can be rats can be hats can be gnats can be
thats can be thises. And that doors can be boars can be snores can be floors
can be roars can be spores can be yours can be mine. I must be smart, for the
interconnective system is very clear to me. Then why, or wherefore do people
keep calling me mad?
Wabbajack. Wabbajack. Wabbajack.
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(Search Code: LOLZ293)
~~Zealotry~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 0006987D
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The self-proclaimed Zealots of Sheogorath believe our liege lord to be not
just a man of mysterious and wondrous powers, but a living god. They believe
his will sustains the lands and his whim supports all things in it. They
believe Arden-Sul, Who Reads the Winds in Our Entrails, was the mortal aspect
of Lord Sheogorath, and will come again to cleanse the Realm. Since these
claims are clearly ridiculous, it can be assumed that all Zealots are quite
mad.
The Zealots cannot be reasoned with. They cannot be treatied with easily.
They attack almost anyone on sight, assuming them to be heretics or non-
believers. They fight to the death, reveling in the carnage.
The reader might ask, then how does one join the Zealots? After much
research, I discovered that Zealots sneak into settled areas and leave sets
of robes behind. Anyone inclined toward Zealotry can don these robes and </pre><pre id="faqspan-36">
approach the Zealots safely. It is said that Zealot leaders can see the true
heart of a supplicant, even if he wears the robes, and will slay any false
supplicants.
Even then, the Zealots have painful rituals meant to prove their fealty to
Sheogorath. Only the most devout supplicants are accepted into their ranks.
Those who fail these tests are put to death.
Once a supplicant is accepted as a Zealot, he is taught ceremonies and
sorcerous secrets. The best known of these is summoning Flesh Atronachs to do
their bidding. These powerful creatures are formidable foes.
====================================================================
VI:
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######:: ##:::. ##: ########: ########::'####:::: ##::::. ######::
:......:::..:::::..::........::........:::....:::::..::::::......:::
====================================================================
Thanks to me for taking the time to put this together
Thanks to Bethesda for creating this amazing game.
Thanks to the Imperial Library for some of the book texts, mainly
the official mod's books.
======================================================
VII:
__ _______ _______ ___ __
| | | ____| / _____| / \ | |
| | | |__ | | __ / ^ \ | |
| | | __| | | |_ | / /_\ \ | |
| `----.| |____ | |__| | / _____ \ | `----.
|_______||_______| \______| /__/ \__\ |_______|
_______.___________. __ __ _______ _______
/ | || | | | | ____|| ____|
| (----`---| |----`| | | | | |__ | |__
\ \ | | | | | | | __| | __|
----) | | | | `--' | | | | |
|_______/ |__| \______/ |__| |__|
======================================================
This guide is Copyright (c) 2007 ShadowDragon777
This may be not be reproduced under any circumstances except for
personal, private use. It may not be placed on any web site or
otherwise distributed publicly without advance written permission.
Use of this guide on any other web site or as a part of any public
display is strictly prohibited, and a violation of copyright.
All trademarks and copyrights contained in this document are owned by their
respective trademark and copyright holders.
SITES ALLOWED TO USE THIS GUIDE AT THIS TIME
gamefaqs.com
supercheats.com
neoseeker.com
please notify me at
[email protected] if you see it elsewhere
=========================================================
VIII:
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><< ><< ><< ><<
><< ><< ><< ><< ><< ><< ><<
><< >< >< >< ><< ><<<<<< ><< ><< ><< ><<
><< ><< ><<><<<<< ><< ><< ><< ><<>< ><<
><< >< ><<>< ><< ><< ><<>< ><<
><< ><< ><< ><<<< ><<<<<<<<><<< ><< ><< ><<
=========================================================
This is the end of the FAQ, thank you for reading it
and hopefully it was helpful.
Goodbye.
