_____ _ _ _____ _ _ _____
| ___| | | | / ___| | | | |____ |
| |__ | | __| | ___ _ __ \ `--. ___ _ __ ___ | | |___ / /
| __|| |/ _` |/ _ \ '__| `--. \/ __| '__/ _ \| | / __| \ \
| |___| | (_| | __/ | /\__/ / (__| | | (_) | | \__ \ .___/ /
\____/|_|\__,_|\___|_| \____/ \___|_| \___/|_|_|___/ \____/
___ ___ _ _
| \/ | (_) | |
| . . | ___ _ __ _ __ _____ ___ _ __ __| |
| |\/| |/ _ \| '__| '__/ _ \ \ /\ / / | '_ \ / _` |
| | | | (_) | | | | | (_) \ V V /| | | | | (_| |
\_| |_/\___/|_| |_| \___/ \_/\_/ |_|_| |_|\__,_|
Elder Scrolls 3: Morrowind
Book FAQ V1.0
By Stevmill
This file is Copyright (c)2003 Steve Miller. All rights reserved.
=============================================================================
Table of Contents
=============================================================================
Section 1: Authors Note
Section 3: What's New
Section 2: How to Navigate This Guide
Section 4: Books to Learn From
Section 5: Book Texts
Section 6: Version History
Section 7: Credits
Section 8: Copyright
Section 9: Contact Information
=============================================================================
Section 1: Authors Note
=============================================================================
I created this guide because I noticed the interest among Morrowind fans for
collecting the many books in the game. Bethesda has done a wonderfull job of
writing some interesting stories as a way of fleshing out the world of the
Elderscrolls. Now with this guide you can read all of the books in the game
without having to find them all. I hope you all enjoy reading all of the
texts. I intend to continue to work on this guide by adding the locations for
all of the books, as well as updating some of the special notes about the
books. Please be patient with me as I update this guide. Thank you.
=============================================================================
Section 2: How to Navigate This Guide
=============================================================================
The easiest way to locate the sections in this guide is as follows:
Step 1: Highlight the section you want to find from the table of contents and
hit Ctrl-C
Step 2: Hit Ctrl-F
Step 3: Place your cursor in the find field and hit Ctrl-V
Step 4: Hit the find next button until you are at the section you want to
Read
=============================================================================
Section 3: What's New
=============================================================================
8-30-2003 v 1.0 The first draft of the guide.
=============================================================================
Section 4: Books to Learn From
=============================================================================
There are certain books across the world that when read will raise one of your
skills by one point. There are five books for each skill, and multiple copies
of those books. Reading a particular title that will raise your skill, will do
so only once, For example if you read “A Game At Dinner” twice, or two copies
of that book you will only gain one point of alchemy, but if you read “A Game
At Dinner” and “The Cake And The Diamond” you will get two points in alchemy.
NAME OF BOOK SKILL RAISED # IN WORLD
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Realizations of Acrobacy Acrobatics 5
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 1 Acrobatics 6
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 4 Acrobatics 6
The Black Arrow, Volume I Acrobatics 4
Mystery of Talara, Part 1 Acrobatics 4
A Game at Dinner Alchemy 8
The Cake and the Diamond Alchemy 5
Song of the Alchemists Alchemy 6
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 2 Alchemy 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 18 Alchemy 4
Breathing Water Alteration 5
The Dragon Break Re-Examined Alteration 5
Sithis Alteration 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 13 Alteration 4
The Lunar Lorkhan Alteration 5
The Armorer's Challenge Armorer 5
Last Scabbard of Akrash Armorer 6
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 6 Armorer 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 25 Armorer 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 29 Armorer 4
The Ransom of Zarek Athletics 6
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 3 Athletics 6
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 1 Athletics 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 8 Athletics 3
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 29 Athletics 4
The Third Door Axe 7
The Axe Man Axe 6
The Seed Axe 6
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 5 Axe 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 16 Axe 3
Death Blow of Abernanit Block 4
The Mirror Block 5
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 2 Block 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 7 Block 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 32 Block 4
The Hope of the Redoran Blunt Weapon 6
The Importance of Where Blunt Weapon 5
Night Falls On Sentinel Blunt Weapon 3
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 3 Blunt Weapon 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 9 Blunt Weapon 3
Feyfolken II Conjuration 5
Feyfolken III Conjuration 6
2920, Hearth Fire Conjuration 5
2920, FrostFall Conjuration 5
The Warrior's Charge Conjuration 3
The Horror of Castle Xyr Destruction 6
Response to Bero's Speech Destruction 5
A Hypothetical Treachery Destruction 5
The Art of War Magic Destruction 5
Mystery of Talara, Part 3 Destruction 3
Feyfolken I Enchant 6
The Wolf Queen, Book VIII Enchant 5
Palla, Book II Enchant 6
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 19 Enchant 4
The Final Lesson Enchant 5
The Prayers of Baranat Hand-to-Hand 5
The Wolf Queen, Book II Hand-to-Hand 5
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 2 Hand-to-Hand 4
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 4 Hand-to-Hand 3
Master Zoaraym's Tale Hand-to-Hand 3
Hallgerd's Tale Heavy Armor 6
2920, MidYear Heavy Armor 4
Chimarvamidium Heavy Armor 3
How Orsinium Passed to the Orcs Heavy Armor 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 12 Heavy Armor 4
The Wolf Queen, Book III Illusion 4
Silence Illusion 4
Incident in Necrom Illusion 4
Palla, Book I Illusion 4
Mystery of Talara, Part 4 Illusion 4
The Rear Guard Light Armor 5
Ice and Chilton Light Armor 5
Lord Jornibret's Last Dance Light Armor 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 21 Light Armor 3
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 28 Light Armor 5
Words and Philosophy Long Blade 6
2920, Morning Star Long Blade 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 17 Long Blade 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 20 Long Blade 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 23 Long Blade 3
The Gold Ribbon of Merrit Marksman 4
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 5 Marksman 5
Vernaccus and Bourlor Marksman 4
The Marksmanship Lesson Marksman 5
The Black Arrow, Volume II Marksman 3
Cherim's Heart of Anequina Medium Armor 5
Bone, Part One Medium Armor 4
Bone, Part Two Medium Armor 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 22 Medium Armor 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 33 Medium Armor 4
The Buying Game Mercantile 5
The Wolf Queen, Book IV Mercantile 5
2920, Sun's Height Mercantile 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 6 Mercantile 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 7 Mercantile 4
Mystery of Talara, Part 5 Unknown 3
The Firsthold Revolt Mysticism 5
2920, Sun's Dawn Mysticism 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 4 Mysticism 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 36 Mysticism 5
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 3 Mysticism 4
Withershins Restorations 6
Notes on Racial Phylogeny Restorations 5
The Four Suitors of Benitah Restorations 5
2920, Rain's Hand Restorations 5
Mystery of Talara, Part 2 Restorations 3
The Locked Room Security 5
The Wolf Queen, Book I Security 5
The Dowry Security 5
Chance's Folly Security 5
Surfeit of Thieves Security 4
Unnamed Book Short Blade 5
2920, Sun's Dusk Short Blade 4
2920, Evening Star Short Blade 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 10 Short Blade 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 30 Short Blade 4
The Wolf Queen, Book VI Sneak 4
2920, Last Seed Sneak 4
Azura and the Box Sneak 5
Trap Sneak 3
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 26 Sneak 5
Smuggler's Island Spear 4
2920, First Seed Spear 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 14 Spear 3
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 24 Spear 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 35 Spear 4
Biography of the Wolf Queen Speechcraft 5
The Wolf Queen, Book V Speechcraft 5
2920, Second Seed Speechcraft 4
The Wolf Queen, Book VII Speechcraft 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 27 Speechcraft 6
The Wraith's Wedding Dowry Unarmored 5
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume I Unarmored 3
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 11 Unarmored 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 15 Unarmored 3
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 34 Unarmored 3
=============================================================================
Section 5: Book Texts
=============================================================================
In the subsection for each book I have included the following information:
ID: This is the books id from the condtruction set, Players of the
PC version of the game can enter this with the add item
command to get a copy of the book. The console command is as
follows
player->additem "book ID" 1
Weight: This is the weight of the book
Value: This is how much gold the book is worth
Special Notes: This line tell you if the book teaches you a skill, adds
conversation topics, or has quest importance.
To find the text of the book you want to read follow these directions...
Step 1: Highlight the title you want to find from the list below and
hit Ctrl-C
Step 2: Hit Ctrl-F
Step 3: Place your cursor in the find field and hit Ctrl-V
Step 4: Hit the find next button until you are at the book you want to
Read
2920, Evening Star
2920, First Seed
2920, FrostFall
2920, Hearth Fire
2920, Last Seed
2920, MidYear
2920, Morning Star
2920, Rain's Hand
2920, Second Seed
2920, Sun's Dawn
2920, Sun's Dusk
2920, Sun's Height
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 1
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 2
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 3
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 4
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 5
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 6
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 7
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 8
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 9
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 10
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 11
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 12
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 13
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 14
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 15
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 16
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 17
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 18
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 19
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 20
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 21
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 22
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 23
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 24
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 25
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 26
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 27
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 28
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 29
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 30
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 31
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 32
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 33
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 34
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 35
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 36
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 1
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 2
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 3
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 4
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 5
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 6
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 7
A Fair Warning
A Game at Dinner
A Hypothetical Treachery
A Less Rude Song
A Short History of Morrowind
ABCs for Barbarians
Aedra and Daedra
Ancestors and the Dunmer
Antecedants of Dwemer Law
Arcana Restored
Arkay the Enemy
Ashland Hymns
Azura and the Box
Biography of Barenziah v I
Biography of Barenziah v II
Biography of Barenziah v III
Biography of the Wolf Queen
Blasphemous Revenants
Boethiah's Glory
Boethiah's Pillow Book
Bone, Part One
Bone, Part Two
Book of Life and Service
Book of Rest and Endings
Breathing Water
Brief History of the Empire v 1
Brief History of the Empire v 2
Brief History of the Empire v 3
Brief History of the Empire v 4
Brown Book of 3E 426
Caldera Ledger
Capn's Guide to the Fishy Stick
Chance's Folly
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 1
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 2
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 3
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 4
Cherim's Heart of Anequina
Children of the Sky
Chimarvamidium
Chronicles of Nchuleft
Confessions of a Skooma-Eater
Corpse Preparation v I
Corpse Preparation v II
Corpse Preparation v III
Darkest Darkness
Death Blow of Abernanit
Divine Metaphysics...
Dren's shipping log
East Empire Company Ledger
Elante's Notes
Fellowship of the Temple
Feyfolken I
Feyfolken II
Feyfolken III
Fighters Guild Charter
Five Songs of King Wulfharth
For my Gods and Emperor
Fort Pelagiad Prisoner Log
Fragment: On Artaeum
Frontier, Conquest...
Galerion The Mystic
Galur Rithari's Papers
Gnisis Eggmine Ledger
Grasping Fortune
Guylaine's Architecture
Hallgerd's Tale
Hanging Gardens...
Hanin's Wake
Hlaalu Vaults Ledger
Homilies of Blessed Almalexia
Honor Among Thieves
How Orsinium Passed to the Orcs
Ice and Chiton
Incident in Necrom
Invocation of Azura
Journal of Tarhiel
Kagouti Mating Habits
Kagrenac's Journal
Kagrenac's Planbook
Last Scabbard of Akrash
Legions of the Dead
Lives of the Saints
Lord Jornibret's Last Dance
Mages Guild Charter
Master Zoaraym's Tale
Mixed Unit Tactics v1
Mysterious Akavir
Mystery of Talara, Part 1
Mystery of Talara, Part 2
Mystery of Talara, Part 3
Mystery of Talara, Part 4
Mystery of Talara, Part 5
Mysticism
Nchunak's Fire and Faith
Nerevar Moon-and-Star
N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis!
Night Falls On Sentinel
No-h's Picture Book of Wood
Notes on Racial Phylogeny
Odral's History of the Empire 1
Odral's History of the Empire 2
Odral's History of the Empire 3
Odral's History of the Empire 4
On Morrowind
On Oblivion
Ordo Legionis
Origin of the Mages Guild
Overview of Gods and Worship
Palla, Book I
Palla, Book II
Poison Song I
Poison Song II
Poison Song III
Poison Song IV
Poison Song V
Poison Song VI
Poison Song VII
Progress of Truth
Realizations of Acrobacy
Red Book of 3E 426
Redoran Cooking Secrets
Redoran Vaults Ledger
Reflections on Cult Worship
Response to Bero's Speech
Saryoni's Sermons
Saryoni's Sermons Manuscript
Secret Caldera Ledger
Secrets of Dwemer Animunculi
Sharn's Legions of the Dead
Silence
Sithis
Smuggler's Island
Song of the Alchemists
Sottilde's Code Book
Special Flora of Tamriel
Spirit of Nirn, God of Mortals
Spirit of the Daedra
Starlover's Log
Surfeit of Thieves
Tal Marog Ker's Researches
Tamrielic Lore
Tarer's Aedra and Daedra
Telvanni Vault Ledger
The Affairs of Wizards
The Alchemists Formulary
The Annotated Anuad
The Anticipations
The Arcturian Heresy
The Armorer's Challenge
The Art of War Magic
The Axe Man
The Black Arrow, Volume 1
The Black Arrow, Volume II
The Black Glove
The Blue Book of Riddles
The Book of Daedra
The Book of Dawn and Dusk
The Brothers of Darkness
The Buying Game
The Cake and the Diamond
The Cantatas of Vivec
The Changed Ones
The Consolations of Prayer
The Doors of the Spirit
The Dowry
The Dragon Break Re-Examined
The Eastern Provinces...
The Egg of Time
The Final Lesson
The Firmament
The Firsthold Revolt
The Five Far Stars
The Four Suitors of Benitah
The Gold Ribbon of Merit
The Hope of the Redoran
The Horror of Castle Xyr
The House of Troubles
The Importance of Where
The Legendary Scourge
The Locked Room
The Lunar Lorkhan
The Lusty Argonian Maid
The Madness of Pelagius
The Marksmanship Lesson
The Mirror
The Monomyth
The Old Ways
The Pig Children
The Pilgrim's Path
The Posting of the Hunt
The Prayers of Baranat
The Ransom of Zarek
The Real Barenziah v I
The Real Barenziah v II
The Real Barenziah v III
The Real Barenziah v IV
The Real Barenziah v V
The Real Nerevar
The Rear Guard
The Red Book of Riddles
The Ruins of Kemel-Ze
The Seed
The Third Door
The True Nature of Orcs
The True Noble's Code
The Vagaries of Magicka
The War of the First Council
The Warrior's Charge
The Waters of Oblivion
The Wild Elves
The Wolf Queen, Book I
The Wolf Queen, Book II
The Wolf Queen, Book III
The Wolf Queen, Book IV
The Wolf Queen, Book V
The Wolf Queen, Book VI
The Wolf Queen, Book VII
The Wolf Queen, Book VIII
The Wraith's Wedding Dowry
The Yellow Book of Riddles
Trap
Unnamed Book
Vampires of Vvardenfell, v I
Vampires of Vvardenfell, v II
Varieties of Faith...
Vernaccus and Bourlor
Vivec and Mephala
Warehouse shipping log
Where Were You ... Dragon Broke
Withershins
Words and Philosophy
Words of Clan Mother Ahnissi
Words of the Wind
Yellow Book of 3E 426
Yngling's Ledger
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, Evening Star
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Short Blade3
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Short Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Evening Star
Book Twelve of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
1 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Balmora, Morrowind
The winter morning sun glinted through the cobweb of frost on the window, and
Almalexia opened her eyes. An ancient healer mopped a wet cloth across her
head, smiling with relief. Asleep in the chair next to her bed was Vivec.
The healer rushed to a side cabinet and returned with a flagon of water.
"How are you feeling, goddess?" asked the healer.
"Like I've been asleep for a very long time," said Almalexia.
"So you have. Fifteen days," said the healer, and touched Vivec's arm.
"Master, wake up. She speaks."
Vivec rose with a start, and seeing Almalexia alive and awake, his face broke
into a wide grin. He kissed her forehead, and took her hand. At last, there
was warmth again in her flesh.
Almalexia's peaceful repose suddenly snapped: "Sotha Sil --"
"He's alive and well," replied Vivec. "Working on one of his machines again
somewhere. He would have stayed here too, but he realized he could do you
more good working that peculiar sorcery of his."
The castellan appeared in the doorway. "Sorry to interrupt you, master, but I
wanted to tell you that your fastest messenger left late last night for the
Imperial City."
"Messenger?" asked Almalexia. "Vivec, what has happened?"
"I was to go and sign a truce with the Emperor on the sixth, so I sent him
word that it had to be postponed."
"You can't do me any good here," said Almalexia, pulling herself up with
effort. "But if you don't sign that truce, you'll put Morrowind back to war,
maybe for another eighty years. If you leave today with an escort and hurry,
perhaps you can get to the Imperial City only a day or two late."
"Are you certain you don't need me here?" asked Vivec.
"I know that Morrowind needs you more."
6 Sun's Dusk, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
The Emperor Reman III sat on his throne, surveying the audience chamber. It
was a spectacular sight: silver ribbons dangled from the rafters, burning
cauldrons of sweet herbs simmered in every corner, Pyandonean swallowtails
sweeping through the air, singing their songs. When the torches were lit and
servants began fanning, the room would be transfigured into a shimmering
fantasy land. He could smell the kitchen already, spices and roasts.
The Potentate Versidue-Shaie and his son Savirien-Chorak slithered into the
room, both bedecked in the headdress and jewelry of the Tsaesci. There was
no smile on their golden face, but there seldom was one. The Emperor still
greeted his trusted advisor with enthusiasm.
"This ought to impress those savage Dark Elves," he laughed. "When are they
supposed to arrive?"
"A messenger's just arrived from Vivec," said the Potentate solemnly. "I
think it would be best if your Imperial Majesty met him alone."
The Emperor lost his laughter, but nodded to his servants to withdraw. The
door then opened and the Lady Corda walked into the room, with a parchment in
her hand. She shut the door behind her, but did not look up to meet the
Emperor's face.
"The messenger gave his letter to my mistress?" said Reman, incredulous,
rising to take the note. "That's a highly unorthodox way of delivering a
message."
"But the message itself is very orthodox," said Corda, looking up into his
one good eye. With a single blinding motion, she brought the letter up under
the Emperor's chin. His eyes widened and blood poured down the blank
parchment. Blank that is, except for a small black mark, the sign of the
Morag Tong. It fell to the floor, revealing the small dagger hidden behind
it, which she now twisted, severing his throat to the bone. The Emperor
collapsed to the floor, gasping soundlessly.
"How long do you need?" asked Savirien-Chorak.
"Five minutes," said Corda, wiping the blood from her hands. "If you can give
me ten, though, I'll be doubly grateful."
"Very well," said the Potentate to Corda's back as she raced from the
audience chamber. "She ought to have been an Akaviri, the way the girl
handles a blade is truly remarkable."
"I must go and establish our alibi," said Savirien-Chorak, disappearing
behind one of the secret passages that only the Emperor's most trusted knew
about.
"Do you remember, close to a year ago, your Imperial Majesty," the Potentate
smiled, looking down at the dying man. "When you told me to remember 'You
Akaviri have a lot of showy moves, but if just one of our strikes comes
through, it's all over for you.' I remembered that, you see."
The Emperor spat up blood and somehow said the word: "Snake."
"I am a snake, your Imperial Majesty, inside and out. But I didn't lie.
There was a messenger from Vivec. It seems he'll be a little late in
arriving," the Potentate shrugged before disappearing behind the secret
passage. "Don't worry yourself. I'm sure the food won't go bad."
The Emperor of Tamriel died in a pool of his own blood in his empty audience
chamber decorated for a grand ball. He was found by his bodyguard fifteen
minutes later. Corda was nowhere to be found.
8 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Caer Suvio, Cyrodiil
Lord Glavius, apologizing profusely for the quality of the road through the
forest, was the first emissary to greet Vivec and his escort as they arrived.
A string of burning globes decorated the leafless trees surrounding the
villa, bobbing in the gentle but frigid night breeze. From within, Vivec
could smell the simple feast and a high sad melody. It was a traditional
Akaviri wintertide carol.
Versidue-Shaie greeted Vivec at the front door.
"I'm glad you received the message before you got all the way to the City,"
said the Potentate, guiding his guest into the large, warm drawing room. "We
are in a difficult transition time, and for the moment, it is best not to
conduct our business at the capitol."
"There is no heir?" asked Vivec.
"No official one, though there are distant cousins vying for the throne.
While we sort the matter out, at least temporarily the nobles have decided
that I may act in the office of my late master," Versidue-Shaie signaled for
the servants to draw two comfortable chairs in front of the fireplace. "Would
you feel most comfortable if we signed the treaty officially right now, or
would you like to eat something first?"
"You intend to honor the Emperor's treaty?"
"I intend to do everything as the Emperor," said the Potentate.
14 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Tel Aruhn, Morrowind
Corda, dusty from the road, flew into the Night Mother's arms. For a moment,
they stayed locked together, the Night Mother stroking her daughter's hair,
kissing her forehead. Finally, she reached into her sleeve and handed Corda
a letter.
"What is it?" asked Corda.
"A letter from the Potentate, expressing his delight at your expertise,"
replied the Night Mother. "He's promised to send us payment, but I've already
sent him back a reply. The late Empress paid us enough for her husband's
death. Mephala would not have us be greedy beyond our needs. You should not
be paid twice for the same murder, so it is written."
"He killed Rijja, my sister," said Corda quietly.
"And so it should be that you struck the blow."
"Where will I go now?"
"Whenever any of our holy workers becomes too famous to continue the crusade,
we send them to an island called Vounoura. It's not more than a month's
voyage by boat, and I've arranged for a delightful estate for your
sanctuary," the Night Mother kissed the girl's tears. "You meet many friends
there, and I know you will find peace and happiness at last, my child."
19 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind
Almalexia surveyed the rebuilding of the town. The spirit of the citizens
was truly inspirational, she thought, as she walked among the skeletons of
new buildings standing in the blackened, shattered remains of the old. Even
the plantlife showed a remarkable resilience. There was life yet in the
blasted remains of the comberry and roobrush shrubs that once lined the main
avenue. She could feel the pulse. Come springtide, green would bolt through
the black.
The Duke's heir, a lad of considerable intelligence and sturdy Dunmer
courage, was coming down from the north to take his father's place. The land
would do more than survive: it would strengthen and expand. She felt the
future much more strongly than she saw the present.
Of all the things she was most certain of, she knew that Mournhold was
forever home to at least one goddess.
22 Sun's Dusk, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
"The Cyrodiil line is dead," announced the Potentate to the crowd gathered
beneath the Speaker's Balcony of the Imperial Palace. "But the Empire lives.
The distant relatives of our beloved Emperor have been judged unworthy of the
throne by the trusted nobility who advised his Imperial Majesty throughout
his long and illustrious reign. It has been decided that as an impartial and
faithful friend of Reman III, I will have the responsibility of continuing on
in his name."
The Akaviri paused, allowing his words to echo and translate into the ears of
the populace. They merely stared up at him in silence. The rain had washed
through the streets of the city, but the sun, for a brief time, appeared to
be offering a respite from the winter storms.
"I want to make it clear that I am not taking the title Emperor," he
continued. "I have been and will continue to be Potentate Versidue-Shaie, an
alien welcomed kindly to your shores. It will be my duty to protect my
adopted homeland, and I pledge to work tirelessly at this task until someone
more worthy takes the burden from me. As my first act, I declare that in
commemoration of this historical moment, beginning on the first of Morning
Star, we will enter year one of the Second Era as time will be reckoned.
Thus, we mourn the loss of our Imperial family, and look forward to the
future."
Only one man clapped at these words. King Dro'Zel of Senchal truly believed
that this would be the finest thing to happen to Tamriel in history. Of
course, he was quite mad.
31 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Ebonheart, Morrowind
In the smoky catacombs beneath the city where Sotha Sil forged the future
with his arcane clockwork apparatus, something unforeseen happened. An oily
bubble seeped from a long trusted gear and popped. Immediately, the wizard's
attention was drawn to it and to the chain that tiny action triggered. A
pipe shifted half an inch to the left. A tread skipped. A coil rewound
itself and began spinning in a counter direction. A piston that had been
thrusting left-right, left-right, for millennia suddenly began shifting
right-left. Nothing broke, but everything changed.
"It cannot be fixed now," said the sorcerer quietly.
He looked up through a crick in the ceiling into the night sky. It was
midnight. The second era, the age of chaos, had begun.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, First Seed
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Spear2
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Spear skill 1 point the first time the book is read
First Seed
Book Three of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
15 First Seed, 2920
Caer Suvio, Cyrodiil
From their vantage point high in the hills, the Emperor Reman III could still
see the spires of the Imperial City, but he knew he was far away from hearth
and home. Lord Glavius had a luxurious villa, but it was not close to being
large enough to house the entire army within its walls. Tents lined the
hillsides, and the soldiers were flocking to enjoy his lordship's famous hot
springs. Little wonder: winter chill still hung in the air.
"Prince Juilek, your son, is not feeling well."
When Potentate Versidue-Shaie spoke, the Emperor jumped. How that Akavir
could slither across the grass without making a sound was a mystery to him.
"Poisoned, I'd wager," grumbled Reman. "See to it he gets a healer. I told
him to hire a taster like I have, but the boy's headstrong. There are spies
all around us, I know it."
"I believe you're right, your imperial majesty," said Versidue-Shaie. "These
are treacherous times, and we must take precautions to see that Morrowind
does not win this war, either on the field or by more insidious means. That
is why I would suggest that you not lead the vanguard into battle. I know
you would want to, as your illustrious ancestors Reman I, Brazollus Dor, and
Reman II did, but I fear it would be foolhardy. I hope you do not mind me
speaking frankly like this."
"No," nodded Reman. "I think you're right. Who would lead the vanguard
then?"
"I would say Prince Juilek, if he were feeling better," replied the Akavir.
"Failing that, Storig of Farrun, with Queen Naghea of Riverhold at left
flank, and Warchief Ulaqth of Lilmoth at right flank."
"A Khajiit at left flank and an Argonian at right," frowned the Emperor. "I
never do trust beastfolk."
The Potentate took no offense. He knew that "beastfolk" referred to the
natives of Tamriel, not to the Tsaesci of Akavir like himself. "I quite agree
your imperial majesty, but you must agree that they hate the Dunmer. Ulaqth
has a particular grudge after all the slave-raids on his lands by the Duke of
Mournhold."
The Emperor conceded it was so, and the Potentate retired. It was
surprising, thought Reman, but for the first time, the Potentate seemed
trustworthy. He was a good man to have on one's side.
18 First Seed, 2920
Ald Erfoud, Morrowind
"How far is the Imperial Army?" asked Vivec.
"Two days' march," replied his lieutenant. "If we march all night tonight, we
can get higher ground at the Pryai tomorrow morning. Our intelligence tells
us the Emperor will be commanding the rear, Storig of Farrun has the
vanguard, Naghea of Riverhold at left flank, and Ulaqth of Lilmoth at right
flank."
"Ulaqth," whispered Vivec, an idea forming. "Is this intelligence reliable?
Who brought it to us?"
"A Breton spy in the Imperial Army," said the lieutenant and gestured towards
a young, sandy-haired man who stepped forward and bowed to Vivec.
"What is your name and why is a Breton working for us against the Cyrodiils?"
asked Vivec, smiling.
"My name is Cassyr Whitley of Dwynnen," said the man. "And I am working for
you because not everyone can say he spied for a god. And I understood it
would be, well, profitable."
Vivec laughed, "It will be, if your information is accurate."
19 First Seed, 2920
Bodrums, Morrowind
The quiet hamlet of Bodrum looked down on the meandering river, the Pryai.
It was an idyllic site, lightly wooded where the water took the bend around a
steep bluff to the east with a gorgeous wildflower meadow to the west. The
strange flora of Morrowind met the strange flora of Cyrodiil on the border
and commingled gloriously.
"There will be time to sleep when you've finished!"
The soldiers had been hearing that all morning. It was not enough that they
had been marching all night, now they were chopping down trees on the bluff
and damming the river so its waters spilled over. Most of them had reached
the point where they were too tired to complain about being tired.
"Let me be certain I understand, my lord," said Vivec's lieutenant. "We take
the bluff so we can fire arrows and spells down on them from above. That's
why we need all the trees cleared out. Damming the river floods the plain
below so they'll be trudging through mud, which should hamper their
movement."
"That's exactly half of it," said Vivec approvingly. He grabbed a nearby
soldier who was hauling off the trees. "Wait, I need you to break off the
straightest, strongest branches of the trees and whittle them into spears.
If you recruit a hundred or so others, it won't take you more than a few
hours to make all we need."
The soldier wearily did as he was bade. The men and women got to work,
fashioning spears from the trees.
"If you don't mind me asking," said the lieutenant. "The soldiers don't need
any more weapons. They're too tired to hold the ones they've got."
"These spears aren't for holding," said Vivec and whispered, "If we tired
them out today, they'll get a good night's sleep tonight" before he got to
work supervising their work.
It was essential that they be sharp, of course, but equally important that
they be well balanced and tapered proportionally. The perfect point for
stability was a pyramid, not the conical point of some lances and spears. He
had the men hurl the spears they had completed to test their strength,
sharpness, and balance, forcing them to begin on a new one if they broke.
Gradually, out of sheer exhaustion from doing it wrong, the men learned how
to create the perfect wooden spears. Once they were through, he showed them
how they were to be arranged and where.
That night, there was no drunken pre-battle carousing, and no nervous
neophytes stayed up worrying about the battle to come. As soon as the sun
sank beneath the wooded hills, the camp was at rest, but for the sentries.
20 First Seed, 2920
Bodrum, Morrowind
Miramor was exhausted. For last six days, he had gambled and whored all
night and then marched all day. He was looking forward to the battle, but
even more than that, he was looking forward to some rest afterwards. He was
in the Emperor's command at the rear flank, which was good because it seemed
unlikely that he would be killed. On the other hand, it meant traveling over
the mud and waste the army ahead left in their wake.
As they began the trek through the wildflower field, Miramor and all the
soldiers around him sank ankle-deep in cold mud. It was an effort to even
keep moving. Far, far up ahead, he could see the vanguard of the army led by
Lord Storig emerging from the meadow at the base of a bluff.
That was when it all happened.
An army of Dunmer appeared above the bluff like rising Daedra, pouring fire
and floods of arrows down on the vanguard. Simultaneously, a company of men
bearing the flag of the Duke of Mournhold galloped around the shore,
disappearing along the shallow river's edge where it dipped to a timbered
glen to the east. Warchief Ulaqth nearby on the right flank let out a bellow
of revenge at the sight and gave chase. Queen Naghea sent her flank towards
the embankment to the west to intercept the army on the bluff.
The Emperor could think of nothing to do. His troops were too bogged down to
move forward quickly and join the battle. He ordered them to face east
towards the timber, in case Mournhold's company was trying to circle around
through the woods. They never came out, but many men, facing west, missed
the battle entirely. Miramor kept his eyes on the bluff.
A tall Dunmer he supposed must have been Vivec gave a signal, and the
battlemages cast their spells at something to the west. From what
transpired, Miramor deduced it was a dam. A great torrent of water spilled
out, washing Naghea's left flank into the remains of the vanguard and the two
together down river to the east.
The Emperor paused, as if waiting for his vanquished army to return, and then
called a retreat. Miramor hid in the rushes until they had passed by and
then waded as quietly as he could to the bluff.
The Morrowind army was retiring as well back to their camp. He could hear
them celebrating above him as he padded along the shore. To the east, he saw
the Imperial Army. They had been washed into a net of spears strung across
the river, Naghea's left flank on Storig's vanguard on Ulaqth's right flank,
bodies of hundreds of soldiers strung together like beads.
Miramor took whatever valuables he could carry from the corpses and then ran
down the river. He had to go many miles before the water was clear again,
unpolluted by blood.
29 First Seed, 2920
Hegathe, Hammerfell
"You have a letter from the Imperial City," said the chief priestess, handing
the parchment to Corda. All the young priestesses smiled and made faces of
astonishment, but the truth was that Corda's sister Rijja wrote very often,
at least once a month.
Corda took the letter to the garden to read it, her favorite place, an oasis
in the monochromatic sand-colored world of the conservatorium The letter
itself was nothing unusual: filled with court gossip, the latest fashions
which were tending to winedark velvets, and reports of the Emperor's ever-
growing paranoia.
"You are so lucky to be away from all of this," wrote Rijja. "The Emperor is
convinced that his latest battlefield fiasco is all a result of spies in the
palace. He has even taken to questioning me. Ruptga keep it so you never
have a life as interesting as mine."
Corda listened to the sounds of the desert and prayed to Ruptga the exact
opposite wish.
The Year is Continued in Rain's Hand.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, FrostFall
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Conjuration4
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Conjuration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Frostfall
Book Ten of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
10 Frostfall, 2920
Phrygias, High Rock
The creature before them blinked, senseless, its eyes glazed, mouth opening
and closing as if relearning its function. A thin glob of saliva burbled
down between its fangs, and hung suspended. Turala had never seen anything
of its kind before, reptilian and massive, perched on its hind legs like a
man. Mynistera applauded enthusiastically.
"My child," she crowed. "You have come so far in so short a time. What were
you thinking when you summoned this daedroth?"
It took Turala a moment to recall whether she was thinking anything at all.
She was merely overwhelmed that she had reached out across the fabric of
reality into the realm of Oblivion, and plucked forth this loathsome
creature, conjuring it into the world by the power of her mind.
"I was thinking of the color red," Turala said, concentrating. "The
simplicity and clarity of it. And then -- I desired, and spoke the charm.
And this is what I conjured up."
"Desire is a powerful force for a young witch," said Mynistera. "And it is
well matched in this instance. For this daedroth is nothing if not a simple
force of the spirits. Can you release your desire as easily?"
Turala closed her eyes and spoke the dismissal invocation. The monster faded
away like a painting in sunlight, still blinking confusedly. Mynistera
embraced her Dark Elf pupil, laughing with delight.
"I never would have believed it, a month and a day you've been with the
coven, and you're already far more advanced than most of the women here.
There is powerful blood in you, Turala, you touch spirits like you were
touching a lover. You'll be leading this coven one day -- I have seen it!"
Turala smiled. It was good to be complimented. The Duke of Mournhold had
praised her pretty face; and her family, before she had dishonored them,
praised her manners. Cassyr had been nothing more than a companion: his
compliments meant nothing. But with Mynistera, she felt she was home.
"You'll be leading the coven for many years yet, great sister," said Turala.
"I certainly intend to. But the spirits, while marvelous companions and
faultless tellers of truth, are often hazy about the when and hows. You
can't blame them really. When and how mean so little to them," Mynistera
opened the door to the shed, allowing the brisk autumn breeze in to dispel
the bitter and fetid smells of the daedroth. "Now, I need you to run an
errand to Wayrest. It's only a week's ride there, and a week's ride back.
Bring Doryatha and Celephyna with you. As much as we try to be self-
sufficient, there are herbs we can't grow here, and we seem to run through an
enormous quantity of gems in no time at all. It's important that the people
of the city learn to recognize you as one of the wise women of Skeffington
coven. You'll find the benefits of being notorious far outweigh the
inconveniences."
Turala did as she was bade. As she and her sisters climbed aboard their
horses, Mynistera brought her child, little five-month-old Bosriel to kiss
her mother good-bye. The witches were in love with the little Dunmer infant,
fathered by a wicked Duke, birthed by wild Ayleid elves in the forest heart
of the Empire. Turala knew her nursemaids would protect her child with their
lives. After many kisses and a farewell wave, the three young witches rode
off into the bright woods, under a covering of red, yellow, and orange.
12 Frostfall, 2920
Dwynnen, High Rock
For a Middas evening, the Least Loved Porcupine tavern was wildly crowded. A
roaring fire in the pit in the center of the room cast an almost sinister
glow on all the regulars, and made the abundance of bodies look like a
punishment tapestry inspired by the Arcturian Heresies. Cassyr took his
usual place with his cousin and ordered a flagon of ale.
"Have you been to see the Baron?" asked Palyth.
"Yes, he may have work for me in the palace of Urvaius," said Cassyr proudly.
"But more than that I can't say. You understand, secrets of state and all
that. Why are there so many damned people here tonight?"
"A shipload of Dark Elves just came in to harbor. They've come from the war.
I was just waiting until you got here to introduce you as another veteran."
Cassyr blushed, but regained his composure enough to ask: "What are they
doing here? Has there been a truce?"
"I don't know the full story," said Palyth. "But apparently, the Emperor and
Vivec are in negotiations again. These fellas here have investments they
were keen to check on, and they figured things on the Bay were quiet enough.
But the only way we can get the full story is to talk to the chaps."
With that, Palyth gripped his cousin's arm and pulled him to the other side
of the bar so suddenly, Cassyr would have had to struggle violently to
resist. The Dunmer travelers were spread out across four of the tables,
laughing with the locals. They were largely amiable young men, well-dressed,
befitting merchants, animated in gesture made more extravagant by liquor.
"Excuse me," said Palyth, intruding on the conversation. "My shy cousin
Cassyr was in the war as well, fighting for the living god, Vivec."
"The only Cassyr I ever heard of," said one of the Dunmer drunkenly with a
wide, friendly smile, shaking Cassyr's free hand. "Was a Cassyr Whitley, who
Vivec said was the worst spy in history. We lost Ald Marak due to his
bungling intelligence work. For your sake, friend, I hope the two of you
were never confused."
Cassyr smiled and listened as the lout told the story of his failure with
bountiful exaggerations which caused the table to roar with laughter.
Several eyes looked his way, but none of the locals sought to explain that
the fool of the tale was standing at attention. The eyes that stung the most
were his cousin's, the young man who had believed that he had returned to
Dwynnen a great hero. At some point, certainly, the Baron would hear about
it, his idiocy increasing manifold with each retelling.
With every fiber in his soul, Cassyr cursed the living god Vivec.
21 Frostfall, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
Corda, in a robe of blinding whiteness, a uniform of the priestesses of the
Hegathe Morwha conservatorium, arrived in the City just as the first winter
storm was passing. The clouds broke with sunlight, and the beauteous
teenaged Redguard girl appeared in the wide avenue with escort, riding toward
the Palace. While her sister was tall, thin, angular, and haughty, Corda was
a small, round-faced lass with wide brown eyes. The locals were quick to
draw comparisons.
"Not a month after Lady Rijja's execution," muttered a housemaid, peering out
the window, and winking to her neighbor.
"And not a month out of the nunnery neither," the other woman agreed,
reveling in the scandal. "This one's in for a ride. Her sister weren't no
innocent, and look where she ended up."
24 Frostfall, 2920
Dwynnen, High Rock
Cassyr stood on the harbor and watched the early sleet fall on the water. It
was a pity, he thought, that he was prone to sea-sickness. There was nothing
for him now in Tamriel to the east or to the west. Vivec's tale of his poor
spycraft had spread to taverns everywhere. The Baron of Dwynnen had released
him from his contract. No doubt they were laughing about him in Daggerfall,
too, and Dawnstar, Lilmoth, Rimmen, Greenheart, probably in Akavir and Yokuda
for that matter. Perhaps it would be best to drop into the waves and sink.
The thought, however, did not stay long in his mind: it was not despair that
haunted him, but rage. Impotent fury that he could not assuage.
"Excuse me, sir," said a voice behind him, making him jump. "I'm sorry to
disturb you, but I was wondering whether you could recommend an inexpensive
tavern for me to spend the night."
It was a young man, a Nord, with a sack over his shoulder. Obviously, he had
just disembarked from one of the boats. For the first time in weeks, someone
was looking at Cassyr as something other than a colossal, famous idiot. He
could not help, black as his mood was, but be friendly.
"You've just arrived from Skyrim?" asked Cassyr.
"No, sir, that's where I'm going," said the fellow. "I'm working my way home.
I've come up from Sentinel, and before that Stros M'kai, and before that
Woodhearth in Valenwood, and before that Artaeum in Summurset. Welleg's my
name."
Cassyr introduced himself and shook Welleg's hand. "Did you say you came from
Artaeum? Are you a Psijic?"
"No, sir, not anymore," the fellow shrugged. "I was expelled."
"Do you know anything about summoning daedra? You see, I want to cast a
curse against a particularly powerful person, one might say a living god, and
I haven't had any luck. The Baron won't allow me in his sight, but the
Baroness has sympathy for me and allowed me the use of their Summoning
Chambers." Cassyr spat. "I did all the rituals, made sacrifices, but nothing
came of it."
"That'd be because of Sotha Sil, my old master," replied Welleg with some
bitterness. "The Daedra princes have agreed not to be summoned by any
amateurs at least until the war ends. Only the Psijics may counsel with the
daedra, and a few nomadic sorcerers and witches."
"Witches, did you say?"
29 Frostfall, 2920
Phrygias, High Rock
Pale sunlight flickered behind the mist bathing the forest as Turala,
Doryatha, and Celephyna drove their horses on. The ground was wet with a
thin layer of frost, and laden down with goods, it was a slippery way over
unpaved hills. Turala tried to contain her excitement about coming back to
the coven. Wayrest had been an adventure, and she adored the looks of fear
and respect the cityfolk gave her. But for the last few days, all she could
think of was returning to her sisters and her child.
A bitter wind whipped her hair forward so she could see nothing but the path
ahead. She did not hear the rider approach to her side until he was almost
upon her. When she turned and saw Cassyr, she shouted with as much surprise
as pleasure at meeting an old friend. His face was pale and drawn, but she
took it to be merely from travel.
"What brings you back to Phrygias?" she smiled. "Were you not treated well in
Dwynnen?"
"Well enough," said Cassyr. "I have need of the Skeffington coven."
"Ride with us," said Turala. "I'll bring you to Mynistera."
The four continued on, and the witches regaled Cassyr with tales of Wayrest.
It was evident that it was also a rare treat for Doryatha and Celephyna to
leave Old Barbyn's Farm. They had been born there, as daughters and grand-
daughters of Skeffington witches. Ordinary High Rock city life was exotic to
them as it was to Turala. Cassyr said little, but smiled and nodded his
head, which was encouragement enough. Thankfully, none of the stories they
had heard were about his own stupidity. Or at the very least, they did not
tell him.
Doryatha was in the midst of a tale she had heard in a tavern about a thief
who had been locked overnight in a pawnshop when they crossed over a familiar
hill. Suddenly, she halted in her story. The barn was supposed to be
visible, but it was not. The other three followed her gaze into the fog, and
a moment later, they rode as fast as they could towards what was once the
site of the Skeffington coven.
The fire had long since burned out. Nothing but ashes, skeletons, and broken
weaponry remained. Cassyr recognized at once the signs of an orc raid.
The witches fell from their horses, racing through the remains, wailing.
Celephyna found a tattered, bloody piece of cloth that she recognized from
Mynistera's cloak. She held it to her ashen face, sobbing. Turala screamed
for Bosriel, but the only reply was the high whistling wind through the
ashes.
"Who did this?" she cried, tears streaking down her face. "I swear I'll
conjure up the very flames of Oblivion! What have they done with my baby?"
"I know who did it," said Cassyr quietly, dropping from his horse and walking
towards her. "I've seen these weapons before. I fear I met the very fiends
responsible in Dwynnen, but I never thought they'd find you. This is the
work of assassins hired by the Duke of Mournhold."
He paused. The lie came easily. Adopt and improvise. What's more, he could
tell instantly that she believed it. Her resentment over the cruelty the
Duke had shown her had quieted, but never disappeared. One look at her
burning eyes told him that she would summon the daedra and wreak his, and
her, revenge upon Morrowind. And what's more, he knew they'd listen.
And listen they did. For the power that is greater than desire is rage.
Even rage misplaced.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, Hearth Fire
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Conjuration3
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Conjuration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Hearth Fire
Book Nine of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
2 Hearth Fire, 2920
Gideon, Black Marsh
The Empress Tavia lay across her bed, a hot late summer wind she could not
feel banging the shutters of her cell to and fro against the iron bars. Her
throat felt like it was on fire but still she sobbed, uncontrollably,
wringing her last tapestry in her hands. Her wailing echoed throughout the
hollow halls of Castle Giovese, stopping maids in their washing and guards in
their conversation. One of her women came up the narrow stairs to see her
mistress, but her chief guard Zuuk stood at the doorway and shook his head.
"She's just heard that her son is dead," he said quietly.
5 Hearth Fire, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
"Your Imperial Majesty," said the Potentate Versidue-Shaie through the door.
"You can open the door. I assure you, you're perfectly safe. No one wants
to kill you."
"Mara's blood!" came the Emperor Reman III's voice, muffled, hysterical,
tinged with madness. "Someone assassinated the Prince, and he was holding my
shield! They could have thought he was me!"
"You're certainly correct, your Imperial Majesty," replied the Potentate,
expunging any mocking qualities from his voice while his black-slitted eyes
rolled contemptuously. "And we must find and punish the evildoer responsible
for your son's death. But we cannot do it without you. You must be brave
for your Empire."
There was no reply.
"At the very least, come out and sign the order for Lady Rijja's execution,"
called the Potentate. "Let us dispose of the one traitor and assassin we know
of."
A brief pause, and then the sound of furniture scraping across the floor.
Reman opened the door just a crack, but the Potentate could see his angry,
fearful face, and the terrible mound of ripped tissue that used to be his
right eye. Despite the best healers in the Empire, it was still a ghastly
souvenir of the Lady Rijja's work in Thurzo Fortress.
"Hand me the order," the Emperor snarled. "I'll sign it with pleasure."
6 Hearth Fire, 2920
Gideon, Cyrodiil
The strange blue glow of the will o' the wisps, a combination, so she'd be
told, of swamp gas and spiritual energy, had always frightened Tavia as she
looked out her window. Now it seemed strangely comforting. Beyond the bog
lay the city of Gideon. It was funny, she thought, that she had never
stepped foot in its streets, though she had watched it ever day for seventeen
years.
"Can you think of anything I've forgotten?" she asked, turning to look back
on the loyal Kothringi Zuuk.
"I know exactly what to do," he said simply. He seemed to smile, but the
Empress realized that it was only her own face reflected in his silvery skin.
She was smiling, and she didn't even realize it.
"Make certain you aren't followed," she warned. "I don't want my husband to
know where my gold's been hiding all these years. And do take your share of
it. You've been a good friend."
The Empress Tavia stepped forward and dropped from sight into the mists.
Zuuk replaced the bars on the tower window, and threw a blanket over some
pillows on her bed. With any luck, they would not discover her body on the
lawn until morning, at which time he hoped to be halfway to Morrowind.
9 Hearth Fire, 2920
Phrygias, High Rock
The strange trees on all sides resembled knobby piles crowned with great
bursts of reds, yellows, and oranges, like insect mounds caught fire. The
Wrothgarian mountains were fading into the misty afternoon. Turala marveled
at the sight, so alien, so different from Morrowind, as she plodded the horse
forward into an open pasture. Behind her, head nodding against his chest,
Cassyr slept, cradling Bosriel. For a moment, Turala considered jumping the
low painted fence that crossed the field, but she thought better of it. Let
Cassyr sleep for a few more hours before giving him the reigns.
As the horse passed into the field, Turala saw the small green house on the
next hill, half-hidden in forest. So picturesque was the image, she felt
herself lull into a pleasant half-sleeping state. A blast of a horn brought
her back to reality with a shudder. Cassyr opened his eyes.
"Where are we?" he hissed.
"I don't know," Turala stammered, wide-eyed. "What is that sound?"
"Orcs," he whispered. "A hunting party. Head for the thicket quickly."
Turala trotted the horse into the small collection of trees. Cassyr handed
her the child and dismounted. He began pulling their bags off next, throwing
them into the bushes. A sound started then, a distant rumbling of footfall,
growing louder and closer. Turala climbed off carefully and helped Cassyr
unburden the horse. All the while, Bosriel watched open-eyed. Turala
sometimes worried that her baby never cried. Now she was grateful for it.
With the last of the luggage off, Cassyr slapped the horse's rear, sending it
galloping into the field. Taking Turala's hand, he hunkered down in the
bushes.
"With luck," he murmured. "They'll think she's wild or belongs to the farm
and won't go looking for the rider."
As he spoke, a horde of orcs surged into the field, blasting their horns.
Turala had seen orcs before, but never in such abundance, never with such
bestial confidence. Roaring with delight at the horse and its confused
state, they hastened past the timber where Cassyr, Turala, and Bosriel hid.
The wildflowers flew into the air at their stampede, powdering the air with
seeds. Turala tried to hold back a sneeze, and thought she succeeded. One
of the orcs heard something though, and brought another with him to
investigate.
Cassyr quietly unsheathed his sword, mustering all the confidence he could.
His skills, such as they were, were in spying, not combat, but he vowed to
protect Turala and her babe for as long as he could. Perhaps he would slay
these two, he reasoned, but not before they cried out and brought the rest of
the horde.
Suddenly, something invisible swept through the bushes like a wind. The orcs
flew backwards, falling dead on their backs. Turala turned and saw a
wrinkled crone with bright red hair emerge from a nearby bush.
"I thought you were going to bring 'em right to me," she whispered, smiling.
"Best come with me."
The three followed the old woman through a deep crevasse of bramble bushes
that ran through the field toward the house on the hill. As they emerged on
the other side, the woman turned to look at the orcs feasting on the remains
of the horse, a blood-soaked orgy to the beat of multiple horns.
"That horse yours?" she asked. When Cassyr nodded, she laughed loudly.
"That's rich meat, that is. Those monsters'll have bellyaches and flatulence
in the morning. Serves 'em right."
"Shouldn't we keep moving?" whispered Turala, unnerved by the woman's
laughter.
"They won't come up here," she grinned, looking at Bosriel who smiled back.
"They're too afraid of us."
Turala turned to Cassyr, who shook his head. "Witches. Am I correct in
assuming that this is Old Barbyn's Farm, the home of the Skeffington Coven?"
"You are, pet," the old woman giggled girlishly, pleased to be so infamous.
"I am Mynista Skeffington."
"What did you do to those orcs?" asked Turala. "Back there in the thicket?"
"Spirit fist right side the head," Mynista said, continuing the climb up the
hill. Ahead of them was the farmhouse grounds, a well, a chicken coop, a
pond, women of all ages doing chores, the laughter of children at play. The
old woman turned and saw that Turala did not understand. "Don't you have
witches where you come from, child?"
"None that I know of," she said.
"There are all sorts of wielders of magic in Tamriel," she explained. "The
Psijics study magic like its their painful duty. The battlemages in the army
on the other end of the scale hurl spells like arrows. We witches commune
and conjure and celebrate. To fell those orcs, I merely whispered to the
spirits of the air, Amaro, Pina, Tallatha, the fingers of Kynareth, and the
breath of the world, with whom I have an intimate acquaintance, to smack
those bastards dead. You see, conjuration is not about might, or solving
riddles, or agonizing over musty old scrolls. It's about fostering
relations. Being friendly, you might say."
"Well, we certainly appreciate you being friendly with us," said Cassyr.
"As well you might," coughed Mynista. "Your kind destroyed the orc homeland
two thousand years ago. Before that, they never came all the way up here and
bothered us. Now let's get you cleaned up and fed."
With that, Mynista led them into the farm, and Turala met the family of the
Skeffington Coven.
11 Hearth Fire, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
Rijja had not even tried to sleep the night before, and she found the somber
music played during her execution to have a soporific effect. It was as if
she was willing herself to be unconscious before the ax stroke. Her eyes
were bound so she could not see her former lover, the Emperor, seated before
her, glaring with his one good eye. She could not see the Potentate
Versidue-Shaie, his coil neatly wrapped beneath him, a look of triumph in his
golden face. She could feel, numbly, the executioner's hand touch her back
to steady her. She flinched like a dreamer trying to awake.
The first blow caught the back of her head and she screamed. The next hacked
through her neck, and she was dead.
The Emperor turned to the Potentate wearily, "Now that's done. You said she
had a pretty sister in Hammerfell named Corda?"
18 Hearth Fire, 2920
Dwynnen, High Rock
The horse the witches had sold him was not as good as his old one, Cassyr
considered. Spirit worship and sacrifice and sisterhood might be all well
and good for conjuring spirits, but it tends to spoil beasts of burden.
Still, there was little to complain about. With the Dunmer woman and her
child gone, he had made excellent time. Ahead were the walls surrounding the
city of his homeland. Almost at once, he was set upon by his old friends and
family.
"How went the war?" cried his cousin, running to the road. "Is it true that
Vivec signed a peace with the Prince, but the Emperor refuses to honor it?"
"That's not how it was, was it?" asked a friend, joining them. "I heard that
the Dunmer had the Prince murdered and then made up a story about a treaty,
but there's no evidence for it."
"Isn't there anything interesting happening here?" Cassyr laughed. "I really
don't have the least interest in discussing the war or Vivec."
"You missed the procession of the Lady Corda," said his friend. "She came
across the bay with full entourage and then east to the Imperial City."
"But that's nothing. What was Vivec like?" asked his cousin eagerly. "He
supposed to be a living god."
"If Sheogorath steps down and they need another God of Madness, he'll do,"
said Cassyr haughtily.
"And the women?" asked the lad, who had only seen Dunmer ladies on very rare
occasions.
Cassyr merely smiled. Turala Skeffington flashed into his mind for an
instant before fading away. She would be happy with the coven, and her child
would be well cared for. But they were part of the past now, a place and a
war he wanted to forget forever. Dismounting his horse, he walked it into
the city, chatting of trivial gossip of life on the Iliac Bay.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, Last Seed
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Sneak2
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Sneak skill 1 point the first time the book is read
Last Seed
Book Eight of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
1 Last Seed, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind
They were gathered in the Duke's courtyard at twilight, enjoying the smell
and warmth of a fire of dry branches and bittergreen leaves. Tiny embers
flew into the sky, hanging for a few moments before vanishing.
"I was rash," agreed the Duke, soberly. "But Lorkhan had his laugh, and all
is well. The Morag Tong will not assassinate the Emperor now that my payment
to them is at the bottom of the Inner Sea. I thought you had made some sort
of a truce with the Daedra princes."
"What your sailors called a daedra may not have been one," said Sotha Sil.
"Perhaps it was a rogue battlemage or even a lightning bolt that destroyed
your ship."
"The Prince and the Emperor are en route to take possession of Ald Lambasi as
our truce agreed. It is certainly typical of the Cyrodiil to assume that
their concessions are negotiable, while ours are not," Vivec pulled out a
map. "We can meet them here, in this village to the north-west of Ald
Lambasi, Fervinthil."
"But will we meet them to talk," ask Almalexia. "Or to make war?"
No one had an answer to that.
15 Last Seed, 2920
Fervinthil, Morrowind
A late summer squall blew through the small village, darkening the sky except
for flashing of lightning which leapt from cloud to cloud like acrobats.
Water rushed down the narrow streets ankle-deep, and the Prince had to shout
to be heard by his captains but a few feet away from him.
"There's an inn up ahead! We'll wait there for the storm to pass before
pressing on to Ald Lambasi!"
The inn was warm and dry, and bustling with business. Barmaids were rushing
back and forth, bringing greef and wine to a back room, evidently excited
about a famous visitor. Someone who was attracting more attention than the
mere heir to the Empire of Tamriel. Amused, Juilek watched them run until he
overheard the name of "Vivec."
"My Lord Vivec," he said, bursting into the back room. "You must believe me,
I knew nothing about the attack on Black Gate until after it happened. We
will, of course, be returning it to your care forthwith. I wrote you a
letter to that effect at your palace in Balmora, but obviously you're not
there," he paused, taking in the many new faces in the room. "I'm sorry, let
me introduce myself. I'm Juilek Cyrodiil."
"My name is Almalexia," said the most beautiful woman the Prince had ever
seen. "Won't you join us?"
"Sotha Sil," said a serious-looking Dunmer in a white cloak, shaking the
Prince's hand and showing him to a seat.
"Indoril Brindisi Dorom, Duke-Prince of Mournhold," said the massively-built
man next to him as he sat down.
"I recognize that the events of the last month suggest, at best, that the
Imperial Army is not under my control," said the Prince after ordering some
wine. "This is true. The army is my father's."
"I understood that the Emperor was going to be coming to Ald Lambasi as
well," said Almalexia.
"Officially, he is," said the Prince cautiously. "Unofficially, he's still
back in the Imperial City. He's met with an unfortunate accident."
Vivec glanced the Duke quickly before looking at the Prince: "An accident?"
"He's fine," said the Prince quickly. "He'll live, but it looks like he'll
lose an eye. It was an altercation that has nothing to do with the war. The
only good news is that while he recovers, I have the use of his seal. Any
agreement we make here and now will be binding to the Empire, both in my
father's reign and in mine."
"Then let's start agreeing," smiled Almalexia.
16 Last Seed, 2920
Wroth Naga, Cyrodiil
The tiny hamlet of Wroth Naga greeted Cassyr with its colorful houses perched
on a promontory overlooking the stretch of the Wrothgarian mountain plain and
High Rock beyond. Had he been in a better mood, the sight would have been
breathtaking. As it was, he could only think that in practical terms, a
small village like this would have meager provisions for himself and his
horse.
He rode down into the main square, where an inn called the Eagle's Cry stood.
Directing the stable boy to house and feed his horse, Cassyr walked into the
inn and was surprised by its ambience. A minstrel he had heard play once in
Gilderdale was performing a jaunty old tune to the clapping of the mountain
men. Such forced merriment was not what Cassyr wanted at that moment. A
glum Dunmer woman was seated at the only table far from the noise, so he took
his drink there and sat down without invitation. It was only when he did so
that he noticed that she was holding a newborn baby.
"I've just come from Morrowind," he said rather awkwardly, lowering his
voice. "I've been fighting for Vivec and the Duke of Mournhold against the
Imperial army. A traitor to my people, I guess you'd call me."
"I am also a traitor to my people," said the woman, holding up her hand which
was scarred with a branded symbol. "It means that I can never go back to my
homeland."
"Well, you're not thinking of staying here, are you?" laughed Cassyr. "It's
certainly quaint, but come wintertide, there's going to be snow up to your
eyelashes. It's no place for a new baby. What is her name?"
"Bosriel. It means 'Beauty of the Forest.' Where are you going?"
"Dwynnen, on the bay in High Rock. You're welcome to join me, I could use
the company." He held out his hand. "Cassyr Whitley."
"Turala," said the woman after a pause. She was going to use her family's
name first, as is tradition, but she realized that it was no longer her name.
"I would love to accompany you, thank you."
19 Last Seed, 2920
Ald Lambasi, Morrowind
Five men and two women stood in the silence of the Great Room of the castle,
the only sound the scrawl of quill on parchment and the gentle tapping of
rain on the large picture window. As the Prince set the seal of Cyrodiil on
the document, the peace was made official. The Duke of Mournhold broke out
in a roar of delight, ordering wine brought in to commemorate the end of
eighty years of war.
Only Sotha Sil stood apart from the group. His face betrayed no emotion.
Those who knew him best knew he did not believe in endings or beginnings, but
in the continuous cycle of which this was but a small part.
"My Prince," said the castle steward, unhappy at breaking the celebration.
"There is a messenger here from your mother, the Empress. He asked to see
your father, but as he did not arrive --"
Juilek excused himself and went to speak with the messenger.
"The Empress does not live in the Imperial City?" asked Vivec.
"No," said Almalexia, shaking her head sadly. "Her husband has imprisoned her
in Black Marsh, fearing that she was plotting a revolution against him. She
is extremely wealthy and has powerful allies in the western Colovian estates
so he could not marry another or have her executed. They've been at an
impasse for the last seventeen years since Juilek was a child."
The Prince returned a few minutes later. His face betrayed his anxiety,
though he took troubles to hide it.
"My mother needs me," he said simply. "I'm afraid I must leave at once. If I
may have a copy of the treaty, I will bring it with me to show the Empress
the good we have done today, and then I will carry it on to the Imperial City
so it may be made official."
Prince Juilek left with the fond farewells of the Three of Morrowind. As
they watched him ride out into the rainswept night south towards Black Marsh,
Vivec said, "Tamriel will be much healed when he has the throne."
31 Last Seed, 2920
Dorsza Pass, Black Marsh
The moon was rising over the desolate quarry, steaming with swamp gas from a
particularly hot summer as the Prince and his two guard escort rode out of
the forest. The massive piles of earth and dung had been piled high in
antiquity by some primitive, long-dead tribe of Black Marsh, hoping to keep
out some evil from the north. Evidently, the evil had broken through at
Dorsza Pass, the large crack in the sad, lonely rampart that stretched for
miles.
The black twisted trees that grew on the barrier cast strange shadows down,
like a net tangling. The Prince's mind was on his mother's cryptic letter,
hinting at the threat of an invasion. He could not, of course, tell the
Dunmer about it, at the very least until he knew more and had notified his
father. After all, the letter was meant for him. It was its urgent tone
that made him decide to go directly to Gideon.
The Empress had also warned him about a band of former slaves who attacked
caravans going into Dorsza Pass. She advised him to be certain to make his
Imperial shield visible, so they would know he was not one of the hated
Dunmer slavers. Upon riding into the tall weeds that flooded through the
pass like a noxious river, the Prince ordered that his shield be displayed.
"I can see why the slaves use this," said the Prince's captain. "It's an
excellent location for an ambush."
Juilek nodded his head, but his thoughts were elsewhere. What threat of
invasion could the Empress have discovered? Were the Akaviri on the seas
again? If so, how could his mother from her cell in Castle Giovese know of
it? A rustle in the weeds and a single sharp human cry behind him
interrupted his ponderings.
Turning around, the Prince discovered that he was alone. His escort had
vanished.
The Prince peered over the stretch of the moonlit sea of grass which waved in
almost hypnotic patterns to the ebb and flow of the night wind billowing
through the pass. It was impossible to tell if a struggling soldier was
beneath this system of vibrations, a dying horse behind another. A high,
whistling wind drowned out any sound the victims of the ambush might be
making.
Juilek drew his sword, and thought about what to do, his mind willing his
heart not to panic. He was closer to the exit of the pass than the entrance.
Whatever had slain his escort must have been behind him. If he rode fast
enough, perhaps he could outrun it. Spurring his horse to gallop, he charged
for the hills ahead, framed by the mighty black piles of dirt.
When he was thrown, it happened so suddenly, he was hurdling forward before
he was truly conscious of the fact. He landed several yards beyond where his
horse had fallen, breaking his shoulder and his back on impact. A numbness
washed over him as he stared at his poor, dying steed, its belly sliced open
by one of several spears jutting up just below the surface of the grass.
Prince Juilek was not able to turn and face the figure that emerged from the
grass, nor able to move to defend himself. His throat was cut without
ceremony.
Miramor cursed when he saw the face of his victim more clearly in the
moonlight. He had seen the Emperor at the Battle of Bodrum when he had
fought in His Imperial Majesty's command, and this was clearly not the
Emperor. Searching the body, he found the letter and a treaty signed by
Vivec, Almalexia, Sotha Sil, and the Duke of Mournhold representing Morrowind
and the Prince Juilek Cyrodiil, representing the Cyrodiil Empire.
"Curse my luck," muttered Miramor to himself and the whispering grass. "I've
only killed a Prince. Where's the reward in that?"
Miramor destroyed the letter, as Zuuk had instructed him to do, and pocketed
the treaty. At the very least, such a curiosity would have some market
value. He disassembled the traps as he pondered his next step. Return to
Gideon and ask his employer for a lesser reward for killing the heir? Move
on to other lands? At the very least, he considered, he had picked up two
useful skills from the Battle of Bodrum. From the Dunmer, he had learned the
excellent spear trap. And abandoning the Imperial army, he had learned how
to skulk in the grass.
The Year is Continued in Hearth Fire.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, MidYear
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Heavy Armor2
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Heavy Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Mid Year
Book Six of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
2 Mid Year, 2920
Balmora, Morrowind
"The Imperial army is gathered to the south," said Cassyr. "They are a two
weeks march from Ald Iuval and Lake Coronati, heavily armored."
Vivec nodded. Ald Iuval and its sister city on the other side of the lake
Ald Malak were strategically important fortresses. He had been expecting a
move against them for some time. His captain pulled down a map of
southwestern Morrowind from the wall and smoothed it out, fighting a gentle
summer sea breeze wafting in from the open window.
"They were heavily armored, you say?" asked the captain.
"Yes, sir," said Cassyr. "They were camped out near Bethal Gray in the
Heartland, and I saw nothing but Ebony, Dwarven, and Daedric armor, fine
weaponry, and siege equipment."
"How about spellcasters and boats?" asked Vivec.
"A horde of battlemages," replied Cassyr. "But no boats."
"As heavily armored as they are, it will take them at least two weeks, like
you said, to get from Bethal Gray to Lake Coronati," Vivec studied the map
carefully. "They'd be dragged down in the bogs if they then tried to circle
around to Ald Marak from the north, so they must be planning to cross the
straits here and take Ald Iuval. Then they'd proceed around the lake to the
east and take Ald Marak from the south."
"They'll be vulnerable along the straits," said the captain. "Provided we
strike when they are more than halfway across and can't retreat back to the
Heartland."
"Your intelligence has once again served us well," said Vivec, smiling to
Cassyr. "We will beat back the Imperial aggressors yet again."
3 Mid Year, 2920
Bethal Gray, Cyrodiil
"Will you be returning back this way after your victory?" asked Lord Bethal.
Prince Juilek barely paid the man any attention. He was focused on the army
packing its camp. It was a cool morning in the forest, but there were no
clouds. All the makings of a hot afternoon march, particularly in such heavy
armor.
"If we return shortly, it will be because of defeat," said the Prince. He
could see down in the meadow, the Potentate Versidue-Shaie paying his
lordship's steward for the use of the village's food, wine, and whores. An
army was an expensive thing, for certes.
"My Prince," said Lord Bethal with concern. "Is your army beginning a march
due east? That will just lead you to the shores of Lake Coronati. You'll
want to go south-east to get to the straits."
"You just make certain your merchants get their share of our gold," said the
Prince with a grin. "Let me worry about my army's direction."
16 Mid Year, 2920
Lake Coronati, Morrowind
Vivec stared across the blue expanse of the lake, seeing his reflection and
the reflection of his army in the cool blue waters. What he did not see was
the Imperial Army's reflection. They must have reached the straits by now,
barring any mishaps in the forest. Tall feather-thin lake trees blocked much
of his view of the straits, but an army, particularly one clan in slow-moving
heavy armor could not move invisibly, silently.
"Let me see the map again," he called to his captain. "Is there no other way
they could approach?"
"We have sentries posted in the swamps to the north in case they're fool
enough to go there and be bogged under," said the captain. "We would at least
hear about it. But there is no other way across the lake except through the
straits."
Vivec looked down again at his reflection, which seemed to be distorting his
image, mocking him. Then he looked back on the map.
"Spy," said Vivec, calling Cassyr over. "When you said the army had a horde
of battlemages, what made you so certain they were battlemages?"
"They were wearing gray robes with mystical insignia on them," explained
Cassyr. "I figured they were mages, and why else would such a vast number
travel with the army? They couldn't have all been healers."
"You fool!" roared Vivec. "They're mystics schooled in the art of Alteration.
They've cast a spell of water breathing on the entire army."
Vivec ran to a new vantage point where he could see the north. Across the
lake, though it was but a small shadow on the horizon, they could see gouts
of flame from the assault on Ald Marak. Vivec bellowed with fury and his
captain got to work at once redirecting the army to circle the lake and
defend the castle.
"Return to Dwynnen," said Vivec flatly to Cassyr before he rode off to join
the battle. "Your services are no longer needed nor wanted."
It was already too late when the Morrowind army neared Ald Marak. It had
been taken by the Imperial Army.
19 Mid Year, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
The Potentate arrived in the Imperial City amid great fanfare, the streets
lined with men and women cheering him as the symbol of the taking of Ald
Marak. Truth be told, a greater number would have turned out had the Prince
returned, and the Versidue-Shaie knew it. Still, it pleased him to no end.
Never before had citizens of Tamriel cheered the arrival of an Akaviri into
their land.
The Emperor Reman III greeted him with a warm embrace, and then tore into the
letter he had brought from the Prince.
"I don't understand," he said at last, still joyous but equally confused.
"You went under the lake?"
"Ald Marak is a very well-fortified fortress," explained the Potentate. "As,
I might add, the army of Morrowind has rediscovered, now that they are on the
outside. To take it, we had to attack by surprise and with our soldiery in
the sturdiest of armor. By casting the spell that allowed us to breathe
underwater, we were able to travel faster than Vivec would have guessed, the
weight of the armor made less by the aquatic surroundings, and attack from
the waterbound west side of the fortress where their defenses were at their
weakest."
"Brilliant!" the Emperor crowed. "You are a wonderous tactician, Versidue-
Shaie! If your fathers had been as good at this as you are, Tamriel would be
Akaviri domain!"
The Potentate had not planned to take credit for Prince Juilek's design, but
on the Emperor's reference to his people's fiasco of an invasion two hundred
and sixteen years ago, he made up his mind. He smiled modestly and soaked up
the praise.
21 Mid Year, 2920
Ald Marak, Morrowind
Savirien-Chorak slithered to the wall and watched through the arrow slit the
Morrowind army retreating back to the forestland between the swamps and the
castle grounds. It seemed like the idea opportunity to strike. Perhaps the
forests could be burned and the army within them. Perhaps with Vivec in
their enemies' hands, the army would allow them possession of Ald Iuval as
well. He suggested these ideas to the Prince.
"What you seem to be forgetting," laughed Prince Juilek. "Is that I gave my
word that no harm to the army or to their commanders during the truce
negotiations. Do you not have honor during warfare on Akavir?"
"My Prince, I was born here in Tamriel, I have never been to my people's
home," replied the snake man. "But even so, your ways are strange to me. You
expected no quarter and I gave you none when we fought in the Imperial Arena
five months ago."
"That was a game," replied the Prince, before nodding to his steward to let
the Dunmer battle chief in.
Juilek had never seen Vivec before, but he had heard he was a living god.
What came before him was but a man. A powerfully built man, handsome, with
an intelligent face, but a man nonetheless. The Prince was pleased: a man he
could speak with, but not a god.
"Greetings, my worthy adversary," said Vivec. "We seem to be at an impasse."
"Not necessarily," said the Prince. "You don't want to give us Morrowind, and
I can't fault you for that. But I must have your coastline to protect the
Empire from overseas aggressions, and certain key strategic border castles,
such as this one, as well as Ald Umbeil, Tel Aruhn, Ald Lambasi, and Tel
Mothrivra."
"And in return?" asked Vivec.
"In return?" laughed Savirien-Chorak. "You forget we are the victors here,
not you."
"In return," said Prince Juilek carefully. "There will be no Imperial attacks
on Morrowind, unless in return to an attack by you. You will be protected
from invaders by the Imperial navy. And your land may expand by taking
certain estates in Black Marsh, whichever you choose, provided they are not
needed by the Empire."
"A reasonable offer," said Vivec after a pause. "You must forgive me, I am
unused to Cyrodiils who offer something in return for what they take. May I
have a few days to decide?"
"We will meet again in a week's time," said the Prince, smiling. "In the
meantime, if your army provokes no attacks on mine, we are at peace."
Vivec left the Prince's chamber, feeling that Almalexia was right. The war
was at an end. This Prince would make an excellent Emperor.
The Year is Continued in Sun's Height.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, Morning Star
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Long Blade2
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Long Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Morning Star
Book One of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
1 Morning Star, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind
Almalexia lay in her bed of fur, dreaming. Not until the sun burned through
her window, infusing the light wood and flesh colors of her chamber in a
milky glow did she open her eyes. It was quiet and serene, a stunning
reverse of the flavor of her dreams, so full of blood and celebration. For a
few moments, she simply stared at the ceiling, trying to sort through her
visions.
In the courtyard of her palace was a boiling pool which steamed in the
coolness of the winter morning. At the wave of her hand, it cleared and she
saw the face and form of her lover Vivec in his study to the north. She did
not want to speak right away: he looked so handsome in his dark red robes,
writing his poetry as he did every morning.
"Vivec," she said, and he raised his head in a smile, looking at her face
across thousands of miles. "I have seen a vision of the end of the war."
"After eighty years, I don't think anyone can imagine an end," said Vivec
with a smile, but he grew serious, trusting Almalexia's prophecies. "Who will
win? Morrowind or the Cyrodilic Empire?"
"Without Sotha Sil in Morrowind, we will lose," she replied.
"My intelligence tells me the Empire will strike us to the north in early
springtide, by First Seed at the latest. Could you go to Artaeum and
convince him to return?"
"I'll leave today," she said, simply.
4 Morning Star, 2920
Gideon, Black Marsh
The Empress paced around her cell. Wintertide gave her wasteful energy,
while in the summer she would merely sit by her window and be grateful for
each breath of stale swamp wind that came to cool her. Across the room, her
unfinished tapestry of a dance at the Imperial Court seemed to mock her. She
ripped it from its frame, tearing the pieces apart as they drifted to the
floor.
Then she laughed at her own useless gesture of defiance. She would have
plenty of time to repair it and craft a hundred more. The Emperor had locked
her up in Castle Giovesse seven years ago, and would likely keep her here
until he or she died.
With a sigh, she pulled the cord to call her knight, Zuuk. He appeared at
the door within minutes, fully uniformed as befitted an Imperial Guard. Most
of the native Kothringi tribesmen of Black Marsh preferred to go about naked,
but Zuuk had taken a positive delight to fashion. His silver, reflective
skin was scarcely visible, only on his face, neck, and hands.
"Your Imperial Highness," he said with a bow.
"Zuuk," said Empress Tavia. "I'm bored. Lets discuss methods of
assassinating my husband today."
14 Morning Star, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
The chimes proclaiming South Wind's Prayer echoed through the wide boulevards
and gardens of the Imperial City, calling all to their temples. The Emperor
Reman III always attended a service at the Temple of the One, while his son
and heir Prince Juilek found it more political to attend a service at a
different temple for each religious holiday. This year, it was at the
cathedral Benevolence of Mara.
The Benevolence's services were mercifully short, but it was not until well
after noon that the Emperor was able to return to the palace. By then, the
arena combatants were impatiently waiting for the start of the ceremony. The
crowd was far less restless, as the Potentate Versidue-Shaie had arranged for
a demonstration from a troupe of Khajiiti acrobats.
"Your religion is so much more convenient than mine," said the Emperor to his
Potentate by way of an apology. "What is the first game?"
"A one-on-one battle between two able warriors," said the Potentate, his
scaly skin catching the sun as he rose. "Armed befitting their culture."
"Sounds good," said the Emperor and clapped his hands. "Let the sport
commence!"
As soon as he saw the two warriors enter the arena to the roar of the crowd,
Emperor Reman III remembered that he had agreed to this several months before
and forgotten about it. One combatant was the Potentate's son, Savirien-
Chorak, a glistening ivory-yellow eel, gripping his katana and wakizashi with
his thin, deceptively weak looking arms. The other was the Emperor's son,
Prince Juilek, in ebony armor with a savage Orcish helm, shield and longsword
at his side.
"This will be fascinating to watch," hissed the Potentate, a wide grin across
his narrow face. "I don't know if I've even seen a Cyrodiil fight an Akavir
like this. Usually it's army against army. At last we can settle which
philosophy is better -- to create armor to combat swords as your people do,
or to create swords to combat armor as mine do."
No one in the crowd, aside from a few scattered Akaviri counselors and the
Potentate himself wanted Savirien-Chorak to win, but there was a collective
intake of breath at the sight of his graceful movements. His swords seemed
to be a part of him, a tail coming from his arms to match the one behind him.
It was a trick of counterbalance, allowing the young serpent man to roll up
into a circle and spin into the center of the ring in offensive position.
The Prince had to plod forward the less impressive traditional way.
As they sprang at each other, the crowd bellowed with delight. The Akaviri
was like a moon in orbit around the Prince, effortlessly springing over his
shoulder to attempt a blow from behind, but the Prince whirled around quickly
to block with his shield. His counter-strike met only air as his foe fell
flat to the ground and slithered between his legs, tripping him. The Prince
fell to the ground with a resounding crash.
Metal and air melted together as Savirien-Chorak rained strike after strike
upon the Prince, who blocked every one with his shield.
"We don't have shields in our culture," murmured Versidue-Shaie to the
Emperor. "It seems strange to my boy, I imagine. In our country, if you
don't want to get hit, you move out of the way."
When Savirien-Chorak was rearing back to begin another series of blinding
attacks, the Prince kicked at his tail, sending him falling back momentarily.
In an instant, he had rebounded, but the Prince was also back on his feet.
The two circled one another, until the snake man spun forward, katana
extended. The Prince saw his foe's plan, and blocked the katana with his
longsword and the wakizashi with his shield. Its short punching blade
impaled itself in the metal, and Savirien-Chorak was thrown off balance.
The Prince's longblade slashed across the Akavir's chest and the sudden,
intense pain caused him to drop both his weapons. It a moment, it was over.
Savirien-Chorak was prostate in the dust with the Prince's longsword at his
throat.
"The game's over!" shouted the Emperor, barely heard over the applause from
the stadium.
The Prince grinned and helped Savirien-Chorak up and over to a healer. The
Emperor clapped his Potentate on the back, feeling relieved. He had not
realized when the fight had begun how little chance he had given his son at
victory.
"He will make a fine warrior," said Versidue-Shaie. "And a great emperor."
"Just remember," laughed the Emperor. "You Akaviri have a lot of showy moves,
but if just one of our strikes comes through, it's all over for you."
"Oh, I'll remember that," nodded the Potentate.
Reman thought about that comment for the rest of the games, and had trouble
fully enjoying himself. Could the Potentate be another enemy, just as the
Empress had turned out to be? The matter would bear watching.
21 Morning Star, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind
"Why don't you wear that green gown I gave you?" asked the Duke of Mournhold,
watching the young maiden put on her clothes.
"It doesn't fit," smiled Turala. "And you know I like red."
"It doesn't fit because you're getting fat," laughed the Duke, pulling her
down on the bed, kissing her breasts and the pouch of her stomach. She
laughed at the tickles, but pulled herself up, wrapping her red robe around
her.
"I'm round like a woman should be," said Turala. "Will I see you tomorrow?"
"No," said the Duke. "I must entertain Vivec tomorrow, and the next day the
Duke of Ebonheart is coming. Do you know, I never really appreciated
Almalexia and her political skills until she left?"
"It is the same with me," smiled Turala. "You will only appreciate me when
I'm gone."
"That's not true at all," snorted the Duke. "I appreciate you now."
Turala allowed the Duke one last kiss before she was out the door. She kept
thinking about what he said. Would he appreciate her more or less when he
knew that she was getting fat because she was carrying his child? Would he
appreciate her enough to marry her?
The Year Continues in Sun's Dawn
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, Rain's Hand
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Restoration4
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Restoration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Rain's Hand
Book Four of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
3 Rain's Hand, 2920
Coldharbour, Oblivion
Sotha Sil proceeded as quickly as he could through the blackened halls of the
palace, half-submerged in brackish water. All around him, nasty gelatinous
creatures scurried into the reeds, bursts of white fire lit up the upper
arches of the hall before disappearing, and smells assaulted him, rancid
death one moment, sweet flowered perfume the next. Several times he had
visited the Daedra princes in their Oblivion, but every time, something
different awaited him.
He knew his purpose, and refused to be distracted.
Eight of the more prominent Daedra princes were awaiting him in the half-
melted, domed room. Azura, Prince of Dusk and Dawn; Boethiah, Prince of
Plots; Herma-Mora, Daedra of Knowledge; Hircine, the Hunter; Malacath, God of
Curses; Mehrunes Dagon, Prince of Disaster; Molag Bal, Prince of Rage;
Sheogorath, the Mad One.
Above them, the sky cast tormented shadows upon the meeting.
5 Rain's Hand, 2920
The Isle of Artaeum, Summurset
Sotha Sil's voice cried out, echoing from the cave, "Move the rock!"
Immediately, the initiates obeyed, rolling aside the great boulder that
blocked the entrance to the Dreaming Cavern. Sotha Sil emerged, his face
smeared with ash, weary. He felt he had been away for months, years, but
only a few days had transpired. Lilatha took his arm to help him walk, but
he refused her help with a kind smile and a shake of his head.
"Were you ... successful?" she asked.
"The Daedra princes I spoke with have agreed to our terms," he said flatly.
"Disasters such as befell Gilverdale should be averted. Only through certain
intermediaries such as witches or sorcerers will they answer the call of man
and mer."
"And what did you promise them in return?" asked the Nord boy Welleg.
"The deals we make with Daedra," said Sotha Sil, continuing on to Iachesis's
palace to meet with the Master of the Psijic Order. "Should not be discussed
with the innocent."
8 Rain's Hand, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
A storm billeted the windows of the Prince's bedchamber, bringing a smell of
moist air to mix with the censors filled with burning incense and herbs.
"A letter has arrived from the Empress, your mother," said the courier.
"Anxiously inquiring after your health."
"What frightened parents I have!" laughed Prince Juilek from his bed.
"It is only natural for a mother to worry," said Savirien-Chorak, the
Potentate's son.
"There is everything unnatural about my family, Akavir. My exiled mother
fears that my father will imagine me of being a traitor, covetous of the
crown, and is having me poisoned," the Prince sank back into his pillow,
annoyed. "The Emperor has insisted on me having a taster for all my meals as
he does."
"There are many plots," agreed the Akavir. "You have been abed for nearly
three weeks with every healer in the empire shuffling through like a slow
ballroom dance. At least, all can see that you're getting stronger."
"Strong enough to lead the vanguard against Morrowind soon, I hope," said
Juilek.
11 Rain's Hand, 2920
The Isle of Artaeum, Summurset
The initiates stood quietly in a row along the arbor loggia, watching the
long, deep, marble-lined trench ahead of them flash with fire. The air above
it vibrated with the waves of heat. Though each student kept his or her face
sturdy and emotionless, as a true Psijic should, their terror was nearly as
palpable as the heat. Sotha Sil closed his eyes and uttered the charm of
fire resistance. Slowly, he walked across the basin of leaping flames,
climbing to the other side, unscathed. Not even his white robe had been
burned.
"The charm is intensified by the energy you bring to it, by your own skills,
just as all spells are," he said. "Your imagination and your willpower are
the keys. There is no need for a spell to give you a resistance to air, or a
resistance to flowers, and after you cast the charm, you must forget there is
even a need for a spell to give you resistance to fire. Do not confuse what
I am saying: resistance is not about ignoring the fire's reality. You will
feel the substance of flame, the texture of it, its hunger, and even the heat
of it, but you will know that it will not hurt or injure you."
The students nodded and one by one, they cast the spell and made the walk
through the fire. Some even went so far as to bend over and scoop up a
handful of fire and feed it air, so it expanded like a bubble and melted
through their fingers. Sotha Sil smiled. They were fighting their fear
admirably.
The Chief Proctor Thargallith came running from the arbor arches, "Sotha Sil!
Almalexia has arrived on Artaeum. Iachesis told me to fetch you."
Sotha Sil turned to Thargallith for only a moment, but he knew instantly from
the screams what had transpired. The Nord lad Wellig had not cast the spell
properly and was burning. The smell of scorched hair and flesh panicked the
other students who were struggling to get out of the basin, pulling him with
them, but the incline was too steep away from the entry points. With a wave
of his hand, Sotha Sil extinguished the flame.
Wellig and several other students were burned, but not badly. The sorcerer
cast a healing spell on them, before turning back to Thargallith.
"I'll be with you in a moment, and give Almalexia the time to shake the road
dust from her train," Sotha Sil turned back to the students, his voice flat.
"Fear does not break spells, but doubt and incompetence are the great enemies
of any spellcaster. Master Welleg, you will pack your bags. I'll arrange
for a boat to bring you to the mainland tomorrow morning."
The sorcerer found Almalexia and Iachesis in the study, drinking hot tea, and
laughing. She was more beautiful than he had remembered, though he had never
before seen her so disheveled, wrapped in a blanket, dangling her damp long
black tresses before the fire to dry. At Sotha Sil's approach, she leapt to
her feet and embraced him.
"Did you swim all the way from Morrowind?" he smiled.
"It's pouring rain from Skywatch down to the coast," she explained, returning
his smile.
"Only a half a league away, and it never rains here," said Iachesis proudly.
"Of course, I sometimes miss the excitement of Summurset, and sometimes even
the mainland itself. Still, I'm always very impressed by anyone out there
who gets anything accomplished. It is a world of distractions. Speaking of
distractions, what's all this I hear about a war?"
"You mean the one that's been bloodying the continent for the last eighty
years, Master?" asked Sotha Sil, amused.
"I suppose that's the one I mean," said Iachesis with a shrug of his
shoulders. "How is that war going?"
"We will lose it, unless I can convince Sotha Sil to leave Artaeum," said
Almalexia, losing her smile. She had meant to wait and talk to her friend in
private, but the old Altmer gave her courage to press on. "I have had
visions; I know it to be true."
Sotha Sil was silent for a moment, and then looked at Iachesis, "I must
return to Morrowind."
"Knowing you, if you must do something, you will," sighed the old Master.
"The Psijics' way is not to be distracted. Wars are fought, Empires rise and
fall. You must go, and so must we."
"What do you mean, Iachesis? You're leaving the island?"
"No, the island will be leaving the sea," said Iachesis, his voice taking on
a dreamy quality. "In a few years, the mists will move over Artaeum and we
will be gone. We are counselors by nature, and there are too many counselors
in Tamriel as it is. No, we will go, and return when the land needs us
again, perhaps in another age."
The old Altmer struggles to his feet, and drained the last sip of his drink
before leaving Sotha Sil and Almalexia alone: "Don't miss the last boat."
The Year Continues in Second Seed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, Second Seed
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Speechcraft3
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Speechcraft skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Second Seed
Book Five of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
10 Second Seed, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
"Your Imperial Majesty," said the Potentate Versidue-Shaie, opening the door
to his chamber with a smile. "I have not seen you lately. I thought perhaps
you were ... indisposed with the lovely Rijja."
"She's taking the baths at Mir Corrup," the Emperor Reman III said miserably.
"Please, come in."
"I've reached the stage where I can only trust three people: you, my son the
Prince, and Rijja," said the Emperor petulantly. "My entire council is
nothing but a pack of spies."
"What seems to be the matter, your imperial majesty?" asked the Potentate
Versidue-Shaie sympathetically, drawing closed the thick curtain in his
chamber. Instantly all sound outside the room was extinguished, echoing
footsteps in the marble halls and birds in the springtide gardens.
"I've discovered that a notorious poisoner, an Orma tribeswoman from Black
Marsh called Catchica, was with the army at Caer Suvio while we were encamped
there when my son was poisoned, before the battle at Bodrum. I'm sure she
would have preferred to kill me, but the opportunity didn't present itself,"
The Emperor fumed. "The Council suggests that we need evidence of her
involvement before we prosecute."
"Of course they would," said the Potentate thoughtfully. "Particularly if one
or more of them was in on the plot. I have a thought, your imperial
majesty."
"Yes?" said Reman impatiently. "Out with it!"
"Tell the Council you're dropping the matter, and I will send out the Guard
to track this Catchica down and follow her. We will see who her friends are,
and perhaps get an idea of the scope of this plot on your imperial majesty's
life."
"Yes," said Reman with a satisfied frown. "That's a capital plan. We will
track this scheme to whomever it leads to."
"Decidedly, your imperial majesty," smiled the Potentate, parting the curtain
so the Emperor could leave. In the hallway outside was Versidue-Shaie's son,
Savirien-Chorak. The boy bowed to the Emperor before entering the
Potentate's chamber.
"Are you in trouble, father?" whispered the Akaviri lad. "I heard the Emperor
found out about whatshername, the poisoner."
"The great art of speechcraft, my boy," said Versidue-Shaie to his son. "Is
to tell them what they want to hear in a way that gets them to do what you
want them to do. I need you to get a letter to Catchica, and make certain
that she understands that if she does not follow the instructions perfectly,
she is risking her own life more than ours."
13 Second Seed, 2920
Mir Corrup, Cyrodiil
Rijja sank luxuriantly into the burbling hot spring, feeling her skin tingle
like it was being rubbed by millions of little stones. The rock shelf over
her head sheltered her from the misting rain, but let all the sunshine in,
streaming in layers through the branches of the trees. It was an idyllic
moment in an idyllic life, and when she was finished she knew that her beauty
would be entirely restored. The only thing she needed was a drink of water.
The bath itself, while wonderfully fragrant, tasted always of chalk.
"Water!" she cried to her servants. "Water, please!"
A gaunt woman with rags tied over her eyes ran to her side and dropped a
goatskin of water. Rijja was about to laugh at the woman's prudery -- she
herself was not ashamed of her naked body -- but then she noticed through a
crease in the rags that the old woman had no eyes at all. She was like one
of those Orma tribesmen Rijja had heard about, but never met. Born without
eyes, they were masters of their other senses. The Lord of Mir Corrup hired
very exotic servants, she thought to herself.
In a moment, the woman was gone and forgotten. Rijja found it very hard to
concentrate on anything but the sun and the water. She opened the cork, but
the liquid within had a strange, metallic smell to it. Suddenly, she was
aware that she was not alone.
"Lady Rijja," said the captain of the Imperial Guard. "You are, I see,
acquainted with Catchica?"
"I've never heard of her," stammered Rijja before becoming indignant. "What
are you doing here? This body is not for your leering eyes."
"Never heard of her, when we saw her with you not a minute ago," said the
captain, picking up the goatskin and smelling it. "Brought you neivous ichor,
did she? To poison the Emperor with?"
"Captain," said one of the guards, running up to him quickly. "We cannot find
the Argonian. It is as if she disappeared into the woods."
"Yes, they're good at that," said the captain. "No matter though. We've got
her contact at court. That should please his Imperial Majesty. Seize her."
As the guards pulled the writhing naked woman from the pool, she screamed,
"I'm innocent! I don't know what this is all about, but I've done nothing!
The Emperor will have your heads for this!"
"Yes, I imagine he will," smiled the captain. "If he trusts you."
21 Second Seed, 2920
Gideon, Black Marsh
The Sow and Vulture tavern was the sort of out-of-the-way place that Zuuk
favored for these sorts of interviews. Besides himself and his companion,
there were only a couple of old seadogs in the shadowy room, and they were
more unconscious from drink than aware. The grime of the unwashed floor was
something you felt rather than saw. Copious dust hung in the air unmoving in
the sparse rays of dying sunlight.
"You have experience in heavy combat?" asked Zuuk. "The reward is good for
this assignment, but the risks are great as well."
"Certainly I have combat experience," replied Miramor haughtily. "I was at
the Battle of Bodrum just two months ago. If you do your part and get the
Emperor to ride through Dozsa Pass with a minimal escort on the day and the
time we've discussed, I'll do my part. Just be certain that he's not
traveling in disguise. I'm not going to slaughter every caravan that passes
through in the hopes that it contains Emperor Reman."
Zuuk smiled, and Miramor looked at himself in the Kothringi's reflective
face. He liked the way he looked: the consummate confident professional.
"Agreed," said Zuuk. "And then you shall have the rest of your gold."
Zuuk placed the large chest onto the table between them. He stood up.
"Wait a few minutes before leaving," said Zuuk. "I don't want you following
me. Your employers wish to maintain their anonymity, if by chance you are
caught and tortured."
"Fine by me," said Miramor, ordering more grog.
Zuuk rode his mount through the cramped labyrinthine streets of Gideon, and
both he and his horse were happy to pass through the gates into the country.
The main road to Castle Giovese was flooded as it was every year in
springtide, but Zuuk knew a shorter way over the hills. Riding fast under
trees drooping with moss and treacherous slime-coated rocks, he arrived at
the castle gates in two hours' time. He wasted no time in climbing to
Tavia's cell at the top of the highest tower.
"What did you think of him?" asked the Empress.
"He's a fool," replied Zuuk. "But that's what we want for this sort of
assignment."
30 Second Seed, 2920
Thurzo Fortress, Cyrodiil
Rijja screamed and screamed and screamed. Within her cell, her only audience
was the giant gray stones, crusted with moss but still sturdy. The guards
outside were deaf to her as they were deaf to all prisoners. The Emperor,
miles away in the Imperial City, had likewise been deaf to her cries of
innocence.
She screamed knowing well that no one would likely hear her ever again.
31 Second Seed, 2920
Kavas Rim Pass, Cyrodiil
It had been days, weeks since Turala had seen another human face, Cyrodiil or
Dunmer. As she trod the road, she thought to herself how strange it was that
such an uninhabited place as Cyrodiil had become the Imperial Province, seat
of an Empire. Even the Bosmer in Valenwood must have more populated forests
than this Heartland wood.
She thought back. Was it a month ago, two, when she crossed the border from
Morrowind into Cyrodiil? It had been much colder then, but other than that,
she had no sense of time. The guards had been brusque, but as she was
carrying no weaponry, they elected to let her through. Since then, she had
seen a few caravans, even shared a meal with some adventurers camping for the
night, but met no one who would give her a ride to a town.
Turala stripped off her shawl and dragged it behind her. For a moment, she
thought she heard someone behind her and spun around. No one was there.
Just a bird perched on a branch making a sound like laughter.
She walked on, and then stopped. Something was happening. The child had
been kicking in her belly for some time now, but this was a different kind of
spasm. With a groan, she lurched over to the side of the path, collapsing
into the grass. Her child was coming.
She lay on her back and pushed, but she could barely see with her tears of
pain and frustration. How had it come to this? Giving birth in the
wilderness, all by herself, to a child whose father was the Duke of
Mournhold? Her scream of rage and agony shook the birds from the trees.
The bird that had been laughing at her earlier flew down to the road. She
blinked, and the bird was gone and in its place, a naked Elf man stood, not
as dark as a Dunmer, but not as pale as the Altmer. She knew at once it was
an Ayleid, a Wild Elf. Turala screamed, but the man held her down. After a
few minutes of struggle, she felt a release, and then fainted away.
When she awoke, it was to the sound of a baby crying. The child had been
cleaned and was lying by her side. Turala picked up her baby girl, and for
the first time that year, felt tears of happiness stream down her face.
She whispered to the trees, "Thank you" and began walking with babe in her
arms down the road to the west.
The Year Is Continued in Mid Year.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, Sun's Dawn
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Mysticism2
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Mysticism skill 1 point the first time the book is read
Sun's Dawn
Book Two of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
3 Sun's Dawn, 2920
The Isle of Artaeum, Summurset
Sotha Sil watched the initiates float one by one up to the oassom tree,
taking a fruit or a flower from its high branches before dropping back to the
ground with varying degrees of grace. He took a moment while nodding his
head in approval to admire the day. The whitewashed statue of Syrabane,
which the great mage was said to have posed for in ancient days, stood at the
precipice of the cliff overlooking the bay. Pale purple proscato flowers
waves to and fro in the gentle breeze. Beyond, ocean, and the misty border
between Artaeum and the main island of Summurset.
"By and large, acceptable," he proclaimed as the last student dropped her
fruit in his hand. With a wave of his hand, the fruit and flowers were back
in the tree. With another wave, the students had formed into position in a
semicircle around the sorcerer. He pulled a small fibrous ball, about a foot
in diameter from his white robes.
"What is this?"
The students understood this test. It asked them to cast a spell of
identification on the mysterious object. Each initiate closed his or her
eyes and imagined the ball in the realm of the universal Truth. Its energy
had a unique resonance as all physical and spiritual matter does, a negative
aspect, a duplicate version, relative paths, true meaning, a song in the
cosmos, a texture in the fabric of space, a facet of being that has always
existed and always will exist.
"A ball," said a young Nord named Welleg, which brought giggles from some of
the younger initiates, but a frown from most, including Sotha Sil.
"If you must be stupid, at least be amusing," growled the sorcerer, and then
looked at a young, dark-haired Altmer lass who looked confused. "Lilatha, do
you know?"
"It's grom," said Lilatha, uncertainly. "What the dreugh meff after they've
k-k-kr-krevinasim."
"Karvinasim, but very good, nonetheless," said Sotha Sil. "Now, tell me, what
does that mean?"
"I don't know," admitted Lilatha. The rest of the students also shook their
heads.
"There are layers to understanding all things," said Sotha Sil. "The common
man looks at an object and fits it into a place in his way of thinking.
Those skilled in the Old Ways, in the way of the Psijic, in Mysticism, can
see an object and identify it by its proper role. But one more layer is
needed to be peeled back to achieve understanding. You must identify the
object by its role and its truth and interpret that meaning. In this case,
this ball is indeed grom, which is a substance created by the dreugh, an
underwater race in the north and western parts of the continent. For one
year of their life, they undergo karvinasim when they walk upon the land.
Following that, they return to the water and meff, or devour the skin and
organs they needed for land-dwelling. Then they vomit it up into little
balls like this. Grom. Dreugh vomit."
The students looked at the ball a little queasily. Sotha Sil always loved
this lesson.
4 Sun's Dawn, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
"Spies," muttered the Emperor, sitting in his bath, staring at a lump on his
foot. "All around me, traitors and spies."
His mistress Rijja washed his back, her legs wrapped around his waist. She
knew after all these many years when to be sensual and when to be sexual.
When he was in a mood like this, it was best to be calmly, soothingly,
seductively sensual. And not to say a word unless he asked her a direct
question.
Which he did: "What do you think when a fellow steps on his Imperial
Majesty's foot and says 'I'm sorry, Your Imperial Majesty'? Don't you think
'Pardon me, Your Imperial Majesty' is more appropriate? 'I'm sorry,' well
that almost sounds like the bastard Argonian was sorry I am his Imperial
Majesty. That he hopes we lose the war with Morrowind, that's what it sounds
like."
"What would make you feel better?" asked Rijja. "Would you like him flogged?
He is only, as you say, the Battlechief of Soulrest. It would teach him to
mind where he's stepping."
"My father would have flogged him. My grandfather would have had him
killed," the Emperor grumbled. "But I don't mind if they all step on my feet,
provided they respect me. And don't plot against me."
"You must trust someone."
"Only you," smiled the Emperor, turning slightly to give Rijja a kiss. "And
my son Juilek, I suppose, though I wish he were a little more cautious."
"And your council, and the Potentate?" asked Rijja.
"A pack of spies and a snake," laughed the Emperor, kissing his mistress
again. As they began to make love, he whispered, "As long as you're true, I
can handle the world."
13 Sun's Dawn, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind
Turala stood at the black, bejeweled city gates. A wind howled around her,
but she felt nothing.
The Duke had been furious upon hearing his favorite mistress was pregnant and
cast her from his sight. She tried again and again to see him, but his
guards turned her away. Finally, she returned to her family and told them
the truth. If only she had lied and told them she did not know who the
father was. A soldier, a wandering adventurer, anyone. But she told them
that the father was the Duke, a member of the House Indoril. And they did
what she knew they would have to do, as proud members of the House Redoran.
Upon her hand was burned the sign of Expulsion her weeping father had branded
on her. But the Duke's cruelty hurt her far more. She looked out the gate
and into the wide winter plains. Twisted, sleeping trees and skies without
birds. No one in Morrowind would take her in now. She must go far away.
With slow, sad steps, she began her journey.
16 Sun's Dawn, 2920
Senchal, Anequina (modern day Elsweyr)
"What troubles you?" asked Queen Hasaama, noticing her husband's sour mood.
At the end of most Lovers' Days he was in an excellent mood, dancing in the
ballroom with all the guests, but tonight he retired early. When she found
him, he was curled in the bed, frowning.
"That blasted bard's tale about Polydor and Eloisa put me in a rotten state,"
he growled. "Why did he have to be so depressing?"
"But isn't that the truth of the tale, my dear? Weren't they doomed because
of the cruel nature of the world?"
"It doesn't matter what the truth is, he did a rotten job of telling a rotten
tale, and I'm not going to let him do it anymore," King Dro'Zel sprang from
the bed. His eyes were rheumy with tears. "Where did they say he was from
again?"
"I believe Gilverdale in easternmost Valenwood," said the Queen, shaken. "My
husband, what are you going to do?"
Dro'Zel was out of the room in a single spring, bounding up the stairs to his
tower. If Queen Hasaama knew what her husband was going to do, she did not
try to stop him. He had been erratic of late, prone to fits and even
occasional seizures. But she never suspected the depths of his madness, and
his loathing for the bard and his tale of the wickedness and perversity found
in mortal man.
19 Sun's Dawn, 2920
Gilverdale, Valenwood
"Listen to me again," said the old carpenter. "If cell three holds worthless
brass, then cell two holds the gold key. If cell one holds the gold key,
then cell three hold worthless brass. If cell two holds worthless brass, then
cell one holds the gold key."
"I understand," said the lady. "You told me. And so cell one holds the gold
key, right?"
"No," said the carpenter. "Let me start from the top."
"Mama?" said the little boy, pulling on his mother's sleeve.
"Just one moment, dear, mother's talking," she said, concentrating on the
riddle. "You said 'cell three holds the golden key if cell two holds
worthless brass,' right?"
"No," said the carpenter patiently. "Cell three holds worthless brass, if
cell two --"
"Mama!" cried the boy. His mother finally looked.
A bright red mist was pouring over the town in a wave, engulfing building
after building in its wake. Striding before was a red-skinned giant. The
Daedra Molag Bal. He was smiling.
29 Sun's Dawn, 2920
Gilverdale, Valenwood
Almalexia stopped her steed in the vast moor of mud to let him drink from the
river. He refused to, even seemed repelled by the water. It struck her as
odd: they had been making excellent time from Mournhold, and surely he must
be thirsty. She dismounted and joined her retinue.
"Where are we now?" she asked.
One of her ladies pulled out a map. "I thought we were approaching a town
called Gilverdale."
Almalexia closed her eyes and opened them again quickly. The vision was too
much to bear. As her followers watched, she picked up a piece of brick and a
fragment of bone, and clutched them to her heart.
"We must continue on to Artaeum," she said quietly.
The Year continues in First Seed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, Sun's Dusk
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Short Blade2
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Short Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Sun's Dusk
Book Eleven of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
2 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Tel Aruhn, Morrowind
"A man to see you, Night Mother," said the guard. "A Kothringi tribesman who
presents his credentials as Lord Zuuk of Black Marsh, part of the Imperial
Garrison of Gideon."
"What makes you think I'd have even the slightest possible interest in seeing
him?" asked the Night Mother with venomous sweetness.
"He brings a letter from the late Empress of the Cyrodilic Empire."
"We are having a busy day," she smiled, clapping her hands together with
delight. "Show him in."
Zuuk entered the chamber. His metallic skin, though exposed only at his face
and hands, caught the light of the fireplace and the lightning of the stormy
night from the window. The Night Mother noted also that she could see herself
as he saw her: serene, beautiful, fear-inspiring. He handed her his letter
from the Empress without a word. Sipping her wine, she read it.
"The Duke of Morrowind also offered me an appreciable sum to have the Emperor
murdered earlier this year," she said, folding the letter. "His payment sunk,
and never was delivered. It was a considerable annoyance, particularly as I
had already gone to the trouble of putting one of my agents in the palace.
Why should I assume that your more-than-generous payment, from a dead woman,
will arrive?"
"I brought it with me," said Zuuk simply. "It is in the carriage outside."
"Then bring it in and our business is complete," smiled the Night Mother.
"The Emperor will be dead by year's end. You may leave the gold with
Apaladith. Unless you'd care for some wine?"
Zuuk declined the offer and withdrew. The moment he left the room, Miramor
slipped noiselessly back from behind the dark tapestry. The Night Mother
offered him a glass of wine, and he accepted it.
"I know that fellow, Zuuk," said Miramor carefully. "I didn't know he worked
for the old Empress though."
"Let's talk about you some more, if you don't mind," she said, knowing he
would, in fact, not mind.
"Let me show you my worth," said Miramor. "Let me be the one to do the
Emperor in. I've already killed his son, and you saw there how well I can
hide myself away. Tell me you saw one ripple in the tapestry."
The Night Mother smiled. Things were falling into place rather nicely.
"If you know how to use a dagger, you will find him at Bodrum," she said, and
described to him what he must do.
3 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind
The Duke stared out the window. It was early morning, and for the fourth
straight day, a red mist hung over the city, flashing lightning. A freakish
wind blew through the streets, ripping his flags from the castle battlements,
forcing all his people to close their shudders tightly. Something terrible
was coming to his land. He was not a greatly learned man, but he knew the
signs. So too did his subjects.
"When will my messengers reach the Three?" he growled, turning to his
castellan.
"Vivec is far to the north, negotiating the treaty with the Emperor," the man
said, his face and voice trembling with fear. "Almalexia and Sotha Sil are in
Necrom. Perhaps they can be reached in a few days time."
The Duke nodded. He knew his messengers were fast, but so too was the hand
of Oblivion.
6 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Bodrum, Morrowind
Torchlight caught in the misting snow gave the place an otherworldly quality.
The soldiers from both camps found themselves huddled together around the
largest of the bonfires: winter bringing enemies of four score of warring
close together. While only a few of the Dunmer guard could speak Cyrodilic,
they found common ground battling for warmth. When a pretty Redguard maiden
passed into their midst to warm herself before moving back to the treaty
tent, many a man from both army raised their eyes in approval.
The Emperor Reman III was eager to leave negotiations before they had ever
begun. A month earlier, he thought it would be a sign of good will to meet
at the site of his defeat to Vivec's army, but the place brought back more
bad memories than he thought it would. Despite the protestations of
Potentate Versidue-Shaie that the rocks of the river were naturally red, he
could swear he saw splatters of his soldier's blood.
"We have all the particulars of the treaty," he said, taking a glass of hot
yuelle from his mistress Corda. "But here and now is not the place for
signing. We should do it at the Imperial Palace, with all the pomp and
splendor this historic occasion demands. You must bring Almalexia with you
too. And that wizard fellow."
"Sotha Sil," whispered the Potentate.
"When?" asked Vivec with infinite patience.
"In exactly a month's time," said the Emperor, smiling munificently and
clambering awkwardly to his feet. "We will hold a grand ball to commemorate.
Now I must take a walk. My legs are all cramped up with the weather. Corda,
my dear, will you walk with me?"
"Of course, your Imperial Majesty," she said, helping him toward the tent's
entrance.
"Would you like me to come with you as well, your Imperial Majesty?" asked
Versidue-Shaie.
"Or I?" asked King Dro'Zel of Senchal, a newly appointed advisor to the
court.
"That won't be necessary, I won't be gone a minute," said Reman.
Miramor crouched in the same rushes he had hidden in nearly eight months
before. Now the ground was hard and snow-covered, and the rushes slick with
ice. Every slight movement he made issued forth a crunch. If it were not
for the raucous songs of the combined Morrowind and Imperial army gathered
about the bonfire, he would not have dared creep as close to the Emperor and
his concubine. They were standing at the curve in the frozen creek below the
bluff, surrounded by trees sparkling with ice.
Carefully, Miramor removed the dagger from its sheath. He had slightly
exaggerated his abilities with a short blade to the Night Mother. True, he
had used one to cut the throat of Prince Juilek, but the lad was not in any
position to fight back at the time. Still, how difficult could it be to stab
an old man with one eye? What sort of blade skill would such an easy
assassination require?
His ideal moment presented itself before his eyes. The woman saw something
deeper in the woods, an icicle of an unusual shape she said, and darted off
to get it. The Emperor remained behind, laughing. He turned to the face of
the bluff to see his soldiers singing their song's refrain, his back to his
assassin. Miramor knew the moment had come. Mindful of the sound of his
footfall on the icy ground, he stepped forward and struck. Very nearly.
Almost simultaneously, he was aware of a strong arm holding back his striking
arm and another one punching a dagger into his throat. He could not scream.
The Emperor, still looking up at the soldiers, never saw Miramor pulled back
into the brush and a hand much more skilled than his slicing into his back,
paralyzing him.
His blood pooling out and already crystallizing on the frozen ground, Miramor
watched, dying, as the Emperor and his courtesan returned to join the camp up
on the bluff.
12 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind
A gout of ever-erupting flame was all that remained of the central courtyard
of Castle Mournhold, blasting skyward into the boiling clouds. A thick,
tarry smoke rolled through the streets, igniting everything that was wood or
paper on fire. Winged bat-like creatures harried the citizens from their
hiding places out into the open, where they were met by the real army. The
only thing that kept all of Mournhold from burning to the ground was the wet,
sputtering blood of its people.
Mehrunes Dagon smiled as he surveyed the castle crumbling.
"To think I nearly didn't come," he said aloud, his voice booming over the
chaos. "Imagine missing all this fun."
His attention was arrested by a needle-thin shaft of light piercing through
his black and red shadowed sky. He followed it to its source, two figures, a
man and a woman standing on the hill above town. The man in the white robe
he recognized immediately as Sotha Sil, the sorcerer who had talked all the
Princes of Oblivion into that meaningless truce.
"If you've come for the Duke of Mournhold, he isn't here," laughed Mehrunes
Dagon. "But you might find pieces of him the next time it rains."
"Daedra, we cannot kill you," said Almalexia, her face hard and resolute.
"But that you will soon regret."
With that, two living gods and a prince of Oblivion engaged in battle on the
ruins of Mournhold.
17 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Tel Aruhn, Morrowind
"Night Mother," said the guard. "Correspondence from your agent in the
Imperial Palace."
The Night Mother read the note carefully. The test had been a success:
Miramor had been successfully detected and slain. The Emperor was in very
unsafe hands. The Night Mother responded immediately.
18 Sun's Dusk, 2920
Balmora, Morrowind
Sotha Sil, face solemn and unreadable, greeted Vivec at the grand plaza in
front of his palace. Vivec had ridden day and night after hearing about the
battle in his tent in Bodrum, crossing mile after mile, cutting through the
dangerous ground at Dagoth-Ur at blinding speed. To the south, during all
the course of the voyage, he could see the whirling red clouds and knew that
the battle was continuing, day after day. In Gnisis, he met a messenger from
Sotha Sil, asking him to meet at Balmora.
"Where is Almalexia?"
"Inside," said Sotha Sil wearily. There was a long, ugly gash running across
his jaw. "She's gravely injured, but Mehrunes Dagon will not return from
Oblivion for many a moon."
Almalexia lay on a bed of silk, tended to by Vivec's own healers. Her face,
even her lips, was gray as stone, and blood stained through the gauze of her
bandages. Vivec took her cold hand. Almalexia's mouth moved wordlessly.
She was dreaming.
She was battling Mehrunes Dagon again amid a firestorm. All around her, the
blackened husk of a castle crumbled, splashing sparks into the night sky.
The Daedra's claws dug into her belly, spreading poison through her veins
while Almalexia throttled him. As she sank to the ground beside her defeated
foe, she saw that the castle consumed by fire was not Castle Mournhold. It
was the Imperial Palace.
24 Sun's Dusk, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
A winter gale blew over the city, splashing the windows and glass domes of
the Imperial Palace. Quivering light rays illuminated the figures within in
surreal patterns.
The Emperor barked orders to his staff in preparations for the banquet and
ball. This was what he enjoyed best, more than battle. King Dro'Zel was
supervising the entertainment, having strong opinions on the matter. The
Emperor himself was arranging the details of the dinner. Roast nebfish,
vegetable marrow, cream soups, buttered helerac, codscrumb, tongue in aspic.
Potentate Versidue-Shaie had made a few suggestions of his own, but the
tastes of the Akaviri were very peculiar.
The Lady Corda accompanied the Emperor to his chambers as night fell.
The Year is Concluded in Evening Star.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2920, Sun's Height
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Mercantile3
Weight: 3
Value: 275
Special Notes: Raises Mercantile skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Sun's Height
Book Seven of
2920, The Last Year of the First Era
by Carlovac Townway
4 Sun's Height, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
The Emperor Reman III and his Potentate Versidue-Shaie took a stroll around
the Imperial Gardens. Studded with statuary and fountains, the north gardens
fit the Emperor's mood, as well as being the coolest acreage in the City
during the heat of summertide. Austere, tiered flowerbeds of blue-gray and
green towered all around them as they walked.
"Vivec has agreed to the Prince's terms for peace," said Reman. "My son will
be returning in two weeks' time."
"This is excellent news," said the Potentate carefully. "I hope the Dunmer
will honor the terms. We might have asked for more. The fortress at Black
Gate, for example. But I suppose the Prince knows what is reasonable. He
would not cripple the Empire just for peace."
"I have been thinking lately of Rijja and what caused her to plot against my
life," said the Emperor, pausing to admire a statue of the Slave Queen
Alessia before continuing. "The only thing I can think of to account for it
is that she admired my son too much. She may have loved me for my power and
my personality, but he, after all, is young and handsome and will one day
inherit my throne. She must have thought that if I were dead, she could have
an Emperor who had both youth and power."
"The Prince ... was in on this plot?" asked Versidue-Shaie. It was a
difficult game to play, anticipating where the Emperor's paranoia would
strike next.
"Oh, I don't think so," said Reman, smiling. "No, my son loves me well."
"Are you aware that Corda, Raja's sister in an initiate of the Morwha
conservatorium in Hegathe?" asked the Potentate.
"Morwha?" asked the Emperor. "I've forgotten: which god is that?"
"Lusty fertility goddess of the Yokudans," replied the Potentate. "But not
too lusty, like Dibella. Demure, but certainly sexual."
"I am through with lusty women. The Empress, Rijja, all too lusty, a lust for
love leads to a lust for power," the Emperor shrugged his shoulders. "But a
priestess-in-training with a certain healthy appetite sounds ideal. Now what
were you saying about the Black Gate?"
6 Sun's Height, 2920
Thurzo Fortress, Cyrodiil
Rijja stood quietly looking at the cold stone floor while the Emperor spoke.
He had never before seen her so pale and joyless. She might at least be
pleased that she was being freed, being returned to her homeland. Why, if
she left now, she could be in Hammerfell by the Merchant's Festival. Nothing
he said seemed to register any reaction from her. A month and a half's stay
in Thurzo Fortress seemed to have killed her spirit.
"I was thinking," said the Emperor at last. "Of having your younger sister
Corda up to the palace for a time. I think she would prefer it over the
conservatorium in Hegathe, don't you?"
Reaction, at last. Rijja looked at the Emperor with animal hatred, flinging
herself at him in a rage. Her fingernails had grown long since her
imprisonment and she raked them across his face, into his eyes. He howled
with pain, and his guards pulled her off, pummeling her with blows from the
back of their swords, until she was knocked unconscious.
A healer was called at once, but the Emperor Reman III had lost his right
eye.
23 Sun's Height, 2920
Balmora, Morrowind
Vivec pulled himself from the water, feeling the heat of the day washed from
his skin, taking a towel from one of his servants. Sotha Sil watched his old
friend from the balcony.
"It looks like you've picked up a few more scars since I last saw you," said
the sorcerer.
"Azura grant it that I have no more for a while," laughed Vivec. "When did
you arrive?"
"A little over an hour ago," said Sotha Sil, walking down the stairs to the
water's edge. "I thought I was coming to end a war, but it seems you've done
it without me."
"Yes, eighty years is long enough for ceaseless battle," replied Vivec,
embracing Sotha Sil. "We made concessions, but so did they. When the old
Emperor is dead, we may be entering a golden age. Prince Juilek is very wise
for his age. Where is Almalexia?"
"Collecting the Duke of Mournhold. They should be here tomorrow afternoon."
The men were distracted at a sight from around the corner of the palace - a
rider was approaching through the town, heading for the front steps. It was
evident that the woman had been riding hard for some time. They met her in
the study, where she burst in, breathing hard.
"We have been betrayed," she gasped. "The Imperial Army has seized the Black
Gate."
24 Sun's Height, 2920
Balmora, Morrowind
It was the first time in seventeen years that the three members of the
Morrowind Tribunal had met in the same place, since Sotha Sil had left for
Artaeum. All three wished that the circumstances of their reunion were
different.
"From what we've learned, while the Prince was returning to Cyrodiil to the
south, a second Imperial Army came down from the north," said Vivec to his
stony-faced compatriots. "It is reasonable to assume Juilek didn't know about
the attack."
"But neither would it be unreasonable to suppose that he planned on being a
distraction while the Emperor launched the attack on Black Gate," said Sotha
Sil. "This must be considered a break of the truce."
"Where is the Duke of Mournhold?" asked Vivec. "I would hear his thoughts on
the matter."
"He is meeting with the Night Mother in Tel Aruhn," said Almalexia, quietly.
"I told him to wait until he had spoken with you, but he said that the matter
had waited long enough."
"He would involve the Morag Tong? In outside affairs?" Vivec shook his head,
and looked to Sotha Sil: "Please, do what you can. Assassination will only
move us backwards. This matter must be settled with diplomacy or battle."
25 Sun's Height, 2920
Tel Aruhn, Morrowind
The Night Mother met Sotha Sil in her salon, lit only by the moon. She was
cruelly beautiful dressed in a simple silk black robe, lounging across her
divan. With a gesture, she dismissed her red-cloaked guards and offered the
sorcerer some wine.
"You've only just missed your friend, the Duke," she whispered. "He was very
unhappy, but I think we will solve his problem for him."
"Did he hire the Morag Tong to assassinate the Emperor?" asked Sotha Sil.
"You are straight-forward, aren't you? That's good. I love plain-speaking
men: it saves so much time. Of course, I cannot discuss with you what the
Duke and I talked about," she smiled. "It would be bad for business."
"What if I were to offer you an equal amount of gold for you not to
assassinate the Emperor?"
"The Morag Tong murders for the glory of Mephala and for profit," she said,
speaking into her glass of wine. "We do not merely kill. That would be
sacrilege. Once the Duke's gold has arrived in three days time, we will do
our end of the business. And I'm afraid we would not dream of entertaining a
counter offer. Though we are a business as well as a religious order, we do
not bow to supply and demand, Sotha Sil."
27 Sun's Height, 2920
The Inner Sea, Morrowind
Sotha Sil had been watching the waters for two days now, waiting for a
particular vessel, and now he saw it. A heavy ship with the flag of
Mournhold. The sorcerer took the air and intercepted it before it reached
harbor. A caul of flame erupted over his figure, disguising his voice and
form into that of a Daedra.
"Abandon your ship!" he bellowed. "If you would not sink with it!"
In truth, Sotha Sil could have exploded the vessel with but a single ball of
fire, but he chose to take his time, to give the crew a chance to dive off
into the warm water. When he was certain there was no one living aboard, he
focused his energy into a destructive wave that shook the air and water as it
discharged. The ship and the Duke's payment to the Morag Tong sunk to the
bottom of the Inner Sea.
"Night Mother," thought Sotha Sil, as he floated towards shore to alert the
harbormaster that some sailors were in need of rescue. "Everyone bows to
supply and demand."
The Year is Continued in Last Seed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 1
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Athletics3
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Athletics skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon One
He was born in the ash among the Velothi, anon Chimer, before the war with
the northern men. Ayem came first to the village of the netchimen, and her
shadow was that of Boethiah, who was the Prince of Plots, and things unknown
and known would fold themselves around her until they were like stars or the
messages of stars. Ayem took a netchiman's wife and said:
'I am the Face-Snaked Queen of the Three in One. In you is an image and a
seven-syllable spell, AYEM AE SEHTI AE VEHK, which you will repeat to it
until mystery comes.'
Then Ayem threw the netchiman's wife into the ocean water where dreughs took
her into castles of glass and coral. They gifted the netchiman's wife with
gills and milk fingers, changing her sex so that she might give birth to the
image as an egg. There she stayed for seven or eight months.
Then Seht came to the netchiman's wife and said:
'I am the Clockwork King of the Three in One. In you is an egg of my brother-
sister, who possesses invisible knowledge of words and swords, which you
shall nurture until the Hortator comes.'
And Seht then extended his hands and multitudes of homunculi came forth, each
like a glimmering rope through the water, and they raised the netchiman's
wife back to the surface world and set her down on the shoals of Azura's
coast. There she lay for seven or eight more months, caring for the egg-
knowledge by whispering to it the Codes of Mephala and the prophecies of
Veloth and even the forbidden teachings of Trinimac.
Seven Daedra came to her one night and each one gave to the egg new motions
that could be achieved by certain movements of the bones. These are called
the Barons of Move Like This. Then an eighth Daedroth came, and he was a
Demiprince, called Fa-Nuit-Hen, or the Multiplier of Motions Known. And Fa-
Nuit-Hen said:
'Whom do you wait for?'
To which the netchiman's wife said the Hortator.
'Go to the land of the Indoril in three months' time, for that is when war
comes. I return now to haunt the warriors who fell and still wonder why. But
first I show you this.'
Then the Barons and the Demiprince joined together into a pillar of fighting
styles terrible to behold and they danced before the egg and its learning
image.
'Look, little Vehk, and find the face behind the splendor of my bladed
carriage, for in it is delivered the unmixed conflict path, perfect in every
way. What is its number?'
It is said the number is the number of birds that can nest in an ancient
tibrol tree, less three grams of honest work, but Vivec in his later years
found a better one and so gave this secret to his people.
'For I have crushed a world with my left hand,' he will say, 'but in my right
hand is how it could have won against me. Love is under my will only.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 2
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Alchemy4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Alchemy skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Two
The netchiman's wife who carried the egg of Vivec within her went looking for
the lands of the Indoril. Along the journey many spirits came to see her and
offer instructions to her son-daughter, the future glorious invisible
warrior-poet of Vvardenfell, Vivec.
The first spirit threw his arms about her and hugged his knowledge in tight.
The netchiman's wife became soaked in the Incalculable Effort. The egg was
delighted and did somersaults inside her, bowing to the five corners of the
world and saying: 'Thus whoever performs this holy act shall be proud and
mighty among the rest!'
The second spirit was too aloof and acted above his station so much that he
was driven off by a headache spell.
The third spirit, At-Hatoor, came down to the netchiman's wife while she
relaxed for a while under an Emperor Parasol. His garments were made from
implications of meaning, and the egg looked at them three times. The first
time Vivec said:
'Ha, it means nothing!'
After looking a second time he said: 'Hmm, there might be something there
after all.'
Finally, giving At-Hatoor's garments a sidelong glance, he said: 'Amazing,
the ability to infer significance in something devoid of detail!'
'There is a proverb,' At-Hatoor said, and then he left.
The fourth spirit came with the fifth, for they were cousins. They could
ghost touch and probed inside the egg to find its core. Some say Vivec at
this point was shaped like a star with its penumbra broken off; others, that
it looked like a revival of vanished forms.
'From my side of the family,' the first cousin said, 'I bring you a series of
calamities that will bring about the end of the universe.'
'And from my side,' the second cousin said, 'I bring you all the primordial
marriages that must happen within them, each one.'
At this the egg laughed. 'I am given too much to bear so young. I must have
been born before.'
And then the sixth spirit appeared, the Black Hands Mephala, who taught the
Velothi at the beginning of days all the arts of sex and murder. Its burning
heart melted the eyes of the netchiman's wife and took the egg from her belly
with six cutting strokes. The egg-image, however, could see into what it had
been before in ancient times, when the earth still cooled, and was not
blinded. It joined with the Daedroth and took its former secrets, leaving a
few behind to keep the web of the world from disentangling. Then the Black
Hands Mephala put the egg back into the netchiman's wife and blew on her with
magic breath until the hole closed up. But the Daedroth did not give her back
her eyes, saying:
' God hath three keys; of birth, of machines, and of the words between.'
Within this Sermon the wise may find one half of these keys.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 3
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Object ID: BookSkill_Blunt Weapon4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Blunt Weapon skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Three
Being blind the netchiman's wife wandered into a cave on her way to the
domains of House Indoril. It so happened that this cave was a Dwemeri
stronghold. The Dwemer spied the egg and captured the netchiman's wife. They
bound her head to foot and brought her deep within the earth.
She heard one say, 'Go and make a simulacrum of her and place it back on the
surface, for she has something akin to what we have and so the Velothi will
covet it and notice if she is too long away.'
In the darkness, the netchiman's wife felt great knives try to cut her open.
When the knives did not work, the Dwemer used solid sounds. When those did
not work, great heat was brought to bear. Nothing was of any use, and the egg
of Vivec remained safe within her.
A Dwemer said, 'Nothing is of any use. We must go and misinterpret this.'
Vivec felt that his mother was afraid, and so consoled her.
'The fire is mine: let it consume thee,
And make a secret door
At the altar of Padhome,
In the House of Boet-hi-Ah
Where we become safe
And looked after.'
This old prayer made the netchiman's wife smile and begin such a deep sleep
that when Dwemeri atronachs returned with cornered spheres and cut her apart
she did not awake and died peacefully. Vivec was removed from her womb and
placed within a magical glass for further study. To confound his captors, he
channeled his essence into love, an emotion the Dwemer knew nothing about.
The egg said: 'Love is used not only as a constituent in moods and affairs,
but also as the raw material from which relationships produce hour-later
exasperations, regrettably fashioned restrictions, riddles laced with
affections known only to the loving couple, and looks that linger too long.
Love is also an often-used ingredient in some transparent verbal and
nonverbal transactions where, eventually, it can sometimes be converted to a
variety of true devotions, some of which yield tough, insoluble, and
infusible unions. In its basic form, love supplies approximately thirteen
draughts of all energy that is derived from relationships. Its role and value
in society at large are controversial.'
The Dwemer were vexed at these words and tried to hide behind their power
symbols. They sent their atronachs to remove the egg-image from their cave
and place it within the simulacrum they had made of Vivec's mother.
A Dwemer said, 'We Dwemer are only aspirants to this that the Velothi have.
They shall be our doom in this and the eight known worlds, NIRN, LHKAN,
RKHET, THENDR, KYNRT, AKHAT, MHARA, and JHUNAL.'
The secret to doom is within this Sermon.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 4
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Object ID: BookSkill_Mysticism3
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Mysticism skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Four
The simulacrum of the netchiman's wife who carried the egg of Vivec within it
went back to looking for the lands of the Indoril. Along the journey many
more spirits came to see it and offer instructions to its son-daughter, the
future glorious invisible warrior-poet of Vvardenfell, Vivec.
A troupe of spirits called the Lobbyists for the Coincidence Guild appeared.
Vivec understood the challenge immediately and said:
'The popular notion of God kills happenstance.'
The head of the Lobbyists, whose name is forgotten, tried to defend the
concept's existence. He said, 'Saying something at the same time can be
magical.'
Vivec knew that to retain his divinity that he must make a strong argument
against luck. He said:
'Is not the sudden revelation of corresponding conditions and disparate
elements that gel at the moment of the coincidence one of the prerequisites
to being, in fact, coincidental? Synchronicity comes out of repeated
coincidences at the lowest level. Further examination shows it is the utter
power of the sheer number of coincidences that leads one to the idea that
synchronicity is guided by something more than chance. Therefore,
synchronicity ends up invalidating the concept of the coincidental, even
though they are the symptomatic signs that bring it to the surface.'
Thus was coincidence destroyed in the land of the Velothi.
Then an Old Bone of the earth rose up before the simulacrum of the
netchiman's wife and said, 'If you are to be born a ruling king of the world
you must confuse it with new words. Set me into pondering.'
'Very well,' Vivec said, 'Let me talk to you of the world, which I share with
mystery and love. Who is her capital? Have you taken the scenic route of her
cameo? I have-- lightly, in secret, missing candles because they're on the
untrue side, and run my hand along the edge of a shadow made from one hundred
and three divisions of warmth, and left no proof.'
At this the Old Bone folded unto itself twenty times until it became akin to
milk, which Vivec drank, becoming a ruling king of the world.
Finally the Chancellor of Exactitude appeared, and he was perfect to look
upon from every angle. Vivec understood the challenge immediately and said:
'Certitude is for the puzzle-box logicians and girls of white glamour who
harbor it on their own time. I am a letter written in uncertainty.'
The Chancellor bowed his head and smiled fifty different and perfect ways all
at once. He pulled the astrolabe of the universe from his robe and broke it
in half, handing both halves to the egg-image of Vivec.
Vivec laughed and said, 'Yes, I know. The slave labor of the senses is as
selfish as polar ice, and worsens when energies are spent on a life others
regard as fortunate. To be a ruling king I will have to suffer much that
cannot be suffered, and to weigh matters that no astrolabe or compass can
measure.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 5
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Object ID: BookSkill_Axe4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Axe skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Five
Finally the simulacrum of the netchiman's wife became unstable. The Dwemer in
their haste had built it shoddily and the ashes of Red Mountain slowed its
golden tendons. Before long it fell on its knees beside the road to the lands
of the Indoril and pitched over, to be discovered eighty days later by a
merchant caravan on its way to the capital of Veloth, anon Almalexia.
Vivec had not been among his people all the days of his pre-life so he stayed
silent and let the Chimer in the caravan think that the simulacrum was broken
and empty.
A Chimeri warrior, who was protecting the caravan, said, 'Look here how the
Dwemer try to fool us as ever, crafting our likenesses out of their flesh-
metals. We should take this to the capital and show our mother Ayem. She will
want to see this new strategy of our enemies.'
But the merchant captain said, 'I doubt that we shall be paid well for the
effort. We can make more money if we stop at Noormoc and sell it to the Red
Wives of Dagon, who pay well for the wonders made by the Deep Folk.'
But another Chimer, who was wise in the ways of prophecy, looked on the
simulacrum with disquietude. 'Was I not hired on to help you seek the best of
fortunes? I say you should listen to your warrior, then, and take this thing
to Ayem, for though manufactured by our enemies there is something in it that
will become sacred, or has been already.'
The merchant captain took pause then and looked on the simulacrum of the
netchiman's wife and, though he heeded always the advice of his seers, could
do no more than think of the profits to be made at Noormoc. He thought mainly
of the Red Wives' form of recompense, which was four-cornered and good
wounded, a belly-magic known nowhere else under the moons. His lust made him
deny Ayem his mother. He gave order to change course for Noormoc.
Before the caravan could get underway again, the Chimeri warrior who had
counseled a passage to the capital threw his money to the merchant captain
and said, 'I will pay you thus for the simulacrum and warn you: war is coming
with the shaggy men of the north and I will not have my mother Ayem at uneven
odds with one enemy while tending to another.'
'Nerevar,' the merchant captain said, 'this is not enough. I am Triune in my
own way, but I follow the road of my body and demand more.'
Then Vivec could not remain silent anymore and said into Nerevar's head these
words:
'You can hear the words, so run away
Come, Hortator, unfold into a clear unknown,
Stay quiet until you've slept in the yesterday,
And say no elegies for the melting stone'
So Nerevar slew the merchant captain and took the caravan for his own.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 6
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Object ID: BookSkill_Armorer3
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Armorer skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Six
You have discovered the sixth Sermon of Vivec, which was hidden in the words
that came next to the Hortator.
There is an eon within itself that when unraveled becomes the first sentence
of the world.
Mephala and Azura are the twin gates of tradition and Boethiah is the secret
flame.
The Sun shall be eaten by lions, which cannot be found yet in Veloth.
Six are the vests and garments worn by the suppositions of men.
Proceed only with the simplest terms, for all others are enemies and will
confuse you.
Six are the formulas to heaven by violence, one that you have learned by
studying these words.
The Father is a machine and the mouth of a machine. His only mystery is an
invitation to elaborate further.
The Mother is active and clawed like a nix-hound, yet she is the holiest of
those that reclaim their days.
The Son is myself, Vehk, and I am unto three, six, nine, and the rest that
come after, glorious and sympathetic, without borders, utmost in the
perfections of this world and the others, sword and symbol, pale like gold.
There is a fourth kind of philosophy that uses nothing but disbelief.
For by the sword I mean the sensible.
For by the word I mean the dead.
I am Vehk, your protector and the protector of Red Mountain until the end of
days, which are numbered 3333.
Below me is the savage, which we needed to remove ourselves from the Altmer.
Above me is a challenge, which bathes itself in fire and the essence of a
god.
Through me you are desired, unlike the prophets that have borne your name
before.
Six are the walking ways, from enigma to enemy to teacher.
Boethiah and Azura are the principles of the universal plot, which is
begetting, which is creation, and Mephala makes of it an art form.
For by the sword I mean the first night.
For by the word I mean the dead.
There will be a splendor in your name when it is said to be true.
Six are the guardians of Veloth, three before and they are born again, and
they will test you until you have the proper tendencies of the hero.
There is a world that is sleeping and you must guard against it.
For by the sword I mean the dual nature.
For by the word I mean animal life.
For by the sword I mean preceded by a sigh.
For by the word I mean preceded by a wolf.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 7
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Object ID: BookSkill_Block4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Block skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Seven
As the caravan of Nerevar now made for the capital of Veloth, anon Almalexia,
there came great rumblings from the oblivion. A duke among scamps wandered
into the House of Troubles, pausing before each scripture door to pay his
respects, until finally he was met by the major domo of Mehrunes Dagon.
The Duke of Scamps said, 'I was summoned by Lord Dagon, master of the foul
waters and fire, and I have brought the pennants of my seven legions.'
The major domo, whose head was a bubble of foul water and fire, bowed low, so
that the head of the Duke of Scamps became enclosed in his own.
He saw the first pennant, which commanded a legion of grim warriors who could
die at least twice.
He saw the second pennant, which commanded a legion of winged bulls and the
emperor of color that rode upon each.
He saw the third pennant, which commanded a legion of inverted gorgons, great
snakes whose scales were the faces of men.
He saw the fourth pennant, which commanded a legion of double-crossed lovers.
He saw the fifth pennant, which commanded a legion of jumping wounds looking
to hop onto a victim.
He saw the sixth pennant, which commanded a legion of abridged planets.
He saw the seventh pennant, which commanded a legion of armored winning
moves.
To which the major domo said, 'Duke Kh-Utta, your legions while mighty are
not enough to destroy Nerevar or the Triune way. Look upon the Hortator and
see the wisdom he takes to wife.'
And they looked into the middle world and saw:
Evaporating in a throng of thunder
Of red war and chitin men,
Where destines
Take him further from our ways
The heat that we have wanted
And pray they still remember,
Where destines
Clothe the distance,
Glad in the golden east that we saw it now,
Instead of the war and repair
Of the oblivious fracture
A curse on the Hortator
And two more on his hands
And the Duke of Scamps saw the palms of the Hortator, upon which the egg had
written these words of power: GHARTOK PADHOME GHARTOK PADHOME.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 8
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Object ID: BookSkill_Athletics4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Athletics skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Eight
And presently Nerevar and Vivec were within sight of the capital and the Four
Corners of the House of Troubles knew that it was not time to contest them.
The caravan musicians made a great song of entrance and the eleven gates of
the Mourning Hold were thrown wide.
Ayem was accompanied by her husband-state, a flickering image that was
channeled to her ever-changing female need. Around her were the Shouts, a
guild now forgotten, who carried with them the whims of the people, for the
Velothi then were still mostly good at heart. The Shouts were the counselors
of Ayem and the country, though they sometimes quarreled and needed Seht to
wring them into usefulness. Ayem approached Nerevar, who was by now adorned
in the flags of House Indoril. He gifted her with the simulacrum of the
netchiman's wife and the egg of Vivec inside.
Ayem said to Nerevar, 'Seht who is Azura has revealed that war is come and
that the Hortator that shall deliver us will approach with a solution walking
at his side.'
Nerevar said, 'I have traveled out of my way to warn you of the deceit of our
enemies, the Dwemer, but I have learned much on the journey and have changed
my mind. This netchiman's wife you see at my side is a sword and a symbol and
there is prophecy inside. It tells me that, like it, we must for awhile be
like he is and, as a people, cloaked in our former enemies, and to use their
machines without shame.'
At which Vivec spoke aloud, 'Boethiah-who-is-you wore the skin of Trinimac to
cleanse the faults of Veloth, my Queen, and so it should be again. This is
the walking way of the glorious.'
Seht appeared out of a cloud of iron vapor and his minions made of their
blood a chair. He sat beside Ayem and looked on the rebirth of mastery.
Vivec said to them, his Triune:
'My rituals and ordeals and all the rhymes within,
Use no other motive than the revelation of my skin.'
Ayem said, 'AYEM AE SEHTI AE VEHK. We are delivered and made whole, the
diamond of the Black Hands is uncovered.'
Seht said, 'Wherever so he treads, there is invisible scripture.'
To which the Shouts were silent in sudden reading.
Vivec then reached out from the egg all his limbs and features, merging with
the simulacrum of his mother, gilled and blended in all the arts of the star-
wounded East, under water and in fire and in metal and in ash, six times the
wise, and he became the union of male and female, the magic hermaphrodite,
the martial axiom, the sex-death of language and unique in all the middle
world.
He said, 'Let us now guide the hands of the Hortator in war and its
aftermath. For we go different, and in thunder. This is our destiny.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 9
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Object ID: BookSkill_Blunt Weapon5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Blunt Weapon skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Nine
Then came the war with the northern men, where Vivec did guide the Hortator
into swift and tricky union with the Dwemer. The greatest demon chieftains of
the frigid west were those listed below, five in unholy number.
HOAGA, the Mouth of Mud, who appeared as a great bearded king, had the powers
of Marshalling and breathing the earth. On the battlefields, this demon would
often be seen on the sidelines, eating the soil voraciously. When his men
fell, Hoaga would fill their bodies back with it, whereupon they would rise
again and fight, albeit slower. He had a Secret Name, Fenja, and destroyed
seventeen Chimeri villages and two Dwemeri strongholds before being turned
away.
CHEMUA, the Running Hunger, who appeared as a mounted soldier with full helm,
had the powers of Heart Roaring and of sky sickening. He ate the Chimeri
hero, Dres Khizumet-e, sending the spirit back to the Hortator as an
assassin. Sometimes called First Blighter, Chemua could give clouds stomach
aches and turn the rain of Veloth into bile. He destroyed six Chimeri
villages before he was slain by Vivec and the Hortator.
BHAG, the Two-Tongued, who appeared as a great bearded king, had the powers
of Surety and Form Change. His raiders were small in number, but ran amok in
the west hinterlands, killing many Velothi trappers and scouts. He fell in a
great debate with Vivec, for the warrior-poet alone could understand the
northern man's two-layered speech, though ALMSIVI had to remain invisible
during the argument.
BARFOK, Maid of Planes, who appeared as a winged human with lick-encrusted
spear, had the powers of Event Denouement. Battles fought against her would
always end in victory for Barfok, because she could shape outcomes by
singing. Four Chimeri villages and two more Dwemeri strongholds were
destroyed by her decision enforcement. Vivec had to stuff her mouth with his
milk finger to keep her from singing Veloth into ruin.
YSMIR, the Dragon of the North, who always appears as a great bearded king,
had powers innumerable and echoing. He was grim and dark and the most silent
of the invading chieftains, though when he spoke villages were uplifted and
thrown into the sea. The Hortator fought him unarmed, grabbing the Dragon's
roars by hand until Ysmir's power throat bled. These roars were given to
Vivec to bind into an ebony listening frame, which the warrior-poet placed on
Ysmir's face and ears to drive him mad and drive him away.
'The coming forth and the driving away brings all things around. What I shall
say next is unpleasant to record: HERMA-MORA-ALTADOON! AE ALTADOON!'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 10
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Object ID: BookSkill_Short Blade4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Short Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Ten
You have discovered the tenth Sermon of Vivec, which was hidden in the words
that came in the aftermath to the Hortator.
The evoker shall raise his left hand empty and open, to indicate he needs no
weapons of his own. The coming forth is always hidden, so the evoker is
always invisible or, better, in the skin of his enemies.
'The eyelid of the kingdom shall fill thirty and six folios, but the eye
shall read the world.' By this the Hortator needs me to understand.
The sword is an impatient signature. Write no contracts on the dead.
Vivec says unto the Hortator remember the words of Boet-hi-ah:
We pledge ourselves to you, the Frame-maker, the Scarab: a world for us to
love you in, a cloak of dirt to cherish. Betrayed by your ancestors when you
were not even looking. Hoary Magnus and his ventured opinions cannot sway the
understated, a trick worthy of the always satisfied. A short season of
towers, a rundown absolution, and what is this, what is this but fire under
your eyelid?
Shift ye in your skin, I say to the Trinimac-eaters. Pitch your voices into
the color of bruise. Divide ye like your enemies, in Houses, and lay your
laws in set sequence from the center, again like the enemy Corners of the
House of Troubles, and see yourself thence as timber, or mud-slats, or sheets
of resin. Then do not divide, for yet is the stride of SITHISIT quicker than
the rush of enemies, and He will sunder the whole for the sake of a shingle.
For we go different, and in thunder. SITHISIT is the start of all true
Houses, built against stasis and lazy slaves. Turn from your predilections,
broken like false maps. Move and move like this. Quicken against false
fathers, mothers left in corners weeping for glass and rain. Stasis asks
merely for nothing, for itself, which is nothing, as you were in the eight
everlasting imperfections.
Vivec says unto the Hortator remember the words of Vivec.
UNDERSTAND THAT SITHISIT STILL TRAVELS
Vivec says unto the Hortator remember the words of Vivec.
IN A PHOSPHORESCENT MIRROR OF THE SKY
Vivec says unto the Hortator remember the words of Vivec.
DROWNED AND SMILING
Vivec says unto the Hortator remember the words of Vivec.
INTERMITTENT HOPES ENOUGH
Vivec says unto the Hortator remember the words of Vivec.
TO ANSWER ALL THE THINGS
Vivec says unto the Hortator remember the words of Vivec.
NOT YET QUERIED
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 11
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Object ID: bookskill_unarmored3
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Unarmored skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Eleven
These were the days of Resdaynia, when Chimer and Dwemer lived under the wise
and benevolent rule of the AMLSIVI and their champion the Hortator. When the
gods of Veloth would retreat unto their own, to mold the cosmos and other
matters, the Hortator would at times become confused. Vivec would always be
there to advise him, and this is the first of the three lessons of ruling
kings:
'The waking world is the amnesia of dream. All motifs can be mortally
wounded. Once slain, themes turn into the structure of future nostalgia. Do
not abuse your powers or they will lead you astray. They will leave you like
rebellious daughters. They will lose their virtue. They will become lost and
resentful and finally become pregnant with the seed of folly. Soon you will
be the grandparent of a broken state. You will be mocked. It will fall apart
like a stone that recalls that it is really water.
"Keep nothing in your house that is neither needed or beautiful.
"Ordeals you should face unimpeded by the world of restriction. The splendor
of stars is Ayem's domain. The selfishness of the sea is Seht's. I rule the
middle air. All else is earth and under your temporal command. There is no
bone that cannot be broken, except for the heart bone. You will see it twice
in your lifetimes. Take what you can the first time and let us do the rest.
"There is no true symbolism of the center. The Sharmat will believe there is.
He will feel that he can cause years of exuberance from sitting in the
sacred, when really no one can leave that state and cause anything more but
strife.
"There is once more the case of the symbolic and barren. The true prince that
is cursed and demonized will be adored at last with full hearts. According to
the Codes of Mephala there can be no official art, only fixation points of
complexity that will erase from the awe of the people given enough time. This
is a secret that hides another. An impersonal survival is not the way of the
ruling king. Embrace the art of the people and marry it and by that I mean
secretly have it murdered.
"The ruling king that sees in another his equivalent rules nothing.
"The secret of weapons is this: they are the mercy seat.
"The secret of language is this: it is immobile.
"The ruling king is armored head to toe in brilliant flame. He is redeemed by
each act he undertakes. His death is only a diagram back to the waking world.
He sleeps the second way. The Sharmat is his double, and therefore you wonder
if you rule nothing.
"Hortator and Sharmat, one and one, eleven, an inelegant number. Which of the
ones is the more important? Could you ever tell if they switched places? I
can and that is why you will need me.
"According to the Codes of Mephala, there is no difference between the
theorist and the terrorist. Even the most cherished desire disappears in
their hands. This is why Mephala has black hands. Bring both of yours to
every argument. The one-handed king finds no remedy. When you approach God,
however, cut both of them off. God has no need of theory and he is armored
head to toe in terror."
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 12
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Object ID: bookskill_heavy armor5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Heavy Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twelve
As the Hortator pondered the first lesson of ruling kings, Vivec wandered
into the Mourning Hold and found that Ayem was with a pair of lovers. Seht
had divided himself again. Vivec then leapt through into their likenesses to
observe, but he gained no secrets that he did not already know. He left a few
of his own behind to make the journey worthwhile.
Then Vivec left the capital of Veloth and wandered far into the ash. He found
a span of badlands to practice his giant-form. He made of his feet a less
dense material than the divine to keep from falling waist-deep into the
earth. At this point the First Corner of the House of Troubles, the Prince
Molag Bal, made his presence known.
Vivec looked on the King of Rape and said:
'How very beautiful you are, that you do not join us. '
And Molag Bal crushed the warrior-poet's feet, which were not invulnerable,
and had legions cleave them off. Mighty fires from the Beginning Place were
brought like nets to hold Vivec and he let them.
'I would prefer,' he said, 'some kind of ceremony if we are to be married.'
And the legions that took the feet were summoned again and ordered to begin a
banquet. Pomegranates sprang from the badlands and tents were raised. A
throng of Velothi mystics came, reading the passages of the severed feet on
the ground and weeping until the scriptures were wet.
'We must love each other briefly,' Vivec said, 'if at all. I am needed to
counsel the Hortator in more important matters because the Dwemeri high
priests stir up trouble. You may have my head for an hour.'
Molag Bal rose up and extended six arms to show his worth. They were
decorated in runes of seduction and its reverse. They were decorated in the
annotated calendars of longer worlds. When he spoke, mating monsters fell
out.
'Where must it go?' he said.
'I told you,' Vivec said, 'I am meant to be the teacher of the king of the
earth. AE ALTADOON GHARTOK PADHOME.'
With these magic words, the King of Rape added another: 'CHIM,' which is the
secret syllable of royalty.
Vivec had what he needed from the Daedroth and so married him that day. In
the hour that Bal had his head, the King of Rape asked for proof of love.
Vivec spoke two poems to show him such, but only the first is known.
I'm not sure just how much glass it took to make your hair
Twice as much, I am sure, as the oceans have to share
Hell, my sweet, is a fiction written by those who tell the truth
My mouth is skilled at lying and its alibi a tooth
The sons and daughters of Vivec and Molag Bal number in the thousands. The
name of the mightiest is a string of power: GULGA MOR JIL HYAET AE HOOM.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 13
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Object ID: BookSkill_Alteration4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Alteration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Thirteen
These were the days of Resdaynia, when Chimer and Dwemer lived under the wise
and benevolent rule of the AMLSIVI and their champion the Hortator. When the
gods of Veloth would retreat unto their own, to mold the cosmos and other
matters, the Hortator would at times become confused. Vivec would always be
there to advise him, and this is the second of the three lessons of ruling
kings:
'The secret syllable of royalty is this: (You must learn this elsewhere.)
'The temporal myth is man.
'The magical cross is an integration of the worth of mortals at the expense
of their spirits. Surround it with the triangle and you begin to see the
Triune house. It becomes divided into corners, which are ruled by our
brethren, the Four Corners: BAL DAGON MALAC SHEOG. Rotate the triangle and
you pierce the heart of the Beginning Place, the foul lie, the testament of
the irrefutable-for-a-span. Above them all is the horizon where only one
stands, though no one stands there yet. It is proof of the new. It is the
promise of the wise. Unfold the whole and what you have is a star, which is
not my domain, but not entirely outside my judgment. The grand design takes
flight; it is transformed not only into a star but a hornet. The center
cannot hold. It becomes devoid of lines and points. It becomes devoid of
anything and so becomes a receptacle. This is its usefulness at the end. This
is its promise.
'The sword is the cross and ALMSIVI is the Triune house around it. If there
is to be an end I must be removed. The ruling king must know this, and I will
test him. I will murder him time and again until he knows this. I am the
defender of the last and the last. To remove me is to refill the heart that
lay dormant at the center that cannot hold. I am the sword, Ayem the star,
Seht the mechanism that allows the transformation of the world. Ours is the
duty to keep the compromise from being filled with black sea.
'The Sharmat sleeps at the center. He cannot bear to see it removed, the
world of reference. This is the folly of the false dreamer. This is the
amnesia of dream, or its power, or its circumvention. This is the weaker
magic and it is barbed in venom.
'This is why I say the secret to swords is the mercy seat. It is my throne. I
am become the voice of ALMSIVI. The world will know me more than my sister
and brother. I am the psychopomp. I am the killer of the weeds of Veloth.
Veloth is the center that cannot hold. Ayem is the plot. Seht is the ending.
I am the enigma that must be removed. These are why my words are armed to the
teeth.
'The ruling king is to stand against me and then before me. He is to learn
from my punishment. I will mark him to know. He is to come as male or female.
I am the form he must acquire.
'Because a ruling king that sees in another his equivalent rules nothing.'
This is what was said to the Hortator when Vivec was not whole.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 14
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Object ID: bookskill_spear3
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Spear skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Fourteen
Vivec lay with Molag Bal for eighty days and eight, though headless. In that
time, the Prince placed the warrior-poet's feet back and filled them with the
blood of Daedra. In this way Vivec's giant-form remained forever harmless to
good earth. The Pomegranate Banquet brought many spirits back from the dead
so that the sons and daughters of the union had much to eat besides fruit.
The Duke of Scamps came while the banquet was still underway, and Molag Bal
looked on the seven pennants with anger. The King of Rape had become
necessary and therefore troubled for the rest of time. His legions and Kh-
Utta's fell into open war, but the children of Molag Bal and Vivec were too
elaborate in power and form.
The Duke of Scamps therefore became a lesser thing, as did all his own
children. Molag Bal said to them: 'You are the sons of liars, dogs, and wolf-
headed women.' They have been useless to summon ever since.
The holy one returned at last, Vehk, golden with wisdom. His head found its
body had been tenderly used. He mentioned this to Molag Bal, who told him
that he should thank the Barons of Move Like This, 'For I have yet to learn
how to refine my rapture. My love is accidentally shaped like a spear.'
So Vivec, who had a grain of Ayem's mercy, set about to teach Molag Bal in
the ways of belly-magic. They took their spears out and compared them. Vivec
bit new words onto the King of Rape's so that it might give more than ruin to
the uninitiated. This has since become a forbidden ritual, though people
still practice it in secret.
Here is why: The Velothi and demons and monsters that were watching all took
out their own spears. There was much biting and the earth became wet. And
this was the last laugh of Molag Bal:
'Watch as the earth shall crack, heavy with so much power, that should have
been forever unalike!'
Then that stretch of badlands that had been the site of the marriage
fragmented and threw fire. And a race that is no more but that was terrible
at the time to behold came forth. Born of the biters, that is all they did,
and they ran amok across the lands of Veloth and even to the shores of Red
Mountain.
But Vivec made of his spear a more terrible thing, from a secret he had
bitten off from the King of Rape. And so he sent Molag Bal tumbling into the
crack of the biters and swore forever that he would not deem the King
beautiful ever again.
Vivec wept as he slew all those around him with his terrible new spear. He
named it MUATRA, which is Milk Taker, and even the Chimeri mystics knew his
fury. Anyone struck by Vivec at this time turned barren and withered into
bone shapes. The path of bones became a sentence for the stars to read, and
the heavens have never known children since. Vivec hunted down the biters one
by one, and all their progeny, and he killed them all by means of the Nine
Apertures, and the wise still hide theirs from Muatra.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 15
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Object ID: bookskill_unarmored4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Unarmored skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Fifteen
These were the days of Resdaynia, when Chimer and Dwemer lived under the wise
and benevolent rule of the AMLSIVI and their champion the Hortator. When the
gods of Veloth would retreat unto their own, to mold the cosmos and other
matters, the Hortator would at times become confused. Vivec would always be
there to advise him, and this is the third of the three lessons of ruling
kings:
'The ruling king will remove me, his maker. This is the way of all children.
His greatest enemy is the Sharmat, who is the false dreamer. You or he is the
shingle, Hortator. Beware the wrong walking path. Beware the crime of
benevolence. Behold him by his words.'
I AM THE SHARMAT
I AM OLDER THAN MUSIC
WHAT I BRING IS LIGHT
WHAT I BRING IS A STAR
WHAT I BRING IS
AN ANCIENT SEA
WHEN YOU SLEEP YOU SEE ME
DANCING AT THE CORE
IT IS NOT A BLIGHT
IT IS MY HOUSE
I PUT A STAR
INTO THE WORLD'S MOUTH
TO MURDER IT
TEAR DOWN THE PYLONS
MY BLIND FISH
SWIM IN THE NEW
PHLOGISTON
TEAR DOWN THE PYLONS
MY DEAF MOONS
SING AND BURN
AND ORBIT ME
I AM OLDER THAN MUSIC
WHAT I BRING IS LIGHT
WHAT I BRING IS A STAR
WHAT I BRING IS
AN ANCIENT SEA
'You alone, though you come again and again, can unmake him. Whether I allow
it is within my wisdom. Go unarmed into his den with these words of power: AE
GHARTOK PADHOME [CHIM] AE ALTADOON. Or do not. The temporal myth is man.
Reach heaven by violence. This magic I give to you: the world you will rule
is only an intermittent hope and you must be the letter written in
uncertainty.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 16
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Object ID: BookSkill_Axe5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Axe skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Sixteen
The Hortator wandered through the Mourning Hold, wrestling with the lessons
he had learned. They were slippery in his mind. He could not always keep the
words straight and knew that this was a danger. He wandered to find Vivec,
his lord and master, the glory of the image of Veloth, and found him of all
places in the Temple of False Thinking. There, clockwork shears were taking
off Vivec's hair. A beggar king had brought his loom and was making of the
hair an incomplete map of adulthood and death.
Nerevar said, 'Why are you doing this, milord?'
Vivec said, 'To make room for the fire.'
And the Hortator could see that Vivec was out of sorts, though not because of
the impending new power to come. The golden warrior-poet had been exercising
his Water Face as well, learned from the dreughs before he was born.
Nerevar said, 'Is this to keep you from the fire?'
Vivec said, 'It is so that I may see with truth. It, and my place here at the
altar of Padhome in the house of False Thinking, serve so that I may see
beyond my own secrets. The Water Face cannot lie. It comes from the ocean,
which is too busy to think, much less lie. Moving water resembles truth by
its trembling.'
Nerevar said, 'I am afraid to become slipshod in my thinking.'
Vivec said, 'Reach heaven by violence then.'
So to quiet his mind the Hortator chose from the Fight Racks an axe. He named
it and moved on to the first moon.
There, Nerevar was greeted by the Parliament of Craters, who knew him by
title and resented his presence, for he was to be a ruling king of earth and
this was the lunar realm. They shifted around him in a pattern of entrapment.
'The moon does not recognize crowns or scepters,' they said, 'nor the
representatives of kingdoms below, lion or serpent or mathematician. We are
the graves of those that have migrated and become ancient countries. We seek
no Queens or thrones. Your appearance is decidedly solar, which is to say a
library of stolen ideas. We are neither tear nor sorrow. Our revolution
succeeded in the manner that is was written. You are the Hortator and
unwelcome here.'
And so Nerevar carved at the grave ghosts until he was out of breath and
their Parliament could make no new laws.
He said, 'I am not of the slaves that perish.'
Of the members of Parliament only a few survived the Hortator's attack.
A surviving Crater said, 'Appropriation is nothing new. Everything happens of
itself. This motif is by no means unassociated with hero myths. You have not
acted with the creative impulse; you fall below the weight of destiny. We are
graves but not coffins. Know the difference. You have only dug more and
supplied no ghosts to reside within. Central to your claim is the
predominance of frail events. To be judged by the earth is to sit on a throne
of wonder why. Damage us more and you will find naught but the absence of our
dead.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 17
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Object ID: bookskill_long blade3
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Long Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Seventeen
'I am an atlas of smoke.'
With this, Vivec become greater than he had been. These were the days of
Resdaynia, when Chimer and Dwemer lived under the wise and benevolent rule of
the AMLSIVI and their champion the Hortator.
'Seek me without effort for I take many shapes.'
The Hortator was still trying to subdue the heavens with an axe. He was
thrown out of the library of the sun by the power of Magnus. Vivec found him
in a grub field outside of the swamps of the Deshaan Plain. They walked for a
span in silence, for Nerevar had been humbled and Vivec still had mercy in
his hand.
Soon they were walking across the eastern sea to the land of snakes and snow
demons. Vivec wanted to show the Hortator the fighting styles of foreign
tongues. They learned the idiom stroke from the pillow book of the Tsaesci
king. It is shaped like the insight of this page. The Tsaesci serpents vowed
to have their vengeance on the west at least three times.
They walked farther and saw the spiked waters at the edge of the map. Here
the spirit of limitation gifted them with a spoke and bade them find the rest
of the wheel.
The Hortator said, 'The edge of the world is made of swords.'
Vivec corrected him. 'They are the bottom row of the world's teeth.'
They walked to the north to the Elder Wood and found nothing but frozen
bearded kings.
They came to the west where the black men dwelt. For a year they studied
under their sword saints and then for another Vivec taught them the virtue of
the little reward. Vivec chose a king for a wife and made another race of
monsters which ended up destroying the west completely. To a warrior chief
Vivec said:
'We must not act and speak as if asleep.'
Nerevar wondered if there was anything to learn in the south but Vivec
remained silent and only led them back to Red Mountain.
'Here,' Vivec said, 'is the last of the last. Within it the Sharmat waits.'
But they both knew that the time was not ready to contest the Sharmat and so
they engaged in combat with each other. Vivec marked the Hortator in this way
for all of the Velothi to see. He sealed the wound with the blessing of Ayem-
Azura. At the end of the battle, the Hortator found that he had gathered
seven more spokes. He attempted to attach them and form a staff but Vivec
would not let him, saying, 'It is not the time for that.'
Nerevar said, 'Where did I find these?'
Vivec said that they had collected them from around the world, though some
had come invisibly. 'I am the wheel,' he said, and took that shape. Before
the emptiness at the center could live too long, Nerevar put in the spokes.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 18
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Object ID: BookSkill_Alchemy5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Alchemy skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Eighteen
Now Vivec felt that he had taught the Hortator as much as he could before the
war with the Dwemer came. The warrior-poet decided he had to begin his Book
of Hours at that point, because the world was about to bend with its age.
Vivec entered the Mourning Hold and announced to Ayem that he was going to
fight nine monsters that had escaped the Muatra.
'I will return,' he said, 'to deal the last blow to the grand architect of
the Dwemer.'
Ayem said, 'Out of nine you will find only eight, though they be mighty. The
last is already destroyed by your decision to create the Book of Hours.'
Vivec understood that Ayem meant himself.
'Why,' she asked, 'are you in doubt?'
Vivec knew that his doubt made him the sword of the Triune and so he did not
feel shame or fear. Instead, he explained and these are the words:
'Can a member of the Invisible Gate become so archaic that its successor is
not so much an improvement of the exact model, but rather a related model
that is just needed more because of the currency of the world's condition? As
the Mother, you do not have to worry, unless things in the future are so
strange that even Seht cannot understand. Neither does the Executioner or the
Fool, but I am neither.
'These ideals are not going to change in nature, even though they may change
in representation. But, even in the west, the Rainmaker vanishes. No one
needs him anymore.
'Can one oust the model not because the model is set according to an ideal
but because it is tied to an ever-changing unconscious mortal agenda?'
This is what was said to Ayem when Vivec was whole. The wise shall not
mistake this.
Ayem said, 'This is why you were born of a netchiman's wife and destined to
merge with the simulacrum of your mother, gilled and blended in all the arts
of the star-wounded East, under water and in fire and in metal and in ash,
six times the wise, to became the union of male and female, the magic
hermaphrodite, the martial axiom, the sex-death of language and unique in all
the middle world.'
Vivec knew then why he would record his Book of Hours.
This sermon is forbidden.
In this world and others EIGHTEEN less one (the victor) is the magical disk,
hurled to reach heaven by violence.
This sermon is untrue.
The ending of the world is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 19
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Object ID: bookskill_enchant4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Enchant skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Nineteen
Vivec put on his armor and stepped into a non-spatial space filling to
capacity with mortal interaction and information, a canvas-less cartography
of every single mind it has ever known, an event that had developed some
semblance of a divine spark. He said, 'From here I shall launch my attack on
the eight monsters.'
Vivec then saw the moths that would come from the starry heart, bringing with
them dust more horrible than the ash of Red Mountain. He saw the twin head of
a ruling king who had no equivalent. And eight imperfections rubbed into
precious stones, set into a crown that looked like shackles, which he
understood to be the twin crowns of the two-headed king. And a river that fed
into the mouth of the two-headed king, because he contained multitudes.
Vivec then built the Provisional House at the Center of the Secret Door. From
here he could watch the age to come. Of the House is written:
Cornerstone one has a finger
Buried under, pointing through
Dirt, slow low in the ground
North cannot be guessed,
And yet it is spirit-free
Cornerstone two has a tongue,
And even dust can be talkative,
Listen and you will see the love
The ancient libraries need
Cornerstone three has a bit of string,
Shaped like your favorite color,
A girl remembers who left it there
But she is afraid to dig it out,
And see what it is attached to
Cornerstone four has nine bones,
Removed carefully from a black cat,
Arranged in the fashion of this word,
Protecting us from our enemies
Your house is safe now
So why is it--
Your house is safe now
So why is it--
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 20
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Object ID: bookskill_long blade4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Long Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty
The first monster was actually two, having been born twice like his mother-
father, Vivec. He was not the mightiest of the eight to escape Muatra, but
his actions were the most worrisome. He was known as Moon Axle, and he
harvested the leftovers foibles of nature. This he did twice, as was said,
and the second harvest always brought ruin or unwritten law. His aspect was
faceted like a polyhedron.
No perils are mentioned in the finding of Moon Axle, but it was known that he
was immune to spears, so Vivec had to use the sword not held against him.
Before he took issue with the monster, the warrior-poet asked:
'How came you to be immune to spears?'
To which Moon Axle replied, 'Mine is a dual nature, and protean. I am in fact
made of many straight lines, though none last too long. In this way I have
learned to ignore all true segments.'
Luckily, the sword not held was curved and therefore could cut into Moon
Axle, and before the sun was up he was bleeding from many wounds. Vivec did
not slay him outright for to do so would to keep the foibles of nature within
him and not back where they belonged. Soon Vivec had traced geography right
again, and Moon Axle was ready to be slain.
Vivec rose up in his giant-form, to be terrible to look upon. He reached into
the west and pulled out a canyon, holding it like a horn. He reached east and
ate a handful of nix hounds. Blowing their spirits through the canyon made a
terrible wail, not unlike an unsolved woman. He said:
'Let this overtake you,' and Moon Axle was overtaken by the curvatures of
stolen souls. They wrapped about the monster like resin, until finally he
could not move, nor could his dual nature.
Vivec said, 'Now you are solved,' and pierced his child with Muatra. Moon
Axle had been reduced to something static, and therefore shattered.
The lines of Moon Axle were collected by Velothi philosophers and taken into
caves. There, and for a year, Vivec taught the philosophers how to turn the
lines of his son into the spokes of mystery wheels. This was the birth of the
first Whirling School. Before, there had only been the surface thought of
fire.
Vivec looked at his first wheeling students and observed:
'Alike the egg-layered universe is this morbid possession of three-distant
coverage, soul-wrecked and alive, like my name is alive. In this cloister you
have discovered one walking path, hilled like a sword but more coarsened. So
edged it is that it has to be whispered to keep the tongue from bleeding,
where its signs evacuate their former meanings, like empires that tarry too
long.
'The sword is estrangement from statesmanship.
'Look on the estimable lines of my son, now crafted star-wise, his every limb
equidistant from the center. Is he solved because I will it so? There cannot
be a second stage. Think on the theory that my existence promulgates the five
elements and alike the egg-layered universe I am cause for great density.
Here is a thought that can break the wagon's axle; here is another that can
soar.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 21
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Object ID: bookskill_light armor4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Light Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-One
The Scripture of the Wheel, First:
'The Spokes are the eight components of chaos, as yet solidified by the law
of time: static change, if you will, something the lizard gods refer to as
the Striking. That is the reptile wheel, coiled potential, ever-preamble to
the never-action.'
Second:
'They are the lent bones of the Aedra, the Eight gift-limbs to SITHISIT, the
wet earth of the new star our home. Outside them is the Aurbis, and not
within. Like most things inexplicable, it is a circle. Circles are confused
serpents, striking and striking and never given leave to bite. The Aedra
would have you believe different, but they were givers before liars. Lies
have turned them into biters. Their teeth are the proselytizers; to convert
is to place oneself in the mouth of falsehood; even to propitiate is to be
swallowed. '
Third:
'The enlightened are those uneaten by the world.'
Fourth:
'The spaces between the gift-limbs number sixteen, the signal shapes of the
Demon Princedoms. It is the key and the lock, series and manticore.'
Fifth:
'Look at the majesty sideways and all you see is the Tower, which our
ancestors made idols from. Look at its center and all you see is the begotten
hole, second serpent, womb-ready for the Right Reaching, exact and without
enchantment.'
Sixth:
'The heart of the second serpent holds the secret triangular gate.'
Seventh:
'Look at the secret triangular gate sideways and you see the secret Tower.'
Eighth:
'The secret Tower within the Tower is the shape of the only name of God, I.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 22
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Object ID: bookskill_medium armor4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Medium Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-Two
Then Vivec left the first Whirling School and went back to the space that was
not a space. From the Provisional House he looked into the middle world to
find the second monster, which was called the Treasure Wood Sword. Within
years of the Pomegranate Banquet, it had become a lessoning tune to the lower
Velothi houses. They preached of its power:
'The Treasure Wood Sword, splinter scintilla of the high and glorious! He who
wields it becomes self-known!'
The warrior-poet appeared as a visitation in the ancestor alcove of House
Mora, whose rose-worn prince of garlands was a hero against the northern
demons. Vivec congregated with the bones. He said:
'A scavenger cannot acquire a silk sash and expect to discover the greater
systems of its predecessor: perfect happiness is embraced only by the
weeping. Give me back (and do so freely) what is barren of my marriage and I
will not erase you from the thought realm of God. Your line has a notable
enchantress that my sister Ayem is fond of and from her murky wisdom alone do
I condescend to ask.'
A bone-walker emerged from a wall. It had three precious stones set in its
lower jaw, a magical practice of old. One was opal, the color of opal. The
bone-walker bowed to the prince of the middle air and said:
'The Treasure Wood Sword will not leave our house. Bargains were made with
the Black Hands Mephala, the greater shade.'
Vivec kissed the first precious stone and said:
'Animal picture, rude-walker, go back to the lamp that stays lit in water and
store no more messages of useless noise. Down.'
He kissed the second precious stone and said:
'Proud residue, soon dispersed, serve no guarantees made in my fore-image and
demand nothing of its under-skin. I am master evermore. Down.'
He kissed the opal and said:
'Down I take thee.'
And then Vivec withdrew into the hidden places and found the darkest mothers
of the Morag Tong, taking them all to wife and filling them with undusted
loyalty that tasted of summer salt. They became as black queens, screaming
live with a hundred murderous sons, a thousand murderous arms, and a hundred
thousand murderous hands, one vast moving event of thrusting-kill-laughter in
alleys, palaces, workshops, cities and secret halls. Their movements among
the holdings of the Ra'athim were as rippled endings, heaving between times,
with all fates leading to swallowed knives, murder as moaning, God's holy
rape-erasure of wet death.
The King of Assassins presented to Vivec the Treasure Wood Sword.
'Milord,' the King of Assassins said. 'The prince of House Mora is now fond
of you, as well. I placed him in the Corner of Dagon. His eyes I set into a
fire prayer for the wicked. His mouth I stuffed with birds.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 23
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Object ID: bookskill_long blade5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Long Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-Three
The Scripture of the Sword, First:
'The sword, treated as a delicate meal, is the Symbolic Collage. It serves
you well in the first half of life. Name one dynasty that knows this not.'
Second:
'The unity of my approach is understood by the immobile warrior. True eyes
are acquired. Rejoice as my own subjects and realms. I build for you a city
of swords, by which I mean laws that cut the people who live there into
better shapes.'
Third:
'Girls burn their dresses on my arrival if I am armored. They crawl to me as
bled pilgrims. Minor spirits die without trace. Follow me of all the ALMSIVI
if you are to mark your days with killing. AE ALTADOON, the third law of
weaponry.'
Fourth:
'The immobile warrior is never fatigued. He cuts sleep holes in the middle of
a battle to regain his strength.'
Fifth:
'Instinct is not reflex action, but mini-miracles held in reserve. I am the
welfare that decides which warrior will emerge. Beg not for luck. Serve me to
win.'
Sixth:
'The span of the apparently inactivated is your love of the absolute. The
birth of God from the netchiman's wife is the abortion of kindness from
love.'
Seventh:
'The true sword is able to cut chains of generations, which is to say, the
creation myths of your enemies. Look on me as the exiled garden. All else is
uncut weed.'
Eighth:
'I give you an ancient road tempered by the second walking way. Your hands
must be huge to wield any sword the size of an ancient road, and yet he who
is of right stature may irritate the sun with only a stick.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 24
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Object ID: bookskill_spear4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Spear skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-Four
Then Vivec left the house of assassins and went back to the space that was
not a space. From the Provisional House he looked into the middle world to
find the third monster, called Horde Mountain. It was made of modular
warriors running free but spaced according to pattern, and from the highest
warrior who could cut clouds they spread out beneath him like a tree, a skirt
whose bottom circle was an army that ran through the ash.
Vivec admired the cone-shape of his child and remembered with joy the
whirlwind of fighting styles that instructed him during the days before life.
Vivec moved into Veloth, saying, 'Onus.'
But before he could even get within sword-span of the monster, a trio of
lower houses had trapped Horde Mountain in a net of doubtful doctrine. When
they saw their lord, the Velothi cheered.
'We are happy to serve you and win!' they said.
Vivec smiled at those brave souls around him and summoned celebration demons
to cleave unto the victors. There was a great display of love and duty around
the netted monster, and Vivec was at the center with a headdress made of
mating bones. He laughed and told mystical jokes and made the heads of the
three houses marry and become a new order.
'You shall forever be now my Buoyant Armigers,' he said.
Then Vivec pierced Horde Mountain with Muatra and made of it all a big bag of
bones. At the touch of his right hand the net became right scripture and he
threw it all northeasterly. The contents spread out like sugar-glows and
Vivec and the Buoyant Armigers ran under it laughing.
Finally the bones of Horde Mountain landed and became the foundation stones
for the City of Swords, which Vivec named after his own sigil, and the net
fell across it all and between, or became as bridges between bones, and since
its segments had been touched by his holy wisdom they became the most perfect
of all city streets in the known worlds.
Throngs of Velothi came to the new city and Ayem and Seht gave it their
blessing. The streets were filled with laughter and love and the strength of
tree-shaped enemy children.
Ayem said:
'To my sister-brother's city I give the holy protection of House Indoril,
whose powers and thrones know no equal under heaven, wherefrom came the
Hortator.'
Seht said:
'To my sister-brother's city I give safe passage through the dark corners
still left of Molag Bal, and I give it this spell as well: SO-T-HA SIL, which
is my name to the mighty. It will protect the lost unless their flight is on
purpose and fill all the roads and alleys with the mystery paths of
civilization, and give the city a mind and make of it a conduit to the full
concentrate of the ALMSIVI.'
Thus was founded the city of Vivec in the days of Resdaynia.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 25
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Object ID: BookSkill_Armorer4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Armorer skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-Five
The Scripture of the City:
'All cities are born of solid light. Such is my city, his city.
'But then the light subsides, revealing the bright and terrible angel of
Veloth. He is in his pre-chimerical form, demonic VEHK, gaunt and pale and
beautiful, skin stretched painfully thin on bird's bones, feathered serpents
encircling his arms. His wings are spread out behind him, their red and
yellow ends like razors in the sun. The wispy mass of his fire hair floats as
if underwater, milky in the nimbus of light that crowns his head. His
presence is undeniable, the awe too much to bear.
'This is God's city, different from others. Cities from foreign countries put
their denizens to sleep and walk to the star-wounded East to pay homage to
me. The capital of the northern men, crusty with eon's ice, bows before Vivec
the city, me it together.
'Self-thought streets rush through tunnel blood. I have rebuilt myself. Hyper
eyed signposts along my traffic arm, soon to be an inner sea. My body is
crawling with all gathered to see me rising up like a monolithic instrument
of pleasure. My spine is the main road to the city that I am. Countless
transactions are taking place in veins and catwalks and the roaming, roaming,
roaming, as they roam over and through and add to me. There are temples
erected along the hollow of my skull and I will ever wear them as a crown.
Walk across the lips of God.
'They add new doors to me and I become effortlessly trans-immortal with the
comings and goings and the stride-heat of the market where I am traded for,
yell of the children hear them play, scoffed at, amused, desired, paid for in
native coin, new minted with my face on one side and my city-body on the
other. I stare with each new window. Soon I am a million-eyed insect
dreaming.
'Red-sparking war trumpets sound like cattle in the ribcage of shuffling
transit. The heretics are destroyed on the plaza knees. I flood over into the
hills, houses rising like a rash, and I never scratch. Cities are the
antidotes to hunting.
'I raise lanterns to light my hollows, lend wax to the thousands the
candlesticks that bear my name again and again, the name innumerable,
shutting in, mantra and priest, god-city, filling every corner with the
naming name, wheeled, circling, running river language giggling with
footfalls mating, selling, stealing, searching, and worry not ye who walk
with me. This is the flowering scheme of the Aurbis. This is the promise of
the PSJJJ: egg, image, man, god, city, state. I serve and am served. I am
made of wire and string and mortar and I accede my own precedent, world
without am.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 26
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Object ID: bookskill_sneak5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Sneak skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-Six
Then Vivec left his architectural rapture and went back to the space that was
not a space. From the Provisional House he looked into the middle world to
find the fourth monster, called The Pocket Cabal.
The monster hid itself in the spell-lists of the great Chimeri wizards of the
extreme east, where the Emperor Parasols grow wild. Vivec disguised himself
as a simple traveler, but radiated a tenuous sense-fabric so that the wizards
would seek him out. Of Muatra he made a simple walking dwarf.
Before long the invisible one was among the libraries of the east, feeding
the essential words of The Pocket Cabal to his walking dwarf and then running
when the magic would fail. After a year or two of this thievery, Muatra was
sick to its stomach, and the walking dwarf exploded near the slave pens of a
wizard's tower. The Pocket Cabal then slipped itself into the mouths of the
slaves and hid again.
Vivec then watched as the slaves erupted into babble and breaking magic. They
rattled their cages and sung out half-hymns that formed into forbidden and
arcane knowledge. Litany fiends appeared and drank from the excess. Grabbers
from the Adjacent Place came into the world sideways, the slave talking
having disrupted the normal non-cardinal points.
So of course a giant bug appeared, with the greatest eastern wizard inside
it. He could see past Vivec's disguise and knew of the warrior-poet's
divinity but he thought himself so powerful that he talked harshly:
'See what you have wrought, silly Triune! Columns of nonsense and litany
fiends! I cannot believe how reason or temperance can be made whole again due
to your eating, eating, eating! Consort with more demons, why don't you?'
Vivec stabbed the wizard through his soul.
The giant bug harness fell on the slave cages and the slaves ran about free
and reckless, too reckless more with pregnant words. Colors bent into the
earth. Vivec created a dome-head demon to contain it all.
'The Pocket Cabal is therefore interred here forever. Let this be a cursed
land where sorcery is broken and maligned.'
Then he picked up Muatra by the beard and left the ghostly hemisphere of the
dome-head demon. On its boundaries, Vivec placed a warning and a song of
entrance that contained errors in it. With mock bones of half-dead Muatra he
created the tent poles of a fortress-theory and fatal languages were
imprisoned for all time.
Seht appeared and looked on what his brother-sister had created. The
Clockwork King said:
'Of the eight monsters, this is the most confusing. May I treasure it?'
Vivec gave Seht leave to do so, but told him never to release The Pocket
Cabal into the middle world. He said:
'I have hidden secrets in my travels here and made a likeness of Muatra to
ward against the unwise. Under this dome, the temporal myth is no longer
man.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 27
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Object ID: bookskill_speechcraft5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Speechcraft skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-Seven
The Scripture of the Word, First:
'All language is based on meat. Do not let the sophists fool you.'
Second:
'The third walking path explores hysteria without fear. The efforts of madmen
are a society of itself, but only if they are written. The wise may
substitute one law for another, even into incoherence, and still say he is
working within a method. This is true of speech and extends to all
scripture.'
Third:
'Do not go to the realm of apology for absolution. Beyond articulation, there
is no fault. The Adjacent Place, where the Grabbers live, is the illusion of
the vocal or the middle realms of thought, by which I mean the constructed.
This is how I stole the certainty of the Chancellor of Exactitude, perfect to
look upon from every angle. When you come out of the vocal, you can never be
certain.'
Fourth:
'The truest body of work is made up of silence: as in the silence that
results from no reference. By the word I mean the dead.'
Fifth:
'The first meaning is always hidden.'
Sixth:
'The realm of apology is perfection and impossible to attack. Thus, the wise
avoid it. Trinity in unity is the world and word of action: the third walking
path.'
Seventh:
'The sage who suppresses his best aphorism: cut off his hands, for he is a
thief.'
Eighth:
'The clothes of the broken map are worn only by fools and heretics. The map
is an exit for laziness. It is the dusty tongue, which is to say the given
chart that most take as a story that is complete. No word is true until it is
eaten.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 28
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Object ID: bookskill_light armor5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Light Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-Eight
Then Vivec left Seht to look after the dome-head demon and went back to the
space that was not a space. From the Provisional House he looked into the
middle world to find the fifth monster, called The Ruddy Man.
When the dreughs ruled the world, the Daedroth Prince Molag Bal had been
their chief. He took a different shape then, spiny and armored and made for
the sea. Vivec, in giving birth to the many spawn of his marriage, had
dropped an old image of Molag Bal into the world: a dead carapace of memory.
It would not have been a monster if a Velothi child had not wanted to impress
his village by wearing it.
The Ruddy Man, of the eight monsters, was the least complicated. He made
those who wore him into mighty killers and nothing more. He existed in the
physical. Only geography makes him special.
When Vivec found him near the boy's village, anon Gnisis, there was a violent
clash of arms and an upheaval of the earth. Their battle created the West
Gash. Wanderers that still go there hear still the sounds of it: sword across
the crust, the grunt of God, the snapping of his monster child's splintered
legs.
After his victory, Vivec took the shell of The Ruddy Man to the dreughs that
had modified his mother. The Queen of Dreughs, whose name is not easy to
spell, was in a period of self-incubation. Her wardens took the gift from
Vivec and promised to guard it from the surface world. This is the first
account of dreughs being liars.
In ten years, The Ruddy Man appeared again, this time near Tear, worn by a
wayward shaman who followed the House of Troubles. Instead of guarding it,
the dreughs had imbued the living armor with mythic inflexibility. It molted
soon after skill-draping the shaman and stretched his bones to the five
corners.
When Vivec met the monster in battle again he saw the remains of three
villages dripping from its feet. He took on his giant form and slew The Ruddy
Man by way of the Symbolic Collage. Since he no longer trusted the Altmer of
the sea, Vivec gave the carapace of the monster to the devout and loyal
mystics of the Number Room. He told them:
'You may make of The Ruddy Man a philosopher's armor.'
The mystics began by wrapping one of their sages in the shells, a series of
flourishes by two supra numerates, one hormonally tall and the other just
under his arms. They ran around the carapace and through each other, applying
holy resin drawn from the carcasses of the now-useless numbers between twelve
and thirteen. Golden straws were quickly stuck through the mythic epidermal
so the sage could breathe. After the ceremonial etchings were drawn into
hardening resin, long lists of dead names and equations whose solutions were
to be found in the mouth of the Chimer inside, there came the illuminations,
inscribed by the bright, terrible fingernail of Vivec. From the nail's tip
flowed a searing liquid, filling the grooves of the ceremonial etchings. They
bled out to form veined patterns about the sage-shell that theologians would
decipher forever after.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 29
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Object ID: BookSkill_Armorer5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Armorer skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Twenty-Nine
The Scripture of the Numbers:
1. The Dragon Break, or the Tower. 1
2. The Enantiomorph. 68
3. The Invisible Gate, ALMSIVI. 112
4. The Corners of House of Troubles. 242
5. The Corners of the World. 100
6. The Walking Ways. 266
7. The Sword at the Center. 39
8. The Wheel, or the Eight Givers. 484
9. The Missing. 11
10. The Tribes of the Altmer. 140
11. The Number of the Master. 102
12. The Heavens. 379
13. The Serpent. 36
14. The King's Cough. 32
15. The Redeeming Force. 110
16. The Acceptable Blasphemes. 12
17. The Hurling Disk. 283
18. The Egg, or Six Times the Wise.
19. The Provisional House. 258
20. The Lunar Lattice. 425
21. The Womb. 13
22. Unknown. 453
23. The Hollow Prophet. 54
24. The Star Wound. 44
25. The Emperor. 239
26. The Rogue Plane. 81
27. The Secret Fire. 120
28. The Drowned Lamp. 8
29. The Captive Sage. 217
30. The Scarab. 10
31. The Listening Frame. 473
32. The False Call. 7
33. The Anticipations. 234
34. The Lawless Grammar. 2
35. The Prison-Shirt. 191
36. The Hours. 364
'The presence of deaf witness, this is what the numbers are. They hang onto
the Aurbis as the last nostalgia of their godhood. The effigies of numbers
are their current applications; this is folly, as above. To be affixed to a
symbol is too, too certain.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 30
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Object ID: BookSkill_Short Blade5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Short Blade skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Thirty
Then Vivec left the mystics of the Number Room and went back to the space
that was not a space. From the Provisional House he looked into the middle
world to find the sixth monster, called City-Face. He was vexed when he could
not find it and went back to the Mourning Hold in secret anger, killing a
mystic that asked about higher order.
Nerevar, the Hortator, witnessed this and said, 'Why do this, milord? The
mystics look to you for guidance. They work to make your temple better
stoned.'
Vivec said, 'No one knows what I am.'
The Hortator nodded and went back to his studies.
Here is how City-Face hid from his mother-father: it had been born named as
Ha-Note, a bare urge of power, an esoteric wind nerve tuned to the frequency
of huddled masses. It found root in villages and multiplied, finding in the
minds of the settled a veiled astrology, the star charts of culture, and this
resonance made its head swim. Ha-Note moved sideways into the Adjacent Place,
growing and unbeknownst. Above the vocal, it trembled with new emotions,
immortal ones, absorbing more than the thirty known to exist in the middle
world. When Ha-Note became gravely homesick, the Grabbers took it.
A Grabber said, 'New emotions to the lonely occur only of madness. This thing
is gone. It is ours now.'
Grabbers had never made a city of their own, and their glimpse of Vivec's,
which shone with holiness through all the spheres, had taken their attention.
'Under this reason did the issue of Vehk slide into our realm, drawn by our
coveting, hidden in loss. We shall build our tower-hope upon its face.'
Now many years had passed in Resdaynia, and the high priests of the Dwemer
were building something alike as Vivec and alike as the new Ha-Note of the
Grabbers. The Hortator was engaged with an army of theirs that had become too
brave, talking foolish words, and Nerevar helped destroy them with the help
of the orphan legion of Ayem. When he went to give trophy to Vivec, he saw
his lord under attack by the City-Face. The monster was saying this:
'Here we are to replace your city, Vehk and Vehk. We are from the place of
the more-than-known emotions, and our citizenry has died from it. Two things
we came for, but can stay for only one. Either we ask you to correct our
error of culture, or merely take yours by dint of force. The second is
easiest, we think.'
Vivec sighed.
'You would replace my direction,' he said. 'I weary of this, though I wanted
to kill you an age before. Resdaynia is fallen ill, and I have no time for
one more imaginary analogy of an unknown incident. Here, take this.'
At which he touched the tower-hope of the City-Face and corrected the error
of the Grabbers.
'And this.'
At which he stabbed the heart of the City-Face with the Ethos Knife, which is
to say RKHT AI AE ALTADOON AI, the short blade of proper commerce.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 31
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Object ID: BookSkill_Athletics5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Athletics skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Thirty-One
Many more years passed in Resdaynia, and the high priests of the Dwemer were
almost ready to make war on the rulers of Veloth. The Hortator had become the
husband of Ayem during this time, and the first saint of the Triune way.
Vivec had tired of fighting his sons and daughters, and so took a respite
from trying to find them.
The Hortator said to his wife, 'Where is Vivec, my teacher? I love him still,
though he grows cold. His lamentations, if I may call them that, have changed
the skin of the whole country. He is hardly to be found anywhere in Veloth of
late. The people grow dark because of it.'
And Ayem took mercy on her troubled husband and told him that the sword of
the Triune had been fighting minor monsters stirred up by the Dwemer as they
worked on their brass siege machines. She took the Hortator inside her and
showed him where his master was.
ALMSIVI, or at least that aspect that chose to be Vivec, sat in the Litany
Hall of the False Thinking Temple after his battle with the Flute-and-Pipe
Ogres of the West Gash. He began writing, again, in his Book of Hours. He had
to put on his Water Face first. That way he could separate the bronze of the
Old Temple from the blue of the New and write with happiness. Second, he had
to take another feather from the Big Moon, further rendering it dead. That
way he could write about mortals with truth. Third, he recalled the
Pomegranate Banquet, where he was forced to marry to Molag Bal with wet
scriptures to cement his likeness as Mephala and write with black hands. He
wrote:
The last time I heard his voice, showing the slightest sign of impatience, I
learned to control myself and submit to the will of others. Afterwards, I
dared to take on the sacred fire and realized there was no equilibrium with
the ET'ADA. They were liars, lost roots, and the most I can do is to be an
interpreter into the rational. Even that fails the needs of the people. I sit
on the mercy seat and pass judgment, the waking state, and the phase aspect
of the innate urge. Only here can I doubt, in this book, written in water,
broadened to include evil.
Then Vivec threw his ink on this passage to cover it up (for the lay reader)
and wrote instead:
Find me in the blackened paper, unarmored, in final scenery. Truth is like my
husband: instructed to smash, filled with procedure and noise, hammering,
weighty, heaviness made schematic, lessons learned only by a mace. Let those
that hear me then be buffeted, and let some die in the ash from the striking.
Let those that find him find him murdered by illumination, pummeled like a
traitorous house, because, if an hour is golden, then immortal I am a secret
code. I am the partaker of the Doom Drum, chosen of all those that dwell in
the middle world to wear this crown, which reverberates with truth, and I am
the mangling messiah.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 32
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Object ID: BookSkill_Block5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Block skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Thirty-Two
The Scripture of the Mace, First:
'The pleasure of annihilation is the pleasure of disappearing into the
unreal. All those that would challenge the sleeping world will seek
membership in this movement. I denounce the alienation of the Cloven Duality
with a hammer.'
Second:
'Take from me the lessons as a punishment for being mortal. To be made of
dirt is to be treated as such by your jailers. This is the key and the lock
of the Daedra. Why do you think they escaped the compromise?'
Third:
'Velothi, your skin has become the pregnant darkness. My brooding has brought
this on. Remember that Boethiah asked you to become the color of bruise. How
else to show yourselves people of the exodus into the vital: pain?'
Fourth:
'The sage who is not an anvil: a conventional sentence and nothing more. By
which I mean dead, the fourth walking way.'
Fifth:
'A proper comprehension of the virtues: stage-managed and to be murdered.'
Sixth:
'In the end, rejoice as a hostage released from drumming torment but that
savors his wound. The drum breaks and you find it to be a nest of hornets,
which is to say: your sleep is over.'
Seventh:
'The suspicious is spectacle and the lie is only a theoretical inspiration.'
Eighth:
'But then why, you ask, do the Daedra wish to meddle with the Aurbis? It is
because they are the radical critique, essential as all martyrs. That some
are more evil than others in not an illusion. Or rather, it is a necessary
illusion.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 33
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Object ID: bookskill_medium armor5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Medium Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Thirty-Three
Then Vivec left the Litany Hall of the False Thinking Temple, where he had
brooded for so long creating the scripture of the pounding light, and went
back to the space that was not a space. From the Provisional House he looked
into the middle world to find the seventh monster, called Lie Rock.
Lie Rock was born of Vivec's Second Aperture and was thrown out of the
Pomegranate Banquet by a member of the Sweeps, another forgotten guild. The
Sweep did not take it for the monster that it was and so he did not expect it
to fly from his hand and into the heavens.
'I am born of golden wisdom and powers that should have forever been unalike!
With this nature I am invited into the Hidden Heaven!'
By which he meant the Scaled Blanket, made of not-stars, whose number is
thirteen. Lie Rock became full of foolishness, haggling with the Void Ghost
who hides in the religions of all men. The Void Ghost said:
'Stay with me a full hundred years and I will give you a power that no
divinity will dare disobey.'
But before the hundred years was up, Vivec was already looking for Lie Rock
and found him.
'Stupid stone,' Vivec said. 'To hide in the Scaled Blanket is to make a mark
on nothing. His bargains are only for ruling kings!'
So Vivec sent the Hortator to the heavens to shave Lie Rock asunder by the
named axe. Nerevar made peace with the south-pole-star of thieving and the
north-pole-star of warriors and the third-pole-star, which existed only in
the ether, which was governed by the apprentice of Magnus the sun. They gave
him leave to wander among their charges and gave him red sight by which to
find Lie Rock in the Hidden Heaven.
By chance, Nerevar met the Void Ghost first, who told him that he was in the
wrong place to which the Hortator said, 'Me or you?' and the Void Ghost said
both. This sermon does not tell what else was said between these masters.
Lie Rock, however, used the confusion to launch his own attack on the city-
god, Vivec. He was hastened by all three of the black guardians, who wanted
him swiftly gone, though they meant no hostility to the lord of the middle
air.
The citizenry of Vivec screamed as they saw a shooting star come down out of
the sky hole like a toll-road of hell. But Vivec merely raised his hand and
froze Lie Rock just above the city and then he pierced the monster with
Muatra.
(The practice of piercing the Second Aperture is now forbidden.)
When Nerevar returned, he saw the frozen comet above his lord's city. He
asked whether or not Vivec wanted it removed.
'I would have done so myself if I wanted, silly Hortator. I shall keep it
there with its last intention intact, so that if the love of the people of
this city for me ever disappear, so shall the power that holds back their
destruction.'
Nerevar said, 'Love is under your will only.'
Vivec smiled and told the Hortator that he had become a Minister of Truth.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
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36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 34
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Object ID: bookskill_unarmored5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Unarmored skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Thirty-Four
Then Vivec left the Ministry of Truth and went back to the space that was not
a space. From the Provisional House he looked into the middle world to find
the eighth and final and mightiest monster, called GULGA MOR JIL and more.
The wise must look elsewhere for this string of power.
Vivec called to his side the Hortator and this was the first time that
Nerevar had ever been to the Provisional House. He had the same vision that
Vivec had so many years ago: that of the two-headed ruling king.
'Who is that?' he wondered.
Vivec said, 'The red jewel of conquest.'
Nerevar, perhaps because he was frightened, became vexed at his lord's
answer. 'Why are you always so evasive?'
Vivec told the Hortator that to be otherwise was to betray his nature.
Together they moved into the middle world, to a village near where Vivec had
been found by Ayem and Seht. The eighth monster was there, but he did not act
much like a monster. He sat with his legs in the ocean and with a troubled
look on his face. When he saw his mother-father, he asked why he should have
to die and return to oblivion.
Vivec told the eighth monster that to be otherwise was to betray his nature.
Since this did not seem to satisfy the monster and Vivec still had a touch of
Ayem's mercy he said:
'The fire is mine: let it consume thee,
And make a secret door
At the altar of Padhome,
In the House of Boet-hi-Ah
Where we become safe
And looked after.'
The monster accepted Muatra with a peaceful look and his bones became the
foundation for the City of the Dead, anon Narsis.
Nerevar put away his axe, which he had at the ready, and frowned.
'Why,' he said, 'did you ask me to come if you knew the eighth monster would
give in so easily?'
Vivec looked at the Hortator for a long time.
Nerevar understood. 'Do not betray your nature. Answer as you will.'
Vivec said, 'I brought you here because I knew the mightiest of my issue
would succumb to Muatra without argument, if only I gave him consolation
first.'
Nerevar looked at Vivec for a long time.
Vivec understood. 'Say the words, Hortator.'
Nerevar said, 'Now I am the mightiest of your children.'
Let this sermon be consolation to those who read it that are destined to die.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 35
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_spear5
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Spear skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Sermon Thirty-Five
The Scripture of Love:
'The formulas of proper Velothi magic continue in ancient tradition, but that
virility is dead, by which I mean at least replaced. Truth owes its medicinal
nature to the establishment of the myth of justice. Its curative properties
it likewise owes to the concept of sacrifice. Princes, chiefs, and angels all
subscribe to the same notion. This is a view primarily based on a prolific
abolition of an implied profanity, seen in ceremonies, knife fighting,
hunting, and the exploration of the poetic. On the ritual of occasions, which
comes to us from the days of the cave glow, I can say nothing more than to
loosen your equation of moods to lunar currency. Later, and by that I mean
much, much later, my reign will be seen as an act of the highest love, which
is a return from the astral destiny and the marriages between. By that I mean
the catastrophes, which will come from all five corners. Subsequent are the
revisions, differentiated between hope and the distraught, situations that
are only required by the periodic death of the immutable. Cosmic time is
repeated: I wrote of this in an earlier life. An imitation of submersion is
love's premonition, its folly into the underworld, by which I mean the day
you will read about outside of yourself in an age of gold. For on that day,
which is a shadow of the sacrificial concept, all history is obliged to see
me for what you are: in love with evil. To keep one's powers intact at such a
stage is to allow for the existence of what can only be called a continual
spirit. Make of your love a defense against the horizon. Pure existence is
only granted to the holy, which comes in a myriad of forms, half of them
frightening and the other half divided into equal parts purposeless and
assured. Late is the lover that comes to this by any other walking way than
the fifth, which is the number of the limit of this world. The lover is the
highest country and a series of beliefs. He is the sacred city bereft of a
double. The uncultivated land of monsters is the rule. This is clearly
attested by ANU and his double, which love knows never really happened.
Similarly, all the other symbols of absolute reality are ancient ideas ready
for their graves, or at least the essence of such. This scripture is directly
ordered by the codes of Mephala, the origin of sex and murder, defeated only
by those who take up those ideas without my intervention. The religious elite
is not a tendency or a correlation. They are dogma complemented by the
influence of the untrustworthy sea and the governance of the stars, dominated
at the center by the sword, which is nothing without a victim to cleave unto.
This is the love of God and he would show you more: predatory but at the same
time instrumental to the will of critical harvest, a scenario by which one
becomes as he is, of male and female, the magic hermaphrodite. Mark the norms
of violence and it barely registers, suspended as it is by treaties written
between the original spirits. This should be seen as an opportunity, and in
no way tedious, though some will give up for it is easier to kiss the lover
than become one. The lower regions crawl with these souls, caves of shallow
treasures, meeting in places to testify by way of extension, when love is
only satisfied by a considerable (incalculable) effort.'
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 36
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Mysticism4
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Mysticism skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec: Thirty-Six
For these were the days of Resdaynia, when Chimer and Dwemer lived under the
wise and benevolent rule of the AMLSIVI and their champion the Hortator,
though the Dwemer had become foolish and challenged their masters.
Out of their fortresses they came with golden ballistae that walked and
mighty atronachs and things that spat flame and things that made killing
songs. Their king was Dumac Dwarf-Orc, but their high priest was Kagrenac the
Blighter.
Under mountains and over them the war with the Dwemer was raged, and then
came the northern men to help Kagrenac and they brought Ysmir again.
Leading the armies of the Chimer was the slave that would not perish, the
Hortator Nerevar, who had traded his axe for the Ethos Knife. He slew Dumac
at Red Mountain and saw the heart bone for the first time.
Men of brass destroyed the eleven gates of the Mourning Hold and behind them
came the Dwemeri architects of tone. Ayem threw down her cloak and became the
Face-Snaked Queen of the Three in One. Those that looked upon her were
overcome by the meanings of the stars.
Under the sea, Seht stirred and brought the army he had been working on in
the castles of glass and coral. Clockwork dreughs, mockeries of the Dwemeri
war machines, rose up from the seas and took their counterparts back beneath,
where they were swallowed forever by the sea.
Red Mountain exploded as the Hortator went too far inside, seeking the
Sharmat.
Dwemeri high priest Kagrenac then revealed that which he had built in the
image of Vivec. It was a walking star, which burnt the armies of the Triune
and destroyed the heartland of Veloth, creating the Inner Sea.
Each of the aspects of the ALMSIVI then rose up together, combining as one,
and showed the world the sixth path. Ayem took from the star its fire, Seht
took from it its mystery, and Vehk took from it its feet, which had been
constructed before the gift of Molag Bal and destroyed in the manner of
truth: by a great hammering. When the soul of the Dwemer could walk no more,
they were removed from this world.
Resdaynia was no more. It had been redeemed of all the iniquities of the
foolish. The ALMSIVI drew nets from the Beginning Place and captured the ash
of Red Mountain, which they knew was the Blight of the Dwemer and that would
serve only to infect the whole of the middle world, and ate it. ALTADOON
DUNMERI!
The beginning of the words is ALMSIVI. I give you this as Vivec.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 1
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Acrobatics2
Weight: 3
Value: 150
Special Notes: Raises Acrobatics skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
A Dance In Fire, Chapter I
by Waughin Jarth
Scene: The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
Date: 7 Frost Fall, 3E 397
It seemed as if the palace had always housed the Atrius Building Commission,
the company of clerks and estate agents who authored and notarized nearly
every construction of any note in the Empire. It had stood for two hundred
and fifty years, since the reign of the Emperor Magnus, a plain-fronted and
austere hall on a minor but respectable plaza in the Imperial City.
Energetic and ambitious middle-class lads and ladies worked there, as well as
complacent middle-aged ones like Decumus Scotti. No one could imagine a
world without the Commission, least of all Scotti. To be accurate, he could
not imagine a world without himself in the Commission.
"Lord Atrius is perfectly aware of your contributions," said the managing
clerk, closing the shutter that demarcated Scotti's office behind him. "But
you know that things have been difficult."
"Yes," said Scotti, stiffly.
"Lord Vanech's men have been giving us a lot of competition lately, and we
must be more efficient if we are to survive. Unfortunately, that means
releasing some of our historically best but presently underachieving senior
clerks."
"I understand. Can't be helped."
"I'm glad that you understand," smiled the managing clerk, smiling thinly and
withdrawing. "Please have your room cleared immediately."
Scotti began the task of organizing all his work to pass on to his successor.
It would probably be young Imbrallius who would take most of it on, which was
as it should be, he considered philosophically. The lad knew how to find
business. Scotti wondered idly what the fellow would do with the contracts
for the new statue of St Alessia for which the Temple of the One had applied.
Probably invent a clerical error, blame it on his old predecessor Decumus
Scotti, and require an additional cost to rectify.
"I have correspondence for Decumus Scotti of the Atrius Building Commission."
Scotti looked up. A fat-faced courier had entered his office and was
thrusting forth a sealed scroll. He handed the boy a gold piece, and opened
it up. By the poor penmanship, atrocious spelling and grammar, and overall
unprofessional tone, it was manifestly evident who the writer was. Liodes
Jurus, a fellow clerk some years before, who had left the Commission after
being accused of unethical business practices.
"Dear Sckotti,
I emagine you alway wondered what happened to me, and the last plase you
would have expected to find me is out in the woods. But thats exactly where
I am. Ha ha. If your'e smart and want to make lot of extra gold for Lord
Atrius (and yourself, ha ha), youll come down to Vallinwood too. If you
have'nt or have been following the politics hear lately, you may or may not
know that ther's bin a war between the Boshmer and there neighbors Elswere
over the past two years. Things have only just calm down, and ther's a lot
that needs to be rebuilt.
Now Ive got more business than I can handel, but I need somone with some
clout, someone representing a respected agencie to get the quill in the ink.
That somone is you, my fiend. Come & meat me at the M'ther Paskos Tavern in
Falinnesti, Vallinwood. Ill be here 2 weeks and you wont be sorrie.
-- Jurus
P.S.: Bring a wagenload of timber if you can."
"What do you have there, Scotti?" asked a voice.
Scotti started. It was Imbrallius, his damnably handsome face peeking
through the shutters, smiling in that way that melted the hearts of the
stingiest of patrons and the roughest of stonemasons. Scotti shoved the
letter in his jacket pocket.
"Personal correspondence," he sniffed. "I'll be cleared up here in a just a
moment."
"I don't want to hurry you," said Imbrallius, grabbing a few sheets of blank
contracts from Scotti's desk. "I've just gone through a stack, and the junior
scribes hands are all cramping up, so I thought you wouldn't miss a few."
The lad vanished. Scotti retrieved the letter and read it again. He thought
about his life, something he rarely did. It seemed a sea of gray with a
black insurmountable wall looming. There was only one narrow passage he
could see in that wall. Quickly, before he had a moment to reconsider it, he
grabbed a dozen of the blank contracts with the shimmering gold leaf ATRIUS
BUILDING COMMISSION BY APPOINTMENT OF HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY and hid them in
the satchel with his personal effects.
The next day he began his adventure with a giddy lack of hesitation. He
arranged for a seat in a caravan bound for Valenwood, the single escorted
conveyance to the southeast leaving the Imperial City that week. He had
scarcely hours to pack, but he remembered to purchase a wagonload of timber.
"It will be extra gold to pay for a horse to pull that," frowned the convoy
head.
"So I anticipated," smiled Scotti with his best Imbrallius grin.
Ten wagons in all set off that afternoon through the familiar Cyrodilic
countryside. Past fields of wildflowers, gently rolling woodlands, friendly
hamlets. The clop of the horses' hooves against the sound stone road
reminded Scotti that the Atrius Building Commission constructed it. Five of
the eighteen necessary contracts for its completion were drafted by his own
hand.
"Very smart of you to bring that wood along," said a gray-whiskered Breton
man next to him on his wagon. "You must be in Commerce."
"Of a sort," said Scotti, in a way he hoped was mysterious, before
introducing himself: "Decumus Scotti."
"Gryf Mallon," said the man. "I'm a poet, actually a translator of old
Bosmer literature. I was researching some newly discovered tracts of the
Mnoriad Pley Bar two years ago when the war broke out and I had to leave.
You are no doubt familiar with the Mnoriad, if you're aware of the Green
Pact."
Scotti thought the man might be speaking perfect gibberish, but he nodded his
head.
"Naturally, I don't pretend that the Mnoriad is as renowned as the Meh
Ayleidion, or as ancient as the Dansir Gol, but I think it has a remarkable
significance to understanding the nature of the merelithic Bosmer mind. The
origin of the Wood Elf aversion to cutting their own wood or eating any plant
material at all, yet paradoxically their willingness to import plantstuff
from other cultures, I feel can be linked to a passage in the Mnoriad,"
Mallon shuffled through some of his papers, searching for the appropriate
text.
To Scotti's vast relief, the carriage soon stopped to camp for the night.
They were high on a bluff over a gray stream, and before them was the great
valley of Valenwood. Only the cry of seabirds declared the presence of the
ocean to the bay to the west: here the timber was so tall and wide, twisting
around itself like an impossible knot begun eons ago, to be impenetrable. A
few more modest trees, only fifty feet to the lowest branches, stood on the
cliff at the edge of camp. The sight was so alien to Scotti and he found
himself so anxious about the proposition of entering the wilderness that he
could not imagine sleeping.
Fortunately, Mallon had supposed he had found another academic with a passion
for the riddles of ancient cultures. Long into the night, he recited Bosmer
verse in the original and in his own translation, sobbing and bellowing and
whispering wherever appropriate. Gradually, Scotti began to feel drowsy, but
a sudden crack of wood snapping made him sit straight up.
"What was that?"
Mallon smiled: "I like it too. 'Convocation in the malignity of the moonless
speculum, a dance of fire --'"
"There are some enormous birds up in the trees moving around," whispered
Scotti, pointing in the direction of the dark shapes above.
"I wouldn't worry about that," said Mallon, irritated with his audience. "Now
listen to how the poet characterizes Herma-Mora's invocation in the
eighteenth stanza of the fourth book."
The dark shapes in the trees were some of them perched like birds, others
slithered like snakes, and still others stood up straight like men. As
Mallon recited his verse, Scotti watched the figures softly leap from branch
to branch, half-gliding across impossible distances for anything without
wings. They gathered in groups and then reorganized until they had spread to
every tree around the camp. Suddenly they plummeted from the heights.
"Mara!" cried Scotti. "They're falling like rain!"
"Probably seed pods," Mallon shrugged, not turning around. "Some of the trees
have remarkable --"
The camp erupted into chaos. Fires burst out in the wagons, the horses
wailed from mortal blows, casks of wine, fresh water, and liquor gushed their
contents to the ground. A nimble shadow dashed past Scotti and Mallon,
gathering sacks of grain and gold with impossible agility and grace. Scotti
had only one glance at it, lit up by a sudden nearby burst of flame. It was
a sleek creature with pointed ears, wide yellow eyes, mottled pied fur and a
tail like a whip.
"Werewolf," he whimpered, shrinking back.
"Cathay-raht," groaned Mallon. "Much worse. Khajiti cousins or some such
thing, come to plunder."
"Are you sure?"
As quickly as they struck, the creatures retreated, diving off the bluff
before the battlemage and knight, the caravan's escorts, had fully opened
their eyes. Mallon and Scotti ran to the precipice and saw a hundred feet
below the tiny figures dash out of the water, shake themselves, and disappear
into the wood.
"Werewolves aren't acrobats like that," said Mallon. "They were definitely
Cathay-raht. Bastard thieves. Thank Stendarr they didn't realize the value
of my notebooks. It wasn't a complete loss."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 2
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Block3
Weight: 3
Value: 150
Special Notes: Raises Block skill 1 point the first time the book is read
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 2
by Waughin Jarth
It was a complete loss. The Cathay-Raht had stolen or destroyed almost every
item of value in the caravan in just a few minutes' time. Decumus Scotti's
wagonload of wood he had hoped to trade with the Bosmer had been set on fire
and then toppled off the bluff. His clothing and contracts were tattered and
ground into the mud of dirt mixed with spilt wine. All the pilgrims,
merchants, and adventurers in the group moaned and wept as they gathered the
remnants of their belongings by the rising sun of the dawn.
"I best not tell anyone that I managed to hold onto my notes for my
translation of the Mnoriad Pley Bar," whispered the poet Gryf Mallon. "They'd
probably turn on me."
Scotti politely declined the opportunity of telling Mallon just how little
value he himself placed on the man's property. Instead, he counted the coins
in his purse. Thirty-four gold pieces. Very little indeed for an
entrepreneur beginning a new business.
"Hoy!" came a cry from the wood. A small party of Bosmer emerged from the
thicket, clad in leather mail and bearing arms. "Friend or foe?"
"Neither," growled the convoy head.
"You must be the Cyrodiils," laughed the leader of the group, a tall
skeleton-thin youth with a sharp vulpine face. "We heard you were en route.
Evidently, so did our enemies."
"I thought the war was over," muttered one of the caravan's now ruined
merchants.
The Bosmer laughed again: "No act of war. Just a little border enterprise.
You are going on to Falinesti?"
"I'm not," the convoy head shook his head. "As far as I'm concerned, my duty
is done. No more horses, no more caravan. Just a fat profit loss to me."
The men and women crowded around the man, protesting, threatening, begging,
but he refused to step foot in Valenwood. If these were the new times of
peace, he said, he'd rather come back for the next war.
Scotti tried a different route and approached the Bosmer. He spoke with an
authoritative but friendly voice, the kind he used in negotiations with
peevish carpenters: "I don't suppose you'd consider escorting me to
Falinesti. I'm a representative for an important Imperial agency, the Atrius
Building Commission, here to help repair and alleviate some of the problems
the war with the Khajiit brought to your province. Patriotism --"
"Twenty gold pieces, and you must carry your own gear if you have any left,"
replied the Bosmer.
Scotti reflected that negotiations with peevish carpenters rarely went his
way either.
Six eager people had enough gold on them for payment. Among those without
funds was the poet, who appealed to Scotti for assistance.
"I'm sorry, Gryf, I only have fourteen gold left over. Not even enough for a
decent room when I get to Falinesti. I really would help you if I could,"
said Scotti, persuading himself that it was true.
The band of six and their Bosmer escorts began the descent down a rocky path
along the bluff. Within an hour's time, they were deep in the jungles of
Valenwood. A never-ending canopy of hues of browns and greens obscured the
sky. A millennia's worth of fallen leaves formed a deep, wormy sea of
putrefaction beneath their feet. Several miles were crossed wading through
the slime. For several more, they took a labyrinthian path across fallen
branches and the low-hanging boughs of giant trees.
All the while, hour after hour, the inexhaustible Bosmer host moved so fast,
the Cyrodiils struggled to keep from being left behind. A red-faced little
merchant with short legs took a bad step on a rotten branch and nearly fell.
His fellow provincials had to help him up. The Bosmer paused only a moment,
their eyes continually darting to the shadows in the trees above before
moving on at their usual expeditious pace.
"What are they so nervous about?" wheezed the merchant irritably. "More
Cathay-Raht?"
"Don't be ridiculous," laughed the Bosmer unconvincingly. "Khajiiti this far
into Valenwood? In times of peace? They'd never dare."
When the group passed high enough above the swamp that the smell was somewhat
dissipated, Scotti felt a sudden pang of hunger. He was used to four meals a
day in the Cyrodilic custom. Hours of nonstop exertion without food was not
part of his regimen as a comfortably paid clerk. He pondered, feeling
somewhat delirious, how long they had been trotting through the jungle.
Twelve hours? Twenty? A week? Time was meaningless. Sunlight was only
sporadic through the vegetative ceiling. Phosphorescent molds on the trees
and in the muck below provided the only regular illumination.
"Is it at all possible for us to rest and eat?" he hollered to his host up
ahead.
"We're near to Falinesti," came the echoing reply. "Lots of food there."
The path continued upward for several hours more across a clot of fallen
logs, rising up to the first and then the second boughs of the tree line. As
they rounded a long corner, the travelers found themselves midway up a
waterfall that fell a hundred feet or more. No one had the energy to
complain as they began pulling up the stacks of rock, agonizing foot by foot.
The Bosmer escorts disappeared into the mist, but Scotti kept climbing until
there was no more rock left. He wiped the sweat and river water from his
eyes.
Falinesti spread across the horizon before him. Sprawling across both banks
of the river stood the mighty graht-oak city, with groves and orchards of
lesser trees crowding it like supplicants before their king. At a lesser
scale, the tree that formed the moving city would have been extraordinary:
gnarled and twisted with a gorgeous crown of gold and green, dripping with
vines and shining with sap. At a mile tall and half as wide, it was the most
magnificent thing Scotti had ever seen. If he had not been a starving man
with the soul of a clerk, he would have sung.
"There you are," said the leader of the escorts. "Not too far a walk. You
should be glad it's wintertide. In summertide, the city's on the far south
end of the province."
Scotti was lost as to how to proceed. The sight of the vertical metropolis
where people moved about like ants disoriented all his sensibilities.
"You wouldn't know of an inn called," he paused for a moment, and then pulled
Jurus's letter from his pocket. "Something like 'Mother Paskos Tavern'?"
"Mother Pascost?" the lead Bosmer laughed his familiar contemptuous laugh.
"You won't want to stay there? Visitors always prefer the Aysia Hall in the
top boughs. It's expensive, but very nice."
"I'm meeting someone at Mother Pascost's Tavern."
"If you've made up your mind to go, take a lift to Havel Slump and ask for
directions there. Just don't get lost and fall asleep in the western cross."
This apparently struck the youth's friends as a very witty jest, and so it
was with their laughter echoing behind him that Scotti crossed the writhing
root system to the base of Falinesti. The ground was littered with leaves
and refuse, and from moment to moment a glass or a bone would plummet from
far above, so he walked with his neck crooked to have warning. An intricate
network of platforms anchored to thick vines slipped up and down the slick
trunk of the city with perfect grace, manned by operators with arms as thick
as an ox's belly. Scotti approaches the nearest fellow at one of the
platforms, who was idly smoking from a glass pipe.
"I was wondering if you might take me to Havel Slump."
The mer nodded and within a few minutes time, Scotti was two hundred feet in
the air at a crook between two mighty branches. Curled webs of moss
stretched unevenly across the fork, forming a sharing roof for several dozen
small buildings. There were only a few souls in the alley, but around the
bend ahead, he could hear the sound of music and people. Scotti tipped the
Falinesti Platform Ferryman a gold piece and asked for the location of Mother
Pascost's Tavern.
"Straight ahead of you, sir, but you won't find anyone there," the Ferryman
explained, pointing in the direction of the noise. "Morndas everyone in Havel
Slump has revelry."
Scotti walked carefully along the narrow street. Though the ground felt as
solid as the marble avenues of the Imperial City, there were slick cracks in
the bark that exposed fatal drops into the river. He took a moment to sit
down, to rest and get used to the view from the heights. It was a beautiful
day for certain, but it took Scotti only a few minutes of contemplation to
rise up in alarm. A jolly little raft anchored down stream below him had
distinctly moved several inches while he watched it. But it hadn't moved at
all. He had. Together with everything around him. It was no metaphor: the
city of Falinesti walked. And, considering its size, it moved quickly.
Scotti rose to his feet and into a cloud of smoke that drifted out from
around the bend. It was the most delicious roast he had ever smelled. The
clerk forgot his fear and ran.
The "revelry" as the Ferryman had termed it took place on an enormous
platform tied to the tree, wide enough to be a plaza in any other city. A
fantastic assortment of the most amazing people Scotti had ever seen were
jammed shoulder-to-shoulder together, many eating, many more drinking, and
some dancing to a lutist and singer perched on an offshoot above the crowd.
They were largely Bosmer, true natives clad in colorful leather and bones,
with a close minority of orcs. Whirling through the throng, dancing and
bellowing at one another were a hideous ape people. A few heads bobbing over
the tops of the crowd belonged not, as Scotti first assumed, to very tall
people, but to a family of centaurs.
"Care for some mutton?" queried a wizened old mer who roasted an enormous
beast on some red-hot rocks.
Scotti quickly paid him a gold piece and devoured the leg he was given. And
then another gold piece and another leg. The fellow chuckled when Scotti
began choking on a piece of gristle, and handed him a mug of a frothing white
drink. He drank it and felt a quiver run through his body as if he were
being tickled.
"What is that?" Scotti asked.
"Jagga. Fermented pig's milk. I can let you have a flagon of it and a bit
more mutton for another gold."
Scotti agreed, paid, gobbled down the meat, and took the flagon with him as
he slipped into the crowd. His co-worker Liodes Jurus, the man who had told
him to come to Valenwood, was nowhere to be seen. When the flagon was a
quarter empty, Scotti stopped looking for Jurus. When it was half empty, he
was dancing with the group, oblivious to the broken planks and gaps in the
fencework. At three quarters empty, he was trading jokes with a group of
creatures whose language was completely alien to him. By the time the flagon
was completely drained, he was asleep, snoring, while the revelry continued
on all around his supine body.
The next morning, still asleep, Scotti had the sensation of someone kissing
him. He made a face to return the favor, but a pain like fire spread through
his chest and forced him to open his eyes. There was an insect the size of a
large calf sitting on him, crushing him, its spiky legs holding him down
while a central spiral-bladed vortex of a mouth tore through his shirt. He
screamed and thrashed but the beast was too strong. It had found its meal
and it was going to finish it.
It's over, thought Scotti wildly, I should have never left home. I could
have stayed in the City, and perhaps found work with Lord Vanech. I could
have begun again as a junior clerk and worked my way back up.
Suddenly the mouth released itself. The creature shivered once, expelled a
burst of yellow bile, and died.
"Got one!" cried a voice, not too distantly.
For a moment, Scotti lay still. His head throbbed and his chest burned. Out
of the corner of his eye he saw movement. Another of the horrible monsters
was scurried towards him. He scrambled, trying to push himself free, but
before he could come out, there was a sound of a bow cracking and an arrow
pierced the second insect.
"Good shot!" cried another voice. "Get the first one again! I just saw it
move a little!"
This time, Scotti felt the impact of the bolt hit the carcass. He cried out,
but he could hear how muffled his voice was by the beetle's body.
Cautiously, he tried sliding a foot out and rolling under, but the movement
apparently had the effect of convincing the archers that the creature still
lived. A volley of arrows was launched forth. Now the beast was
sufficiently perforated so pools of its blood, and likely the blood of its
victims, began to seep out onto Scotti's body.
When Scotti was a lad, before he grew too sophisticated for such sports, he
had often gone to the Imperial Arena for the competitions of war. He
recalled a great veteran of the fights, when asked, telling him his secret,
"Whenever I'm in doubt of what to do, and I have a shield, I stay behind it."
Scotti followed that advice. After an hour, when he no longer heard arrows
being fired, he threw aside the remains of the bug and leapt as quickly as he
could to a stand. It was not a moment too soon. A gang of eight archers had
their bows pointing his direction, ready to fire. When they saw him, they
laughed.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to sleep in the western cross? How're we
going to exterminate all the hoarvors if you drunks keep feeding 'em?"
Scotti shook his head and walked back along the platform, round the bend, to
Havel Slump. He was bloodied and torn and tired and he had far too much
fermented pig's milk. All he wanted was a proper place to lie down. He
stepped into Mother Pascost's Tavern, a dank place, wet with sap, smelling of
mildew.
"My name is Decumus Scotti," he said. "I was hoping you have someone named
Jurus staying here."
"Decumus Scotti?" pondered the fleshy proprietress, Mother Pascost herself.
"I've heard that name. Oh, you must be the fellow he left the note for. Let
me go see if I can find it."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 3
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Athletics2
Weight: 3
Value: 150
Special Notes: Raises Athletics skill 1 point the first time the book is read
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 3
by Waughin Jarth
Mother Pascost disappeared into the sordid hole that was her tavern, and
emerged a moment later with a scrap of paper with Liodes Jurus's familiar
scrawl. Decumus Scotti held it up before a patch of sunlight that had found
its way through the massive boughs of the tree city, and read.
Sckotti,
So you made it to Falinnesti, Vallinwood! Congradulatens! Im sure you had
quit a adventure getting here. Unfortonitly, Im not here anymore as you
probaby guess. Theres a town down rivver called Athie Im at. Git a bote and
join me! Its ideal! I hope you brot a lot of contracks, cause these peple
need a lot of building done. They wer close to the war, you see, but not so
close they dont have any mony left to pay. Ha ha. Meat me down here as son
as you can.
-- Jurus
So, Scotti pondered, Jurus had left Falinesti and gone to some place called
Athie. Given his poor penmanship and ghastly spelling, it could equally well
be Athy, Aphy, Othry, Imthri, Urtha, or Krakamaka. The sensible thing to do,
Scotti knew, was to call this adventure over and try to find some way to get
back home to the Imperial City. He was no mercenary devoted to a life of
thrills: he was, or at least had been, a senior clerk at a successful private
building commission. Over the last few weeks, he had been robbed by the
Cathay-Raht, taken on a death march through the jungle by a gang of giggling
Bosmeri, half-starved to death, drugged with fermented pig's milk, nearly
slain by some kind of giant tick, and attacked by archers. He was filthy,
exhausted, and had, he counted, ten gold pieces to his name. Now the man
whose proposal brought him to the depths of misery was not even there. It
was both judicious and seemly to abandon the enterprise entirely.
And yet, a small but distinct voice in his head told him: You have been
chosen. You have no other choice but to see this through.
Scotti turned to the stout old woman, Mother Pascost, who had been watching
him curiously: "I was wondering if you knew of a village that was at the edge
of the recent conflict with Elsweyr. It's called something like Ath-ie?"
"You must mean Athay," she grinned. "My middle lad, Viglil, he manages a
dairy down there. Beautiful country, right on the river. Is that where your
friend went?"
"Yes," said Scotti. "Do you know the fastest way to get there?"
After a short conversation, an even shorter ride to Falinesti's roots by way
of the platforms, and a jog to the river bank, Scotti was negotiating
transport with a huge fair-haired Bosmer with a face like a pickled carp. He
called himself Captain Balfix, but even Scotti with his sheltered life could
recognize him for what he was. A retired pirate for hire, a smuggler for
certain, and probably much worse. His ship, which had clearly been stolen in
the distant past, was a bent old Imperial sloop.
"Fifty gold and we'll be in Athay in two days time," boomed Captain Balfix
expansively.
"I have ten, no, sorry, nine gold pieces," replied Scotti, and feeling the
need for explanation, added, "I had ten, but I gave one to the Platform
Ferryman to get me down here."
"Nine is just as fine," said the captain agreeably. "Truth be told, I was
going to Athay whether you paid me or not. Make yourself comfortable on the
boat, we'll be leaving in just a few minutes."
Decumus Scotti boarded the vessel, which sat low in the water of the river,
stacked high with crates and sacks that spilled out of the hold and galley
and onto the deck. Each was marked with stamps advertising the most
innocuous substances: copper scraps, lard, ink, High Rock meal (marked "For
Cattle"), tar, fish jelly. Scotti's imagination reeled picturing what sorts
of illicit imports were truly aboard.
It took more than those few minutes for Captain Balfix to haul in the rest of
his cargo, but in an hour, the anchor was up and they were sailing downriver
towards Athay. The green gray water barely rippled, only touched by the
fingers of the breeze. Lush plant life crowded the banks, obscuring from
sight all the animals that sang and roared at one another. Lulled by the
serene surroundings, Scotti drifted to sleep.
At night, he awoke and gratefully accepted some clean clothes and food from
Captain Balfix.
"Why are you going to Athay, if I may ask?" queried the Bosmer.
"I'm meeting a former colleague there. He asked me to come down from the
Imperial City where I worked for the Atrius Building Commission to negotiate
some contracts," Scotti took another bite of the dried sausages they were
sharing for dinner. "We're going to try to repair and refurbish whatever
bridges, roads, and other structures that got damaged in the recent war with
the Khajiiti."
"It's been a hard two years," the captain nodded his head. "Though I suppose
good for me and the likes of you and your friend. Trade routes cut off.
Now they think there's going to be war with the Summurset Isles, you heard
that?"
Scotti shook his head.
"I've done my share of smuggling skooma down the coast, even helping some
revolutionary types escape the Mane's wrath, but now the wars've made me a
legitimate trader, a business-man. The first casualties of war is always the
corrupted."
Scotti said he was sorry to hear that, and they lapsed into silence, watching
the stars and moons' reflection on the still water. The next day, Scotti
awoke to find the captain wrapped up in his sail, torpid from alcohol,
singing in a low, slurred voice. When he saw Scotti rise, he offered his
flagon of jagga.
"I learned my lesson during revelry at western cross."
The captain laughed, and then burst into tears, "I don't want to be
legitimate. Other pirates I used to know are still raping and stealing and
smuggling and selling nice folk like you into slavery. I swear to you, I
never thought the first time that I ran a real shipment of legal goods that
my life would turn out like this. Oh, I know, I could go back to it, but
Baan Dar knows not after all I've seen. I'm a ruined man."
Scotti helped the weeping mer out of the sail, murmuring words of
reassurance. Then he added, "Forgive me for changing the subject, but where
are we?"
"Oh," moaned Captain Balfix miserably. "We made good time. Athay's right
around the bend in the river."
"Then it looks like Athay's on fire," said Scotti, pointing.
A great plume of smoke black as pitch was rising above the trees. As they
drifted around the bend, they next saw the flames, and then the blackened
skeletal remains of the village. Dying, blazing villagers leapt from rocks
into the river. A cacophony of wailing met their ears, and they could see,
roaming along the edges of the town, the figures of Khajiiti soldiers bearing
torches.
"Baan Dar bless me!" slurred the captain. "The war's back on!"
"Oh, no," whimpered Scotti.
The sloop drifted with the current toward the opposite shore away from the
fiery town. Scotti turned his attention there, and the sanctuary it offered.
Just a peaceful arbor, away from the horror. There was a shudder of leaves
in two of the trees and a dozen lithe Khajiit dropped to the ground, armed
with bows.
"They see us," hissed Scotti. "And they've got bows!"
"Well, of course they have bows," snarled Captain Balfix. "We Bosmer may have
invented the bloody things, but we didn't think to keep them secret, you
bloody bureaucrat."
"Now, they're setting their arrows on fire!"
"Yes, they do that sometimes."
"Captain, they're shooting at us! They're shooting at us with flaming
arrows!"
"Ah, so they are," the captain agreed. "The aim here is to avoid being hit."
But hit they were, and very shortly thereafter. Even worse, the second
volley of arrows hit the supply of pitch, which ignited in a tremendous blue
blaze. Scotti grabbed Captain Balfix and they leapt overboard just before
the ship and all its cargo disintegrated. The shock of the cold water
brought the Bosmer into temporary sobriety. He called to Scotti, who was
already swimming as fast as he could toward the bend.
"Master Decumus, where do you think you're swimming to?"
"Back to Falinesti!" cried Scotti.
"It will take you days, and by the time you get there, everyone will know
about the attack on Athay! They'll never let anyone they don't know in! The
closest village downriver is Grenos, maybe they'll give us shelter!"
Scotti swam back to the captain and side-by-side they began paddling in the
middle of the river, past the burning residuum of the village. He thanked
Mara that he had learned to swim. Many a Cyrodiil did not, as largely land-
locked as the Imperial Province was. Had he been raised in Mir Corrup or
Artemon, he might have been doomed, but the Imperial City itself was
encircled by water, and every lad and lass there knew how to cross without a
boat. Even those who grew up to be clerks and not adventurers.
Captain Balfix's sobriety faded as he grew used to the water's temperature.
Even in wintertide, the Xylo River was fairly temperate and after a fashion,
even comfortable. The Bosmer's strokes were uneven, and he'd stray closer to
Scotti and then further away, pushing ahead and then falling behind.
Scotti looked to the shore to his right: the flames had caught the trees like
tinder. Behind them was an inferno, with which they were barely keeping
pace. To the shore on their left, all looked fair, until he saw a tremble in
the river-reeds, and then what caused it. A pride of the largest cats he had
ever seen. They were auburn-haired, green-eyed beasts with jaws and teeth to
match his wildest nightmares. And they were watching the two swimmers, and
keeping pace.
"Captain Balfix, we can't go to either that shore or the other one, or we'll
be parboiled or eaten," Scotti whispered. "Try to even your kicking and your
strokes. Breath like you would normally. If you're feeling tired, tell me,
and we'll float on our backs for a while."
Anyone who has had the experience of giving rational advice to a drunkard
would understand the hopelessness. Scotti kept pace with the captain,
slowing himself, quickening, drifting left and right, while the Bosmer moaned
old ditties from his pirate days. When he wasn't watching his companion, he
watched the cats on the shore. After a stretch, he turned to his right.
Another village had caught fire. Undoubtedly, it was Grenos. Scotti stared
at the blazing fury, awed by the sight of the destruction, and did not hear
that the captain had ceased to sing.
When he turned back, Captain Balfix was gone.
Scotti dove into the murky depths of the river over and over again. There
was nothing to be done. When he surfaced after his final search, he saw that
the giant cats had moved on, perhaps assuming that he too had drowned. He
continued his lonely swim downriver. A tributary, he noted, had formed a
final barrier, keeping the flames from spreading further. But there were no
more towns. After several hours, he began to ponder the wisdom of going
ashore. Which shore was the question.
He was spared the decision. Ahead of him was a rocky island with a bonfire.
He did not know if he were intruding on a party of Bosmeri or Khajiiti, only
that he could swim no more. With straining, aching muscles, he pulled
himself onto the rocks.
They were Bosmer refugees he gathered, even before they told him. Roasting
over the fire was the remains of one of the giant cats that had been stalking
him through the jungle on the opposite shore.
"Senche-Tiger," said one of the young warriors ravenously. "It's no animal --
it's as smart as any Cathay-Raht or Ohmes or any other bleeding Khajiiti.
Pity this one drowned. I would have gladly killed it. You'll like the meat,
though. Sweet, from all the sugar these asses eat."
Scotti did not know if he was capable of eating a creature as intelligent as
a man or mer, but he surprised himself, as he had done several times over the
last days. It was rich, succulent, and sweet, like sugared pork, but no
seasonings had been added. He surveyed the crowd as he ate. A sad lot, some
still weeping for lost family members. They were the survivors of both the
villages of Grenos and Athay, and war was on every person's lips. Why had
the Khajiiti attacked again? Why -- specifically directed at Scotti, as a
Cyrodiil -- why was the Emperor not enforcing peace in his provinces?
"I was to meet another Cyrodiil," he said to a Bosmer maiden who he
understood to be from Athay. "His name was Liodes Jurus. I don't suppose you
know what might have happened to him."
"I don't know your friend, but there were many Cyrodiils in Athay when the
fire came," said the girl. "Some of them, I think, left quickly. They were
going to Vindisi, inland, in the jungle. I am going there tomorrow, so are
many of us. If you wish, you may come as well."
Decumus Scotti nodded solemnly. He made himself as comfortable as he could
in the stony ground of the river island, and somehow, after much effort, he
fell asleep. But he did not sleep well.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 4
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Acrobatics3
Weight: 3
Value: 150
Special Notes: Raises Acrobatics skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 4
by Waughin Jarth
Eighteen Bosmeri and one Cyrodilic former senior clerk for an Imperial
building commission trudged through the jungle westward from the Xylo River
to the ancient village of Vindisi. For Decumus Scotti, the jungle was
hostile, unfamiliar ground. The enormous vermiculated trees filled the bright
morning with darkness, and resembled nothing so much as grasping claws, bent
on impeding their progress. Even the fronds of the low plants quivered with
malevolent energy. What was worse, he was not alone in his anxiety. His
fellow travelers, the natives who had survived the Khajiit attacks on the
villages of Grenos and Athay, wore faces of undisguised fear.
There was something sentient in the jungle, and not merely the mad but
benevolent indigenous spirits. In his peripheral vision, Scotti could see the
shadows of the Khajiiti following the refugees, leaping from tree to tree.
When he turned to face them, the lithe forms vanished into the gloom as if
they had never been there. But he knew he had seen them. And the Bosmeri saw
them too, and quickened their pace.
After eighteen hours, bitten raw by insects, scratched by a thousand thorns,
they emerged into a valley clearing. It was night, but a row of blazing
torches greeted them, illuminating the leather-wrought tents and jumbled
stones of the hamlet of Vindisi. At the end of the valley, the torches marked
a sacred site, a gnarled bower of trees pressed closed together to form a
temple. Wordlessly, the Bosmeri walked the torch arcade toward the trees.
Scotti followed them. When they reached the solid mass of living wood with
only one gaping portal, Scotti could see a dim blue light glowing within. A
low sonorous moan from a hundred voices echoed within. The Bosmeri maiden he
had been following held out her hand, stopping him.
"You do not understand, but no outsider, not even a friend may enter," she
said. "This is a holy place."
Scotti nodded, and watched the refugees march into the temple, heads bowed.
Their voices joined with the ones within. When the last wood elf had gone
inside, Scotti turned his attention back to the village. There must be food
to be had somewhere. A tendril of smoke and a faint whiff of roasting venison
beyond the torchlight led him.
They were five Cyrodiils, two Bretons, and a Nord, the group gathered around
a campfire of glowing white stones, pulling steaming strips of meat from the
cadaver of a great stag. At Scotti's approach, they rose up, all but the Nord
who was distracted by his hunk of animal flesh.
"Good evening, sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if I might have a
little something to eat. I'm afraid I'm rather hungry, after walking all day
with some refugees from Grenos and Athay."
They bade him to sit down and eat, and introduced themselves.
"So the war's back on, it seems," said Scotti amiably.
"Best thing for these effete do-nothings," replied the Nord in between bites.
"I've never seen such a lazy culture. Now they've got the Khajiiti striking
them on land, and the high elves at sea. If there's any province that
deserves a little distress, it's damnable Valenwood."
"I don't see how they're so offensive to you," laughed one of the Bretons.
"They're congenital thieves, even worse than the Khajiiti because they are so
blessed meek in their aggression," the Nord spat out a gob of fat which
sizzled on the hot stones of the fire. "They spread their forests into
territory that doesn't belong to them, slowly infiltrating their neighbors,
and they're puzzled when Elsweyr shoves back at them. They're all villains of
the worst order."
"What are you doing here?" asked Scotti.
"I'm a diplomat from the court of Jehenna," muttered the Nord, returning to
his food.
"What about you, what are you doing here?" asked one of the Cyrodiils.
"I work for Lord Atrius's building commission in the Imperial City," said
Scotti. "One of my former colleagues suggested that I come down to Valenwood.
He said the war was over, and I could contract a great deal of business for
my firm rebuilding what was lost. One disaster after another, and I've lost
all my money, I'm in the middle of a rekindling of war, and I cannot find my
former colleague."
"Your former colleague," murmured another of the Cyrodiils, who had
introduced himself as Reglius. "He wasn't by any chance named Liodes Jurus,
was he?"
"You know him?"
"He lured me down to Valenwood in nearly the exact same circumstances,"
smiled Reglius, grimly. "I worked for your employer's competitor, Lord
Vanech's men, where Liodes Jurus also formerly worked. He wrote to me, asking
that I represent an Imperial building commission and contract some post-war
construction. I had just been released from my employment, and I thought
that if I brought some new business, I could have my job back. Jurus and I
met in Athay, and he said he was going to arrange a very lucrative meeting
with the Silvenar."
Scotti was stunned: "Where is he now?"
"I'm no theologian, so I couldn't say," Reglius shrugged. "He's dead. When
the Khajiiti attacked Athay, they began by torching the harbor where Jurus
was readying his boat. Or, I should say, my boat since it was purchased with
the gold I brought. By the time we were even aware of what was happening
enough to flee, everything by the water was ash. The Khajiiti may be animals,
but they know how to arrange an attack."
"I think they followed us through the jungle to Vindisi," said Scotti
nervously. "There was definitely a group of something jumping along the
treetops."
"Probably one of the monkey folk," snorted the Nord. "Nothing to be concerned
about."
"When we first came to Vindisi and the Bosmeri all entered that tree, they
were furious, whispering something about unleashing an ancient terror on
their enemies," the Breton shivered, remembering. "They've been there ever
since, for over a day and a half now. If you want something to be afraid of,
that's the direction to look."
The other Breton, who was a representative of the Daggerfall Mages Guild, was
staring off into the darkness while his fellow provincial spoke. "Maybe. But
there's something in the jungle too, right on the edge of the village,
looking in."
"More refugees maybe?" asked Scotti, trying to keep the alarm out his voice.
"Not unless they're traveling through the trees now," whispered the wizard.
The Nord and one of the Cyrodiils grabbed a long tarp of wet leather and
pulled it across the fire, instantly extinguishing it without so much as a
sizzle. Now Scotti could see the intruders, their elliptical yellow eyes and
long cruel blades catching the torchlight. He froze with fear, praying that
he too was not so visible to them.
He felt something bump against his back, and gasped.
Reglius's voice hissed from up above: "Be quiet for Mara's sake and climb up
here."
Scotti grabbed hold of the knotted double-vine that hung down from a tall
tree at the edge of the dead campfire. He scrambled up it as quickly as he
could, holding his breath lest any grunt of exertion escape him. At the top
of the vine, high above the village, was an abandoned nest from some great
bird in a trident-shaped branch. As soon as Scotti had pulled himself into
the soft, fragrant straw, Reglius pulled up the vine. No one else was there,
and when Scotti looked down, he could see no one below. No one, that is
except the Khajiiti, slowly moving toward the glow of the temple tree.
"Thank you," whispered Scotti, deeply touched that a competitor had helped
him. He turned away from the village, and saw that the tree's upper branches
brushed against the mossy rock walls that surrounded the valley below. "How
are you at climbing?"
"You're mad," said Reglius under his breath. "We should stay here until they
leave."
"If they burn Vindisi like they did Athay and Grenos, we'll be dead sure as
if we were on the ground," Scotti began the slow careful climb up the tree,
testing each branch. "Can you see what they're doing?"
"I can't really tell," Reglius stared down into the gloom. "They're at the
front of the temple. I think they also have ... it looks like long ropes,
trailing off behind them, off into the pass."
Scotti crawled onto the strongest branch that pointed toward the wet, rocky
face of the cliff. It was not a far jump at all. So close, in fact, that he
could smell the moisture and feel the coolness of the stone. But it was a
jump nevertheless, and in his history as a clerk, he had never before leapt
from a tree a hundred feet off the ground to a sheer rock. He pictured in his
mind's eye the shadows that had pursued him through the jungle from the
heights above. How their legs coiled to spring, how their arms snapped
forward in an elegant fluid motion to grasp. He leapt.
His hands grappled for rock, but long thick cords of moss were more
accessible. He held hard, but when he tried to plant his feet forward, they
slipped up skyward. For a few seconds, he found himself upside down before he
managed to pull himself into a more conventional position. There was a narrow
outcropping jutting out of the cliff where he could stand and finally exhale.
"Reglius. Reglius. Reglius," Scotti did not dare to call out. In a minute,
there was a shaking of branches, and Lord Vanech's man emerged. First his
satchel, then his head, then the rest of him. Scotti started to whisper
something, but Reglius shook his head violently and pointed downward. One of
the Khajiiti was at the base of the tree, peering at the remains of the
campfire.
Reglius awkwardly tried to balance himself on the branch, but as strong as it
was it was exceedingly difficult with only one free hand. Scotti cupped his
palms and then pointed at the satchel. It seemed to pain Reglius to let it
out of his grasp, but he relented and tossed it to Scotti.
There was a small, almost invisible hole in the bag, and when Scotti caught
it, a single gold coin dropped out. It rang as it bounced against the rock
wall on the descent, a high soft sound that seemed like the loudest alarm
Scotti had ever heard.
Then many things happened very quickly.
The Cathay-Raht at the base of the tree looked up and gave a loud wail. The
other Khajiiti followed in chorus, as the cat below crouched down and then
sprung up into the lower branches. Reglius saw it below him, climbing up with
impossible dexterity, and panicked. Even before he jumped, Scotti could tell
that he was going to fall. With a cry, Reglius the Clerk plunged to the
ground, breaking his neck on impact.
A flash of white fire erupted from every crevice of the temple, and the moan
of the Bosmeri prayer changed into something terrible and otherworldly. The
climbing Cathay-Raht stopped and stared.
"Keirgo," it gasped. "The Wild Hunt."
It was as if a crack in reality had opened wide. A flood of horrific beasts,
tentacled toads, insects of armor and spine, gelatinous serpents, vaporous
beings with the face of gods, all poured forth from the great hollow tree,
blind with fury. They tore the Khajiiti in front of the temple to pieces. All
the other cats fled for the jungle, but as they did so, they began pulling on
the ropes they carried. In a few seconds time, the entire village of Vindisi
was boiling with the lunatic apparitions of the Wild Hunt.
Over the babbling, barking, howling horde, Scotti heard the Cyrodiils in
hiding cry out as they were devoured. The Nord too was found and eaten, and
both Bretons. The wizard had turned himself invisible, but the swarm did not
rely on their sight. The tree the Cathay-Raht was in began to sway and rock
from the impossible violence beneath it. Scotti looked at the Khajiiti's
fear-struck eyes, and held out one of the cords of moss.
The cat's face showed its pitiful gratitude as it leapt for the vine. It
didn't have time to entirely replace that expression when Scotti pulled back
the cord, and watched it fall. The Hunt consumed it to the bone before it
struck the ground.
Scotti's own jump up to the next outcropping of rock was immeasurably more
successful. From there, he pulled himself to the top of the cliff and was
able to look down into the chaos that had been the village of Vindisi. The
Hunt's mass had grown and began to spill out through the pass out of the
valley, pursuing the fleeing Khajiiti. It was then that the madness truly
began.
In the moons' light, from Scotti's vantage, he could see where the Khajiiti
had attached their ropes. With a thunderous boom, an avalanche of boulders
poured over the pass. When the dust cleared, he saw that the valley had been
sealed. The Wild Hunt had nowhere to turn but on itself.
Scotti turned his head, unable to bear to look at the cannibalistic orgy. The
night jungle stood before him, a web of wood. He slung Reglius's satchel over
his shoulder, and entered.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 5
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Marksman2
Weight: 3
Value: 150
Special Notes: Raises Marksman skill 1 point the first time the book is read
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 5
by Waughin Jarth
"Soap! The forest will eat love! Straight ahead! Stupid and a stupid cow!"
The voice boomed out so suddenly that Decumus Scotti jumped. He stared off
into the dim jungle glade from which he only heard animal and insect calls,
and the low whistling of wind moments before. It was a queer, oddly accented
voice of indiscriminate gender, tremulous in its modulations, but
unmistakably human. Or, at very least, elven. An isolated Bosmer perhaps
with a poor grasp of the Cyrodilic language. After countless hours of
plodding through the dense knot of Valenwood jungle, any voice of slight
familiarity sounded wondrous.
"Hello?" he cried.
"Beetles on any names? Certainly yesterday yes!" the voice called back.
"Who, what, and when, and mice!"
"I'm afraid I don't understand," replied Scotti, turning toward the brambled
tree, thick as a wagon, where the voice had issued. "But you needn't be
afraid of me. My name is Decumus Scotti. I'm a Cyrodiil from the Imperial
City. I came here to help rebuild Valenwood after the war, you see, and now
I'm rather lost."
"Gemstones and grilled slaves ... The war," moaned the voice and broke down
into sobs.
"You know about the war? I wasn't sure, I wasn't even sure how far away from
the border I am now," Scotti began slowly walking toward the tree. He
dropped Reglius's satchel to the ground, and held out his empty hands. "I'm
unarmed. I only want to know the way to the closest town. I'm trying to
meet my friend, Liodes Jurus, in Silvenar."
"Silvenar!" the voice laughed. It laughed even louder as Scotti circled the
tree. "Worms and wine! Worms and wine! Silvenar sings for worms and wine!"
There was nothing to be found anywhere around the tree. "I don't see you.
Why are you hiding?"
In frustration born of hunger and exhaustion, he struck the tree trunk. A
sudden shiver of gold and red erupted from a hollow nook above, and Scotti
was surrounded by six winged creatures scarcely more than a few inches long.
Bright crimson eyes were set on either side of tunnel-like protuberances, the
animals' always open mouths. They were legless, and their thin, rapidly
beating, aureate wings seemed poorly constructed to transport their fat,
swollen bellies. And yet, they darted through the air like sparks from a
fire. Whirling about the poor clerk, they began chattering what he now
understood to be perfect nonsense.
"Wines and worms, how far from the border am I! Academic garnishments, and
alas, Liodes Jurus!"
"Hello, I'm afraid I'm unarmed? Smoken flames and the closest town is dear
Oblivion."
"Swollen on bad meat, an indigo nimbus, but you needn't be afraid of me!"
"Why are you hiding? Why are you hiding? Before I begin to friend, love me,
Lady Zuleika!"
Furious with the mimics, Scotti swung his arms, driving them up into the
treetops. He stomped back to the clearing and opened up the satchel again,
as he had done some hours before. There was still, unsurprisingly, nothing
useful in the bag, and nothing to eat in any corner or pocket. A goodly
amount of gold (he smiled grimly, as he had done before, at the irony of
being financially solvent in the jungle), a stack of neat blank contracts
from Lord Vanech's building commission, some thin cord, and an oiled leather
cloak for bad weather. At least, Scotti considered, he had not suffered
rain.
A rolling moan of thunder reminded Scotti of what he had suspected for some
weeks now. He was cursed.
Within an hour's time, he was wearing the cloak and clawing his way through
mud. The trees, which had earlier allowed no sunlight in, provided no
shelter against the pounding storm and wind. The only sounds that pierced
the pelting of the rain were the mocking calls of the flying creatures,
flitting just above, babbling their nonsense. Scotti bellowed at them, threw
rocks, but they seemed enamored of his company.
While he was reaching to grab a promising looking stone to hurl at his
tormentors, Scotti felt something shift beneath his feet. Wet but solid
ground suddenly liquefied and became a rolling tide, rushing him forward.
Light as a leaf, he flew head over feet over head, until the mudflow dropped
and he continued forward, plunging down into a river twenty-five feet below.
The storm passed quite as instantly as it had arrived. The sun melted the
dark clouds and warmed Scotti as he swam for the shore. There, another sign
of the Khajiiti incursion into Valenwood greeted him. A small fishing
village had stood there once, so recently extinct that it smoldered like a
still-warm corpse. Dirt cairns that had once housed fish by the smell of
them had been ravaged, their bounty turned to ash. Rafts and skiffs lay
broken, scuttled, half-submerged. All the villagers were no more, either
dead or refugees far away. Or so he presumed. Something banged against the
wall of one of the ruins. Scotti ran to investigate.
"My name is Decumus Scotti?" sang the first winged beast. "I'm a Cyrodiil
from? The Imperial City? I came here to help rebuild Valenwood after the
war, you see, and now I'm rather lost?"
"I swell to maculate, apeneck!" agreed one of its companions. "I don't see
you. Why are you hiding?"
As they fell into chattering, Scotti began to search the rest of the village.
Surely the cats had left something behind, a scrap of dried meat, a morsel of
fish sausage, anything. But they had been immaculate in their complete
annihilation. There was nothing to eat anywhere. Scotti did find one item
of possible use under the tumbled remains of a stone hut. A bow and two
arrows made of bone. The string had been lost, likely burned away in the
heat of the fire, but he pulled the cord from Reglius's satchel and restrung
it.
The creatures flew over and hovered nearby as he worked: "The convent of the
sacred Liodes Jurus?"
"You know about the war! Worms and wine, circumscribe a golden host,
apeneck!"
The moment the cord was taut, Scotti nocked an arrow and swung around,
pulling the string tight against his chest. The winged beasts, having had
experience with archers before, shot off in all directions in a blur. They
needn't have bothered. Scotti's first arrow dove into the ground three feet
in front of him. He swore and retrieved it. The mimics, having likewise had
experience with poor archers before, returned at once to hovering nearby and
mocking Scotti.
On his second shot, Scotti did much better, in purely technical terms. He
remembered how the archers in Falinesti looked when he pulled himself out
from under the hoarvor tick, and they were all taking aim at him. He
extended his left hand, right hand, and right elbow in a symmetrical line,
drawing the bow so his hand touched his jawline, and he could see the
creature in his sight like the arrow was a finger he was pointing with. The
bolt missed the target by only two feet, but it continued on its trajectory,
snapping when it struck a rock wall.
Scotti walked to the river's edge. He had only one arrow left, and perhaps,
he considered, it would be most practical to find a slow-moving fish and fire
it on that. If he missed, at least there was less of a chance of breaking
the shaft, and he could always retrieve it from the water. A rather torpid,
whiskered fish rolled by, and he took aim at it.
"My name is Decumus Scotti!" one of the creatures howled, frightening the
fish away. "Stupid and a stupid cow! Will you dance a dance in fire!"
Scotti turned and aimed the arrow as he had done before. This time, however,
he remembered to plant his feet as the archers had done, seven inches apart,
knees straight, left leg slightly forward to meet the angle of his right
shoulder. He released the last arrow.
The arrow also proved a serviceable prong for roasting the creature against
the smoking hot stones of one of the ruins. Its other companions had
disappeared instantly after the beast was slain, and Scotti was able to dine
in peace. The meat proved to be delicious, if scarcely more than a first
course. He was picking the last of it from the bones, when a boat sailed
into view from around the bend of the river. At the helm were Bosmer
sailors. Scotti ran to the bank and waved his arms. They averted their eyes
and continued past.
"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.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 6
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_mercantile4
Weight: 3
Value: 150
Special Notes: Raises Mercantile skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 6
by Waughin Jarth
Decumus Scotti sat down, listening to Liodes Jurus. The clerk could hardly
believe how fat his former colleague at Lord Atrius's Building Commission had
become. The piquant aroma of the roasted meat dish before Scotti melted
away. All the other sounds and textures of Prithala Hall vanished all around
him, as if nothing else existed but the vast form of Jurus. Scotti did not
consider himself an emotional man, but he felt a tide flow over him at the
sight and sound of the man whose badly written letters had been the
guideposts that carried him from the Imperial City back in early Frost Fall.
"Where have you been?" Jurus demanded again. "I told you to meet me in
Falinesti weeks ago."
"I was there weeks ago," Scotti stammered, too surprised to be indignant. "I
got your note to meet you in Athay, and so I went there, but the Khajiiti had
burned it to the ground. Somehow, I found my way with the refugees in
another village, and someone there told me that you had been killed."
"And you believed that right away?" Jurus sneered.
"The fellow seemed very well-informed about you. He was a clerk from Lord
Vanech's Building Commission named Reglius, and he said that you had also
suggested that he come down to Valenwood to profit from the war."
"Oh, yes," said Jurus, after thinking a moment. "I recall the name now.
Well, it's good for business to have two representatives from Imperial
building commissions here. We just need to all coordinate our bids, and all
should be well."
"Reglius is dead," said Scotti. "But I have his contracts from Lord Vanech's
Commission."
"Even better," gasped Jurus, impressed. "I never knew you were such a
ruthless competitor, Decumus Scotti. Yes, this could certainly improve our
position with the Silvenar. Have I introduced you to Basth here?"
Scotti had only been dimly aware of the Bosmer's presence at the table with
Jurus, which was surprising given that the mer's girth nearly equaled his
dining companion. The clerk nodded to Basth coldly, still numb and confused.
It had not left his mind that only any hour earlier, Scotti had intended to
petition the Silvenar for safe passage through the border back to Cyrodiil.
The thought of doing business with Jurus after all, of profiting from
Valenwood war with Elsweyr, and now the second one with the Summurset Isle,
seemed like something happening to another person.
"Your colleague and I were talking about the Silvenar," said Basth, putting
down the leg of mutton he had been gnawing on. "I don't suppose you've heard
about his nature?"
"A little, but nothing very specific. I got the impression that he's very
important and very peculiar."
"He's the representative of the People, legally, physically, and
emotionally," explained Jurus, a little annoyed at his new partner's lack of
common knowledge. "When they're healthy, so is he. When they're mostly
female, so is he. When they cry for food or trade or an absence of foreign
interference, he feels it too, and makes laws accordingly. In a way, he's a
despot, but he's the people's despot."
"That sounds," said Scotti, searching for the appropriate word. "Like ...
bunk."
"Perhaps it is," shrugged Basth. "But he has many rights as the Voice of the
People, including the granting of foreign building and trade contracts. It's
not important whether you believe us. Just think of the Silvenar as being
like one of your mad Emperors, like Pelagius. The problem facing us now is
that since Valenwood is being attacked on all sides, the Silvenar's aspect is
now one of distrust and fear of foreigners. The one hope of his people, and
thus of the Silvenar himself, is that the Emperor will intervene and stop the
war."
"Will he?" asked Scotti.
"You know as well as we do that the Emperor has not been himself lately,"
Jurus helped himself to Reglius's satchel and pulled out the blank contracts.
"Who knows what he'll choose to do or not do? That reality is not our
concern, but these blessings from the late good sir Reglius make our job much
simpler."
They discussed how they would represent themselves to the Silvenar into the
evening. Scotti ate continuously, but not nearly so much as Jurus and Basth.
When the sun had begun to rise in the hills, its light reddening through the
crystal walls of the tavern, Jurus and Basth left to their rooms at the
palace, granted to them diplomatically in lieu of an actual immediate
audience with the Silvenar. Scotti went to his room. He thought about
staying up a little longer to ruminate over Jurus's plans and see what might
be the flaw in them, but upon touching the cool, soft bed, he immediately
fell asleep.
The next afternoon, Scotti awoke, feeling himself again. In other words,
timid. For several weeks now, he had been a creature bent on mere survival.
He had been driven to exhaustion, attacked by several jungle beasts, starved,
nearly drowned, and forced into discussions of ancient Aldmeri poetical
works. The discussion he had with Jurus and Basth about how to dupe the
Silvenar into signing their contracts seemed perfectly reasonable then.
Scotti dressed himself in his old battered clothes and went downstairs in
search of food and a peaceful place to think.
"You're up," cried Basth upon seeing him. "We should go to the palace now."
"Now?" whined Scotti. "Look at me. I need new clothes. This isn't the way
one should dress to pay a call on a prostitute, let alone the Voice of the
People of Valenwood. I haven't even bathed."
"You must cease from this moment forward being a clerk, and become a student
of mercantile trade," said Liodes Jurus grandly, taking Scotti by the arm and
leading him into the sunlit boulevard outside. "The first rule is to
recognize what you represent to the prospective client, and what angle best
suits you. You cannot dazzle him with opulent fashion and professional
bearing, my dear boy, and it would be fatal if you attempted to. Trust me
on this. Several others besides Basth and I are guests at the palace, and
they have made the error of appearing too eager, too formal, too ready for
business. They will never be granted audience with the Silvenar, but we have
remained aloof ever since the initial rejection. I've dallied about the
court, spread my knowledge of life in the Imperial City, had my ears pierced,
attended promenades, eaten and drunk of all that was given to me. I dare say
I've put on a pound or two. The message we've sent is clear: it is in his,
not our, best interest to meet."
"Our plan worked," added Basth. "When I told his minister that our Imperial
representative had arrived, and that we were at last willing to meet with the
Silvenar this morning, we were told to bring you there straightaway."
"Aren't we late then?" asked Scotti.
"Very," laughed Jurus. "But that's again part of the angle we're
representing. Benevolent disinterest. Remember not to confuse the Silvenar
with conventional nobility. His is the mind of the common people. When you
grasp that, you'll understand how to manipulate him."
Jurus spent the last several minutes of the walk through the city expounding
on his theories about what Valenwood needed, how much, and at what price.
They were staggering figures, far more construction and far higher costs than
anything Scotti had been used to dealing with. He listened carefully. All
around them, the city of Silvenar revealed itself, glass and flower, roaring
winds and beautiful inertia. When they reached the palace of the Silvenar,
Decumus Scotti stopped, stunned. Jurus looked at him for a moment and then
laughed.
"It's quite bizarre, isn't it?"
That it was. A frozen scarlet burst of twisted, uneven spires as if a rival
sun rising. A blossom the size of a village, where courtiers and servants
resembled nothing so much as insects walked about it sucking its ichor.
Entering over a bent petal-like bridge, the three walked through the palace
of unbalanced walls. Where the partitions bent close together and touched,
there was a shaded hall or a small chamber. Where they warped away from one
another, there was a courtyard. There were no doors anywhere, no any way to
get to the Silvenar but by crossing through the entire spiral of the palace,
through meetings and bedrooms and dining halls, past dignitaries, consorts,
musicians, and many guards.
"It's an interesting place," said Basth. "But not very much privacy. Of
course, that suits the Silvenar well."
When they reached the inner corridors, two hours after they first entered the
palace, guards, brandishing blades and bows, stopped them.
"We have an audience with the Silvenar," said Jurus, patiently. "This is Lord
Decumus Scotti, the Imperial representative."
One of the guards disappeared down the winding corridor, and returned moments
later with a tall, proud Bosmer clad in a loose robe of patchwork leather.
He was the Minister of Trade: "The Silvenar wishes to speak with Lord Decumus
Scotti alone."
It was not the place to argue or show fear, so Scotti stepped forward, not
even looking toward Jurus and Basth. He was certain they were showing their
masks of benevolent indifference. Following the Minister into the audience
chamber, Scotti recited to himself all the facts and figures Jurus had
presented to him. He willed himself to remember the Angle and the Image he
must project.
The audience chamber of the Silvenar was an enormous dome where the walls
bent from bowl-shaped at the base inward to almost meet at the top. A thin
ray of sunlight streamed through the fissure hundreds of feet above, and
directly upon the Silvenar, who stood upon a puff of shimmering gray powder.
For all the wonder of the city and the palace, the Silvenar himself looked
perfectly ordinary. An average, blandly handsome, slightly tired-looking,
extra-ordinary Wood Elf of the type one might see in any capitol in the
Empire. It was only when he stepped from the dais that Scotti noticed an
eccentricity in his appearance. He was very short.
"I had to speak with you alone," said the Silvenar in a voice common and
unrefined. "May I see your papers?"
Scotti handed him the blank contracts from Lord Vanech's Building Commission.
The Silvenar studied them, running his finger over the embossed seal of the
Emperor, before handing them back. He suddenly seemed shy, looking to the
floor. "There are many charlatans at my court who wish to benefit from the
wars. I thought you and your colleagues were among them, but those contracts
are genuine."
"Yes, they are," said Scotti calmly. The Silvenar's conventional aspect made
it easy for Scotti to speak, with no formal greetings, no deference, exactly
as Jurus had instructed: "It seems most sensible to begin straightaway
talking about the roads which need to be rebuilt, and then the harbors that
the Altmeri have destroyed, and then I can give you my estimates on the cost
of resupplying and renovating the trade routes."
"Why hasn't the Emperor seen fit to send a representative when the war with
Elsweyr began, two years ago?" asked the Silvenar glumly.
Scotti thought a moment before replying of all the common Bosmeri he had met
in Valenwood. The greedy, frightened mercenaries who had escorted him from
the border. The hard-drinking revelers and expert pest exterminating archers
in the Western Cross of Falinesti. Nosy old Mother Pascost in Havel Slump.
Captain Balfix, the poor sadly reformed pirate. The terrified but hopeful
refugees of Athay and Grenos. The mad, murderous, self-devouring Wild Hunt
of Vindisi. The silent, dour boatmen hired by Gryf Mallon. The degenerate,
grasping Basth. If one creature represented their total disposition, and
that of many more throughout the province, what would be his personality?
Scotti was a clerk by occupation and nature, instinctively comfortable
cataloging and filing, making things fit in a system. If the soul of
Valenwood were to be filed, where would it be put?
The answer came upon him almost before he posed himself the question.
Denial.
"I'm afraid that question doesn't interest me," said Scotti. "Now, can we get
back to the business at hand?"
All afternoon, Scotti and the Silvenar discussed the pressing needs of
Valenwood. Every contract was filled and signed. So much was required and
there were so many costs associated that addendums and codicils had to be
scribbled into the margins of the papers, and those had to be resigned.
Scotti maintained his benevolent indifference, but he found that dealing with
the Silvenar was not quite the same as dealing with a simple, sullen child.
The Voice of the People knew certain practical, everyday things very well:
the yields of fish, the benefits of trade, the condition of every township
and forest in his province.
"We will have a banquet tomorrow night to celebrate this commission," said
the Silvenar at last.
"Best make it tonight," replied Scotti. "We should leave for Cyrodiil with
the contracts tomorrow, so I'll need a safe passage to the border. We best
not waste any more time."
"Agreed," said the Silvenar, and called for his Minister of Trade to put his
seal on the contracts and arrange for the feast.
Scotti left the chamber, and was greeted by Basth and Jurus. Their faces
showed the strain of maintaining the illusion of unconcern for too many
hours. As soon as they were out of sight of the guards, they begged Scotti
to tell them all. When he showed them the contract, Basth began weeping with
delight.
"Anything about the Silvenar that surprised you?" asked Jurus.
"I hadn't expected him to be half my height."
"Was he?" Jurus looked mildly surprised. "He must have shrunk since I tried
to have an audience with him earlier. Maybe there is something to all that
nonsense about him being affected by the plight of his people."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 7
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_mercantile5
Weight: 3
Value: 150
Special Notes: Raises Mercantile skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
A Dance in Fire, Chapter 7
by Waughin Jarth
Scene: Silvenar, Valenwood
Date: 13 Sun's Dusk, 3E 397
The banquet at the palace of the Silvenar was well attended by every jealous
bureaucrat and trader who had attempted to contract the rebuilding of
Valenwood. They looked on Decumus Scotti, Liodes Jurus, and Basth with
undisguised hatred. It made Scotti very uncomfortable, but Jurus delighted
in it. As the servants brought in platter after platter of roasted meats,
Jurus poured himself a cup of Jagga and toasted the clerk.
"I can confess it now," said Jurus. "I had grave doubts about inviting you to
join me on this adventure. All the other clerks and agents of building
commissions I contacted were more outwardly aggressive, but none of them made
it through, let alone to the audience chamber of the Silvenar, let alone
brokered the deals on their own like you did. Come, have a cup of Jagga with
me."
"No thank you," said Scotti. "I had too much of that drug in Falinesti, and
nearly got sucked dry by a giant tick because of it. I'll find something
else to drink."
Scotti wandered about the hall until he saw some diplomats drinking mugs of a
steaming brown liquid, poured from a large silver urn. He asked them if it
was tea.
"Tea made from leaves?" scoffed the first diplomat. "Not in Valenwood. This
is Rotmeth."
Scotti poured himself a mug and took a tentative sip. It was gamy, bitter
and sugared, and very salty. At first it seemed very disagreeable to his
palate, but a moment later he found he had drained the mug and was pouring
another. His body tingled. All the sounds in the chamber seemed oddly
disjointed, but not frighteningly so.
"So you're the fellow who got the Silvenar to sign all those contracts," said
the second diplomat. "That must have required some deep negotiation."
"Not at all, not at all, just a little basic understand of mercantile
trading," grinned Scotti, pouring himself a third mug of Rotmeth. "The
Silvenar was very eager to involve the Imperial state with the affairs of
Valenwood. I was very eager to take a percentage of the commission. With
all that blessed eagerness, it was merely a matter of putting quill to
contract, bless you."
"You have been in the employ of his Imperial Majesty very long?" asked the
first diplomat.
"It's a bite, or rather, a bit more complicated than that in the Imperial
City. Between you and me, I don't really have a job. I used to work for
Lord Atrius and his Building Commission, but I got sacked. And then, the
contracts are from Lord Vanech and his Building Commission, 'cause I got em
from this fellow Reglius who is a competitor but still a very fine fellow
until he was made dead by those Khajiiti," Scotti drained his fifth mug.
"When I go back to the Imperial City, then the real negotiations can begin,
bless you. I can go to my old employer and to Lord Vanech, and say, look
here you, which one of you wants these commissions? And they'll fall over
each other to take them from me. It will be bidding war for my percentage
the likes of which no one nowhere has never seen."
"So you're not a representative of his Imperial Majesty, the Emperor?" asked
the first diplomat.
"Didn't you hear what I'm said? You stupid?" Scotti felt a surge of rage,
which quickly subsided. He chuckled, and poured himself a seventh mug. "The
Building Commissions are privately owned, but they're still representatives
of the Emperor. So I'm a representative of the Emperor. Or I will be. When
I get these contracts in. It's very complicated. I can understand why
you're not following me. Bless you, it's all like the poet said, a dance in
fire, if you follow the illusion, that is to say, allusion."
"And your colleagues? Are they representatives of the Emperor?" asked the
second diplomat.
Scotti burst into laughter, shaking his head. The diplomats bade him their
respects and went to talk to the Minister. Scotti stumbled out of the
palace, and reeled through the strange, organic avenues and boulevards of the
city. It took him several hours to find his way to Prithala Hall and his
room. Once there, he slept, very nearly on his bed.
The next morning, he woke to Jurus and Basth in his room, shaking him. He
felt half-asleep and unable to open his eyes fully, but otherwise fine. The
conversation with the diplomats floated in his mind in a haze, like an
obscure childhood memory.
"What in Mara's name is Rotmeth?" he asked quickly.
"Rancid, strongly fermented meat juices with lots of spices to kill the
poisons," smiled Basth. "I should have warned you to stay with Jagga."
"You must understand the Meat Mandate by now," laughed Jurus. "These Bosmeri
would rather eat each other than touch the fruit of the vine or the field."
"What did I say to those diplomats?" cried Scotti, panicking.
"Nothing bad apparently," said Jurus, pulling out some papers. "Your escorts
are downstairs to bring you to the Imperial Province. Here are your papers
of safe passage. The Silvenar seems very impatient about business proceeding
forward rapidly. He promises to send you some sort of rare treasure when the
contracts are fulfilled. See, he's already given me something."
Jurus showed off his new, bejeweled earring, a beautiful large faceted ruby.
Basth showed that he had a similar one. The two fat fellows left the room so
Scotti could dress and pack.
A full regiment of the Silvenar's guards was on the street in front of the
tavern. They surrounded a carriage crested with the official arms of
Valenwood. Still dazed, Scotti climbed in, and the captain of the guard gave
the signal. They began a quick gallop. Scotti shook himself, and then
peered behind. Basth and Jurus were waving him goodbye.
"Wait!" Scotti cried. "Aren't you coming back to the Imperial Province too?"
"The Silvenar asked that we stay behind as Imperial representatives!" yelled
Liodes Jurus. "In case there's a need for more contracts and negotiations!
He's appointed us Undrape, some sort of special honor for foreigners at
court! Don't worry! Lots of banquets to attend! You can handle the
negotiations with Vanech and Atrius yourself and we'll keep things settled
here!"
Jurus continued to yell advice about business, but his voice became
indistinct with distance. Soon it disappeared altogether as the convoy
rounded the streets of Silvenar. The jungle loomed suddenly and then they
were in it. Scotti had only gone through it by foot or along the rivers by
slow-moving boats. Now it flashed all around him in profusions of greens.
The horses seemed even faster moving through underbrush than on the smooth
paths of the city. None of the weird sounds or dank smells of the jungle
penetrated the escort. It felt to Scotti as if he were watching a play about
the jungle with a background of a quickly moving scrim, which offered only
the merest suggestion of the place.
So it went for two weeks. There was lots of food and water in the carriage
with the clerk, so he merely ate and slept as the caravan pressed endlessly
on. From time to time, he'd hear the sound of blades clashing, but when he
looked around whatever had attacked the caravan had long since been left
behind. At last, they reached the border, where an Imperial garrison was
stationed.
Scotti presented the soldiers who met the carriage with the papers. They
asked him a barrage of questions that he answered monosyllabically, and then
let him pass. It took several more days to arrive at the gates of the
Imperial City. The horses that had flown so fast through the jungle now
slowed down in the unfamiliar territory of the wooded Colovian Estates. By
contrast, the cries of his province's birds and smells of his province's
plant life brought Decumus Scotti alive. It was if he had been dreaming all
the past months.
At the gates of the City, Scotti's carriage door was opened for him and he
stepped out on uncertain legs. Before he had a moment to say something to
the escort, they had vanished, galloping back south through the forest. The
first thing he did now that he was home was go to the closest tavern and have
tea and fruit and bread. If he never ate meat again, he told himself, that
would suit him very nicely.
Negotiations with Lord Atrius and Lord Vanech proceeded immediately
thereafter. It was most agreeable. Both commissions recognized how
lucrative the rebuilding of Valenwood would be for their agency. Lord Vanech
claimed, quite justifiably, that as the contracts had been written on forms
notarized by his commission, he had the legal right to them. Lord Atrius
claimed that Decumus Scotti was his agent and representative, and that he had
never been released from employment. The Emperor was called to arbitrate,
but he claimed to be unavailable. His advisor, the Imperial Battlemage Jagar
Tharn, had disappeared long ago and could not be called on for his wisdom and
impartial mediation.
Scotti lived very comfortably off the bribes from Lord Atrius and Lord
Vanech. Every week, a letter would arrive from Jurus or Basth asking about
the status of negotiations. Gradually, these letters ceased coming, and more
urgent ones came from the Minister of Trade and the Silvenar himself. The
War of the Blue Divide with Summurset Isle ended with the Altmeri winning
several new coastal islands from the Wood Elves. The war with Elsweyr
continued, ravaging the eastern borders of Valenwood. Still, Vanech and
Atrius fought over who would help.
One fine morning in the early spring of the year 3E 398, a courier arrived at
Decumus Scotti's door.
"Lord Vanech has won the Valenwood commission, and requests that you and the
contracts come to his hall at your earliest convenience."
"Has Lord Atrius decided not to challenge further?" asked Scotti.
"He's been unable to, having died very suddenly, just now, from a terribly
unfortunate accident," said the courier.
Scotti had wondered how long it would be before the Dark Brotherhood was
brought in for final negotiations. As he walked toward Lord Vanech's
Building Commission, a long, severe piece of architecture on a minor but
respectable plaza, he wondered if he had played the game, as he ought to
have. Could Vanech be so rapacious as to offer him a lower percentage of the
commission now that his chief competitor was dead? Thankfully, he
discovered, Lord Vanech had already decided to pay Scotti what he had
proposed during the heat of the winter negotiations. His advisors had
explained to him that other, lesser building commissions might come forward
unless the matter were handled quickly and fairly.
"Glad we have all the legal issues done with," said Lord Vanech, fondly. "Now
we can get to the business of helping the poor Bosmeri, and collecting the
profits. It's a pity you weren't our representative for all the troubles
with Bend'r-mahk and the Arnesian business. But there will be plenty more
wars, I'm sure of that."
Scotti and Lord Vanech sent word to the Silvenar that at last they were
prepared to honor the contracts. A few weeks later, they held a banquet in
honor of the profitable enterprise. Decumus Scotti was the darling of the
Imperial City, and no expense was spared to make it an unforgettable evening.
As Scotti met the nobles and wealthy merchants who would be benefiting from
his business dealings, an exotic but somehow faintly familiar smell rose in
the ballroom. He traced it to its source: a thick roasted slab of meat, so
long and thick it covered several platters. The Cyrodilic revelers were
eating it ravenously, unable to find the words to express their delight at
its taste and texture.
"It's like nothing I've ever had before!"
"It's like pig-fed venison!"
"Do you see the marbling of fat and meat? It's a masterpiece!"
Scotti went to take a slice, but then he saw something imbedded deep in the
dried and rendered roast. He nearly collided with his new employer Lord
Vanech as he stumbled back.
"Where did this come from?" Scotti stammered.
"From our client, the Silvenar," beamed his lordship. "It's some kind of
local delicacy they call Unthrappa."
Scotti vomited, and didn't stop for some time. It cast rather a temporary
pall on the evening, but when Decumus Scotti was carried off to his manor
house, the guests continued to dine. The Unthrappa was the delight of all.
Even more so when Lord Vanech himself took a slice and found the first of two
rubies buried within. How very clever of the Bosmer to invent such a dish,
the Cyrodiils agreed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Fair Warning
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: Cumanya's Notes
Weight: 4
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
This being an account of my limited journeys into the Uncharted Depths of the
Greater Caverns of Dubdilla. FAIR WARNING to the would-be adventurer seeking
fortune and fame in these uncharted halls. The flooded paths of Lower
Dubdilla hold certain death to those ill-prepared. The way is treacherous
and foul, the riches meager. Only those of certain aptitude and reason
should venture into these depths.
BE WARNED. These caverns and galleries are exceedingly damp and footing
unsure. Sudden and sheer RAVINES and UNSCALEABLE PITS await the unwary. If
not for my specific skills and abilities, I would have certainly met my doom
in the Blackest Depths. My SPELLS, SCROLLS and POTIONS, allowed me to escape
ONE OF THE MANY sheer walled chambers. ALWAYS have a remedy at hand, for
once you are committed to these depths, NO EXIT IS ASSURED!
Navigation is not your only trial. The denizens of the twisted passages are
of a fiendish and fell brood. Beware the gnashing of their teeth and the
death-flutter of their wings. The sound of talon upon rock and flicking of
tongue may be the last you hear.
If only I had access to a dependable rope, perhaps this route would not have
been so tortuous.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Game at Dinner
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Alchemy1
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Alchemy skill 1 point the first time the book is read
A Game At Dinner
by An Anonymous Spy
Forward From The Publisher:
The history behind this letter is almost as interesting and dark as the story
it tells. The original letter to the mysterious Dhaunayne was copied and
began circulating around the Ashlands of Vvardenfell a few months ago. In
time, a print found its way to the mainland and Prince Hlaalu Helseth's
palace outside Almalexia. While the reader may conclude after reading this
letter that the Prince would be furious about such a work, impugning his
highness with great malevolence, quite the reverse was true. The Prince and
his mother, Queen Barenziah, had it privately printed into bound copies and
sent to libraries and booksellers throughout Morrowind.
As matter of record, the Prince and the Queen have not officially stated
whether the letter is a work of pure imagination or based on an actual
occurrence. The House Dres has publicly denounced the work, and indeed, no
one named Dhaunayne, despite the suggestions in the letter, has ever been
linked to the house. We leave the reader to interpret the letter as he or
she believes.
-- Nerris Gan, Publisher
***
Dark Liege Dhaunayne,
You asked for a detailed description of my experience last night and the
reasons for my plea to House Dres for another assignment. I hope I have
served you well in my capacity as informant in the court of Prince Helseth, a
man who I have stated in many previous reports could teach Molag Bal how to
scheme. As you know, I've spent nearly a year now working my way into his
inner circle of advisors. He was in need of friendship when he first arrived
in Morrowind and eagerly took to me and a few others. Still, he was
disinclined to trust any of us, which is perhaps not surprising, given his
tenuous position in Morrowind society.
For your unholiness's recollection, the Prince is the eldest son of
Barenziah, who was once the Queen of Morrowind and once the Queen of the High
Rock kingdom of Wayrest. At the death of her husband, Prince Helseth's
stepfather, King Eadwyre, there was a power struggle between the Prince and
Eadwyre's daughter, the Princess Elysana. Though details of what transpired
are imperfect, it is clear that Elysana won the battle and became Queen,
banishing Helseth and Barenziah. Barenziah's only other child, Morgiah, had
already left court to marry and become Queen of the Summurset Isle kingdom of
Firsthold.
Barenziah and Helseth crossed the continent to return to Morrowind only last
year. They were well received by Barenziah's uncle, our current king, Hlaalu
Athyn Llethan, who had taken the throne after Barenziah's abdication more
than forty years ago. Barenziah made it clear that she had no designs on
reclaiming the throne, but merely to retire to her family estates. Helseth,
as you know, has lingered in the royal court, and many have whispered that
while he lost the throne of Wayrest, he does not intend to lose the throne of
Morrowind at Llethan's death.
I've kept your unholiness informed of the Prince's movements, meetings, and
plots, as well as the names and characters of his other advisors. As you may
recall, I've often thought that I was not the only spy in Helseth's court. I
told you before that a particular Dunmer counselor of Helseth looked like a
fellow I had seen in the company of Tholer Saryoni, the Archcanon of the
Tribunal Temple. Another, a young Nord woman, has been verified to visit the
Imperial fortress in Balmora. Of course, in their cases, they might well
have been on Helseth's own business, but I couldn't be certain. I had begun
to think myself paranoid as the Prince himself when I found myself doubting
the sincere loyalty of the Prince's chamberlain, Burgess, a Breton who had
been in his employ since his days in the court of Wayrest.
That is the background on that night, last night.
Yesterday morning, I received a curt invitation to dine with the Prince.
Based only on my own paranoia, I dispatched one of my servants, who is a good
and loyal servant of the House Dres, to watch the palace and report back
anything unusual. Just before dinner, he returned and told me what he had
witnessed.
A man cloaked in rags had been given entrance into the palace, and had stayed
there for some time. When he left, my servant saw his face beneath the cloak
-- an alchemist of infamous repute, said to be a leading suppliers of exotic
poisons. A fine observer, my servant also noticed that the alchemist entered
the palace smelling of wickwheat, bittergreen, and something alien and sweet.
When he left, he was odorless.
He had come to the same conclusion as I did. The Prince had procured
ingredients to prepare a poison. Bittergreen alone is deadly when eaten raw,
but the other ingredients suggested something far deeper. As your unholiness
can doubtless imagine, I went to dinner that night, prepared for any
eventuality.
All of Prince Helseth's other counselors were in attendance, and I noticed
that all were slightly apprehensive. Of course, I imagined that I was in a
nest of spies, and all knew of the Prince's mysterious meeting. It is just
as likely that some knew of the alchemist's visit, while others were simply
concerned by the nature of the Prince's invitation, and still others merely
unconsciously adopted the tense disposition of their fellow, better informed
counselors.
The Prince, however, was in fine mettle and soon had everyone relaxed and at
ease. At nine, we were all ushered into his dining hall where the feast had
been laid out. And what a feast! Honeyed gorapples, fragrant stews, roasts
in various blood sauces, and every variety of fish and fowl expertly and
ostentatiously prepared. Crystal and gold flagons of wine, flin, shein, and
mazte were at our seats to be savored as appropriate with each course. As
tantalizing as the aromas were, it occurred to me that in such a maze of
spices and flavors, a discreet poison would be undetectable.
Throughout the meal, I maintained the illusion of eating the food and
drinking the liquor, but I was surreptitious and swallowed nothing. Finally,
the plates and food were cleared from the table, and a tureen of a spicy
broth was placed in the center of the banquet. The servant who brought it
then retired, closing the banquet hall door behind him.
"It smells divine, my Prince," said the Marchioness Kolgar, the Nord woman.
"But I cannot eat another thing."
"Your Highness," I added, feigning a tone of friendliness and slight
intoxication. "You know that every one at this table would gladly die to put
you on the throne of Morrowind, but is it really necessary that we gorge
ourselves to death?"
The others at the table agreed with appreciative groans. Prince Helseth
smiled. I swear by Vaernima the Gifter, my dark liege, even you have never
seen a smile such as this one.
"Ironic words. You see, an alchemist visited me today, as some of you
already doubtless know. He showed me how to make a marvelous poison and its
antidote. A most potent potion, excellent for my purposes. No Restoration
spell will aid you once you've ingested it. Only the antidote in the tureen
will save you from certain death. And what a death, from what I've heard. I
am eager to see if the effects are all that the alchemist promised. It
should be horribly painful for the afflicted, but quite entertaining."
No one said a word. I could feel my heart beating hard in my chest.
"Your Highness," said Allarat, the Dunmer I suspected of alliance with the
Temple. "Have you poisoned someone at this table?"
"You are very astute, Allarat," said Prince Helseth, looking about the table,
eying each of his advisors carefully. "Little wonder I value your counsel.
As indeed I value all in this room. It would be perhaps easiest for me to
say who I haven't poisoned. I haven't poisoned any who serve but one master,
any whose loyalty to me is sincere. I haven't poisoned any person who wants
to see King Helseth on the throne of Morrowind. I haven't poisoned anyone
who isn't a spy for the Empire, the Temple, the House of Telvanni, the House
of Redoran, the House of Indoril, the House of Dres."
Your unholiness, he looked directly at me at his last words. I know that in
certainty. My face is practiced at keeping my thoughts from showing, but I
immediately thought of every secret meeting I've had, every coded message I
sent to you and the House, my dark liege. What could he know? What could
he, even without knowing, suspect?
I felt my heart beating even faster. Was it fear, or poison? I couldn't
speak, certain as I was that my voice would betray my calm facade.
"Those loyal to me who wish harm on my enemies may be wondering how can I be
certain that the poison has been ingested. Is it possible that the guilty
party, or dare I say, parties were suspicious and merely pretended to eat and
drink tonight? Of course. But even the craftiest of pretenders would have
to raise a glass to his or her lips and put empty forks or spoons in their
mouths to play the charade. The food, you see, was not poisoned. The cups
and cutlery were. If you did not partake out of fear, you're poisoned just
the same, and sadly, missed an excellent roast."
Sweat beaded on my face and I turned from the Prince so he would not see. My
fellow advisors, all of them, were frozen in their seats. From the
Marchioness Kolgar, white with fear, to Kema Inebbe, visibly shaking; from
the furrowed, angry brow of Allarat to the statue-like stare of Burgess.
I couldn't help thinking then, could the Prince's entire counsellorship be
comprised of nothing but spies? Was there any person at the table loyal?
And then I thought, what if I were not a spy myself, would I trust Helseth to
know that? No one knows better than his advisors both the depth of the
Prince's paranoia and the utter implacability of his ambition. If I were not
a spy for the House Dres, even then would I be safe? Could a loyalist be
poisoned because of a not-so-innocent misjudgment?
The others must have been thinking the same, loyalists and spies alike.
While my mind whirled, I could hear the Prince's voice, addressing all
assembled: "The poison acts quickly. If the antidote is not taken within one
minute from now, there will be death at the table."
I couldn't decide whether I had been poisoned or not. My stomach ached, but
I reminded myself it might have been the result of sitting at a sumptuous
banquet and not partaking. My heart shook in my chest and a bitter taste
like Trama Root stung my lips. Again, was it fear or poison?
"These are the last words you will hear if you are disloyal to me," said
Prince Helseth, still smiling that damned smile as he watched his advisors
squirming in their seats. "Take the antidote and live."
Could I believe him? I thought of what I knew of the Prince and his
character. Would he kill a self-confessed spy at his court, or would he
rather send the vanquished back to his masters? The Prince was ruthless, but
either possibility was within his manner. Surely the theatricality of this
whole dinner was meant to be a presentation to instill fear. What would my
ancestors say if I joined them after sitting at a table, eventually dying of
poison? What would they say if I took the antidote, confessing my allegiance
to you and the House Dres, and was summarily executed? And, I confess, I
thought of what you might to do me even after I was dead.
I had grown so light-headed and filled with my own thoughts, that I didn't
see Burgess jump from his seat. I was only suddenly aware that he had the
tureen in his hands and was gulping down the liquid within. There were
guards all around, though I never noticed them entering.
"Burgess," said Prince Helseth, still smiling. "You have spent some time at
Ghostgate. House Redoran?"
"You didn't know?" Burgess laughed sourly. "No House. I report to your
stepsister, the Queen of Wayrest. I've always been in her employ. By
Akatosh, you poisoned me because you thought I was working for some damnable
Dark Elves?"
"You're half right," said the Prince. "I didn't guess who you were working
for, or even that you were a spy. But you're also wrong about me poisoning
you. You poisoned yourself when you drank from the tureen."
Your unholiness, you don't need to hear how Burgess died. I know that you
have seen much over the many, many years of your existence, but you truly
don't want to know. I wish I could erase the memory of his agonies from my
own mind.
The council was dismissed shortly thereafter. I do not know if Prince
Helseth knows or suspects that I too am a spy. I do not know how many others
that night, last night, were as close as I was from drinking from the tureen
before Burgess did. I only know that if the Prince does not suspect me now,
he will. I cannot win at the games he mastered long ago at the court of
Wayrest, and I beg your unholiness, my dark liege Dhaunayne to use your
influence in the House Dres and dismiss your loyal servant from this charge.
****
Publisher's Note:
Of course, the anonymous writer's signature has not been on any reprint of
the letter since the original.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Hypothetical Treachery
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_destruction3
Weight: 3
Value: 175
Special Notes: Raises Destruction skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
A Hypothetical Treachery
A One Act Play
by Anthil Morvir
Dramatis Personae
Malvasian: A High Elf battlemage
Inzoliah: A Dark Elf battlemage
Dolcettus: A Cyrodiil healer
Schiavas: An Argonian barbarian
A Ghost
Some bandits
Scene: Eldenwood
As the curtain rises, we see the misty labyrinthian landscape of the
legendary Eldengrove of Valenwood. All around we hear wolves howling. A
bloodied reptilian figure, SCHIAVAS, breaks through the branches of one of
the trees and surveys the area.
SCHIAVAS: It's clear.
INZOLIAH, a beautiful Dark Elf mage, climbs down from the tree, helped by the
barbarian. There is the sound of footsteps nearby. Schiavas readies his
sword and Inzoliah prepares to cast a spell. Nothing comes out.
INZOLIAH: You're bleeding. You should have Dolcettus heal that for you.
SCHIAVAS: He's still drained from all the spells he had to cast down in the
caves. I'm fine. If we get out of this and no one needs it more, I'll take
the last potion of healing. Where's Malvasian?
MALVASIAN, a High Elf battlemage, and DOLCETTUS, a Cyrodiil healer, emerge
from the tree, carrying a heavy chest between the two of them. They
awkwardly try to get down from the tree, carrying their loot.
MALVASIAN: Here I am, though why I'm carrying the heavy load is beyond me. I
always thought that the advantage of dungeon delving with a great barbarian
was that he carried all the loot.
SCHIAVAS: If I carried that, my hands would be too full to fight. And tell
me if I'm wrong, but not one of the three of you has enough magicka reserved
to make it out of here alive. Not after you electrified and blasted all
those homunculuses down below ground.
DOLCETTUS: Homunculi.
SCHIAVAS: Don't worry, I'm not going to do what you think I'm going to do.
INZOLIAH (innocently): What's that?
SCHIAVAS: Kill you all and take the Ebony Mail for myself. Admit it -- you
thought I had that in mind.
DOLCETTUS: What a perfectly horrible thought. I never thought anyone, no
matter how vile and degenerate --
INZOLIAH: Why not?
MALVASIAN: He needs porters, like he said. He can't carry the chest and
fight off the inhabitants of Eldengrove both.
DOLCETTUS: By Stendarr, of all the mean, conniving, typically Argonian --
INZOLIAH: And why do you need me alive?
SCHIAVAS: I don't necessarily. Except that you're prettier than the other
two, for a smoothskin that is. And if something comes after us, it might go
for you first.
There is a noise in some bushes nearby.
SCHIAVAS: Go check that out.
INZOLIAH: It's probably a wolf. These woods are filled with them. You
check it out.
SCHIAVAS: You have a choice, Inzoliah. Go and you might live. Stay here,
and you definitely won't.
Inzoliah considers and then goes to the bushes.
SCHIAVAS (to Malvasian and Dolcettus): The king of Silvenar will pay good
money for the Mail, and we can divide it more nicely between three than four.
INZOLIAH: You're so right.
Inzoliah suddenly levitates up to the top of the stage. A semi-transparent
Ghost appears from the bush and rushes at the next person, who happens to be
Schiavas. As the barbarian screams and thrashes at it with his sword, it
levels blasts of whirling gas at him. He crumbles to the ground. It turns
next to Dolcettus, the healer, and as the Ghost focuses its feasting chill on
the hapless Dolcettus, Malvasian casts a ball of flame at it that causes it
to vaporize into the misty air.
Inzoliah floats back down to the ground as Malvasian examines the bodies of
Dolcettus and Schiavas, who are both white-faced from the draining power of
the ghost.
MALVASIAN: You had some magicka reserved after all.
INZOLIAH: So did you. Are they dead?
Malvasian takes the potion of healing from Dolcettus's pack.
MALVASIAN: Yes. Fortunately, the potion of healing wasn't broken when he
fell. Well, I guess this leaves just the two of us to collect the reward.
INZOLIAH: We can't get out of this place without each other. Like it or not.
The two battlemages pick up the chest and begin plodding carefully through
the undergrowth, pausing from time to time at the sound of footsteps or other
eerie noises.
MALVASIAN: Let me make sure I understand. You have a little bit of magicka
left, so you elected to use it to make Schiavas the ghost's target, forcing
me to use most of my limited reserve to destroy the creature so I wouldn't be
more powerful than you. That's first-rate thinking.
INZOLIAH: Thank you. It's only logical. Do you have enough power to cast
any other spells?
MALVASIAN: Naturally. An experienced battlemage always knows a few minor
but highly effective spells for just such a trial. I take it you, too, have
a few tricks up your sleeve?
INZOLIAH: Of course, like you said.
They pause for a moment before continuing as a fearful wail pierces the air.
When it dies away, they slowly trudge on.
INZOLIAH: Just as an intellectual exercise, I wonder what spell you would
cast at me if we made it out of here without any more combat.
MALVASIAN: I hope you're not implying that I would dream of killing you so I
would keep the treasure all to myself.
INZOLIAH: Of course not, nor would I do that to you. It is merely an
intellectual exercise.
MALVASIAN: Well, in that case, purely as an intellectual exercise, I would
probably cast a leech spell on you, to take away your life force and heal
myself. After all, there are brigands on the road between here and Silvenar,
and a wounded battlemage with a valuable artifact would make a tempting
target. I'd hate to survive Eldengrove merely to die in the open.
INZOLIAH: That's a well-reasoned response. As for myself, again, not saying
I would ever do this, but I think a simple, sudden electrical bolt would
serve my purposes admirably. I agree about the danger of brigands, but don't
forget, we also have a potion of healing. I could easily slay you and heal
myself to full capacity.
MALVASIAN: Very true. It would end up a question then of whose spell was
more effective at that instant. If our spells counteracted one another and I
leeched your life energy only to be crippled by your lightning bolt, then we
could both be killed. Or so near death that a mere potion of healing would
scarcely help either one of us, let alone both. How ironic it would be if
two scheming battlemages, not saying we are scheming but for the purpose of
this intellectual exercise, were left on the brink of death, completely
drained of magicka, with one healing potion to choose from. Who would get it
then?
INZOLIAH: Logically, whoever drank it first, which in this case would be you
since you're holding it. Now, what if one of us were injured, but not
killed?
MALVASIAN: Logic would dictate that a scheming battlemage would take the
potion, leaving the injured party to the mercy of the elements, I suppose.
INZOLIAH: That does seem most sensible. But suppose that the battlemages,
while certainly scheming types, had a certain respect for one another.
Perhaps in that case, the victorious one might, for instance, put the potion
up a tree near his or her gravely wounded victim. Then when the wounded
party had enough magicka replenished, he or she would be able to levitate to
the tree branches and recover the potion. By that time, the victorious
battlemage would have already collected the reward.
They pause for a moment at the sound of something in the bushes nearby.
Carefully, they climb across the branches of a tree to bypass it.
MALVASIAN: I understand what you're saying, but it seems out of character for
our hypothetic scheming battlemage to allow his or her victim to live.
INZOLIAH: Perhaps. But it's been my observation that most scheming
battlemages enjoy the feeling of having bested someone in combat, and having
that person alive to live with the humiliation.
MALVASIAN: These hypothetical scheming battlemages sound ... (excitedly)
Daylight! Do you see it?
The two scurry across the branch dropping behind a bush, so we can no longer
see them. We can, however, see the shimmering halo of sunlight.
MALVASIAN (behind the tall bush): We made it.
INZOLIAH (likewise, behind the tall bush): Indeed.
There is a sudden explosion of electrical energy and a wild howling aura of
red light, and then silence. After a few moment's pause, we hear someone
climbing up the tree. It is Malvasian, putting the potion high up in the
bough. He chuckles as he climbs back down and the curtain drops.
Epilogue.
The curtain rises on a road to Silvenar. A gang of bandits have surrounded
Malvasian, who is propped up on his staff, barely able to stand. They pull
his chest away from him with ease.
BANDIT #1: What have we got here? Don't you know it ain't safe to be out on
the road, all sick like you are? Why don't we help you with your load?
MALVASIAN (weakly): Please ... Let me be ...
BANDIT #2: Go on, spellcaster, fight us for it!
MALVASIAN: I can't ... too weak ...
Suddenly, Inzoliah flies in, casting lightning bolts from her fingers at the
bandits, who quickly scramble away. She lands on the ground and picks up the
chest. Malvasian collapses, dying.
MALVASIAN: Hypothetically, what if ... a battlemage cast a spell on another
which didn't harm him at once, but ... drained his life force and his
magicka, bit by bit, so he wouldn't know at the time, but ... feel confident
enough to leave the potion of healing behind?
INZOLIAH: A most treacherous battlemage she'd be.
MALVASIAN: And ... hypothetically ... would she be likely to help her fallen
foe ... so that she could enjoy the humiliation of him continuing ... to
live?
INZOLIAH: From my experience, hypothetically, no. She doesn't sound like a
fool.
As Inzoliah lugs the chest off toward Silvenar, and Malvasian expires on the
stage, we drop the curtain.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Less Rude Song
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_istunondescosmology
Weight: 3
Value: 40
Special Notes: None
A Less Rude Song
by Anonymous
They say
The Iliac Bay
Is the place to barrel around
Without a bit of apparel on,
As advertised in that carol song
A tune that's sung as the west wind blows
About it lovely not wearing any clothes.
Ladies singing high notes, men singing lows,
Implying that the most luscious depravity
And complete absence of serious gravity
Can only be found in the waterous cavity
Of Iliac Bay.
If you are the type who is more a sinner than a sinned,
You'll find it all in Morrowind.
But the truth, my child,
Is that nothing more wild
That an ordinary fashion
Kind of slightly mad passion
Can be detected if at all
In Sentinel and Daggerfall.
Whatever your odd needs: feathered, scaled, or finned,
You'll find it all in Morrowind
It's an invention of bards
That Bretons and Redguards
Have more than some staid fun
And suffer deviant fornication.
For the most of madness, not the least,
The wise debaucher heads out east.
Where your once steely reserve is now merely tinned,
You'll find it all in Morrowind.
In Morrowind,
There is sin.
But, pray, do not confuse Dunmer variety
With that found in tepid Western society
Compared to which, it nearly is piety.
It isn't terribly ingenious calling it prudery
Observing the Dark Elf aversion to nudity.
After all, the preferred sort of lewdity
In these parts is far more pernicious.
From the Ashlanders to the wettest fishes
You'll find pleasure and pain quite delicious
In Morrowind.
If you find yourself with unkind kinship with your kin
You'll find it all in Morrowind.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Short History of Morrowind
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_ShortHistoryMorrowind
Weight: 4
Value: 5
Special Notes: None
A Short History of Morrowind
by Jeanette Sitte
[from the Introduction]
Led by the legendary prophet Veloth, the ancestors of the Dunmer, exiles from
Altmer cultures in present-day Summerset Isle, came to the region of
Morrowind. In earliest times the Dunmer were harassed or dominated by Nord
sea raiders. When the scattered Dunmer tribes consolidated into the
predecessors of the modern Great House clans, they threw out the Nord
oppressors and successfully resisted further incursions.
The ancient ancestor worship of the tribes was in time superseded by the
monolithic Tribunal Temple theocracy, and the Dunmer grew into a great nation
called Resdayn. Resdayn was the last of the provinces to submit to Tiber
Septim; like Black Marsh, it was never successfully invaded, and was
peacefully incorporated by treaty into the Empire as the Province of
Morrowind.
Almost four centuries after the coming of the Imperial Legions, Morrowind is
still occupied by Imperial legions, with a figurehead Imperial King, though
the Empire has reserved most functions of the traditional local government to
the Ruling Councils of the Five Great Houses....
[on Vvardenfell District]
In 3E 414, Vvardenfell Territory, previously a Temple preserve under Imperial
protection, was reorganized as an Imperial Provincial District. Vvardenfell
had been maintained as a preserve administrated by the Temple since the
Treaty of the Armistice, and except for a few Great House settlements
sanctioned by the Temple, Vvardenfell was previously uninhabited and
undeveloped. But when the centuries-old Temple ban on trade and settlement of
Vvardenfell was revoked by King of Morrowind, a flood of Imperial colonists
and Great House Dunmer came to Vvardenfell, expanding old settlements and
building new ones.
The new District was divided into Redoran, Hlaalu, Telvanni, and Temple
Districts, each separately administered by local House Councils or Temple
Priesthoods, and all under the advice and consent of Duke Dren and the
District Council in Ebonheart. Local law became a mixture of House Law and
Imperial Law in House Districts, jointly enforced by House guards and Legion
guards, with Temple law and Imperial law enforced in the Temple district by
Ordinators. The Temple was still recognized as the majority religion, but
worship of the Nine Divines was protected by the legions and encouraged by
Imperial cult missions.
The Temple District included the city of Vivec, the fortress of Ghostgate,
and all sacred and profane sites (including those Blighted areas inside the
Ghostfence) and all unsettled and wilderness areas on Vvardenfell. In
practice, this district included all parts of Vvardenfell not claimed for
Redoran, Hlaalu, or Telvanni Districts. The Temple stubbornly fought all
development in their district, and were largely successful.
House Hlaalu in combination with Imperial colonists embarked on a vigorous
campaign of settlement and development. In the decades after reorganization,
Balmora and the Ascadian Isles regions have grown steadily. Caldera and
Pelagiad are completely new settlements, and all legion forts were expanded
to accommodate larger garrisons.
House Telvanni, normally conservative and isolationist, has been surprisingly
aggressive in expanding beyond their traditional tower villages. Disregarding
the protests of the other Houses, the Temple, the Duke, and the District
council, Telvanni pioneers have been encroaching on the wild lands reserved
to the Temple. The Telvanni council officially disavows responsibility for
these rogue Telvanni settlements, but it is an open secret that they are
encouraged and supported by ambitious Telvanni mage-lords.
Under pressure from the Temple, conservative House Redoran has steadfastly
resisted expansion in their district. As a result, House Redoran and the
Temple are in danger of being politically and economically marginalized by
the more aggressive and expansionist Hlaalu and Telvanni interests.
The Imperial administration faces many challenges in the Vvardenfell
district, but the most serious are the Great House rivalries, animosity from
the Ashlander nomads, internal conflicts within the Temple itself, and the
Red Mountain blight. Struggles between Great House, Temple, and Imperial
interests to control Vvardenfell's resource could at any time erupt into
full-scale war. Ashlanders raid settlements, plunder caravans, and kill
foreigners on their wild lands. The Temple has unsuccessfully attempted to
silence criticism and calls for reform within its ranks.
But most serious are the plagues and diseased hosts produced by the blight
storms sweeping out from Red Mountain. Vvardenfell and all Morrowind have
long been menaced by the legendary evils of Dagoth Ur and his ash vampire kin
dwelling beneath Red Mountain. For centuries the Temple has contained this
threat within the Ghostfence. But recently the Temple's resources and will
have faltered, and the threat from Red Mountain has grown in scale and
intensity. If the Ghostfence should fail, and hosts of blighted monsters were
to spill out across Vvardenfell's towns and villages, the Empire might have
no choice but to evacuate Vvardenfell district and abandon it to disease and
corruption.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
ABCs for Barbarians
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_ABCs
Weight: 2
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
A is for Atronach.
B is for Bungler's Bane.
C is for Comberry.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Aedra and Daedra
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_AedraAndDaedra
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
Aedra and Daedra
The designations of Gods, Demons, Aedra, and Daedra, are universally
confusing to the layman. They are often used interchangeably.
"Aedra" and "Daedra" are not relative terms. They are Elvish and exact. Azura
is a Daedra both in Skyrim and Morrowind. "Aedra" is usually translated as
"ancestor," which is as close as Cyrodilic can come to this Elven concept.
"Daedra" means, roughly, "not our ancestors." This distinction was crucial to
the Dunmer, whose fundamental split in ideology is represented in their
mythical genealogy.
Aedra are associated with stasis. Daedra represent change.
Aedra created the mortal world and are bound to the Earth Bones. Daedra, who
cannot create, have the power to change.
As part of the divine contract of creation, the Aedra can be killed. Witness
Lorkhan and the moons.
The protean Daedra, for whom the rules do not apply, can only be banished.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ancestors and the Dunmer
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_AncestorsAndTheDunmer
Weight: 3
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
Ancestors and the Dunmer
Ghosts Walk Among Them
The departed spirits of the Dunmeri, and perhaps those of all races, persist
after death. The knowledge and power of departed ancestors benefits the
bloodlines of Dunmeri Houses. The bond between the living family members and
immortal ancestors is partly blood, partly ritual, partly volitional. A
member brought into the House through marriage binds himself through ritual
and oath into the clan, and gains communication and benefits from the clan's
ancestors; however, his access to the ancestors is less than his offspring,
and he retains some access to the ancestors of his own bloodline.
The Family Shrine
Each residence has a family shrine. In poorer homes, it may be no more than a
hearth or alcove where family relics are displayed and venerated. In wealthy
homes, a room is set aside for the use of the ancestors. This shrine is
called the Waiting Door, and represents the door to Oblivion.
Here the family members pay their respects to their ancestors through
sacrifice and prayer, through oaths sworn upon duties, and through reports on
the affairs of the family. In return, the family may receive information,
training, and blessings from the family's ancestors. The ancestors are thus
the protectors of the home, and especially the precincts of the Waiting Door.
The Ghost Fence
It is a family's most solemn duty to make sure their ancestor's remains are
interred properly in a City of the Dead such as Necrom. Here the spirits draw
comfort from one another against the chill of the mortal world. However, as a
sign of great honor and sacrifice, an ancestor may grant that part of his
remains be retained to serve as part of a ghost fence protecting the clan's
shrine and family precincts. Such an arrangement is often part of the family
member's will, that a knucklebone shall be saved out of his remains and
incorporated with solemn magic and ceremony into a clan ghost fence. In more
exceptional cases, an entire skeleton or even a preserved corpse may be bound
into a ghost fence.
These remains become a beacon and focus for ancestral spirits, and for the
spirit of the remains in particular. The more remains used to make a ghost
fence, the more powerful the fence is. And the most powerful mortals in life
have the most powerful remains.
The Great Ghost Fence created by the Tribunal to hold back the Blight
incorporates the bones of many heroes of the Temple and of the Houses Indoril
and Redoran who dedicated their spirits to the Temple and Clan as their
surrogate families. The Ghost Fence also contains bones taken from the
Catacombs of Necrom and the many battlefields of Morrowind.
The Mortal Chill
Spirits do not like to visit the mortal world, and they do so only out of
duty and obligation. Spirits tell us that the otherworld is more pleasant, or
at least more comfortable for spirits than our real world, which is cold,
bitter, and full of pain and loss.
Mad Spirits
Spirits that are forced to remain in our world against their will may become
mad spirits, or ghosts.
Some spirits are bound to this world because of some terrible circumstances
of their death, or because of some powerful emotional bond to a person,
place, or thing. These are called hauntings.
Some spirits are captured and bound to enchanted items by wizards. If the
binding is involuntary, the spirit usually goes mad. A willing spirit may or
may not retain its sanity, depending on the strength of the spirit and the
wisdom of the enchanter.
Some spirits are bound against their wills to protect family shrines. This
unpleasant fate is reserved for those who have not served the family
faithfully in life. Dutiful and honorable ancestral spirits often aid in the
capture and binding of wayward spirits.
These spirits usually go mad, and make terrifying guardians. They are
ritually prevented from harming mortals of their clans, but that does not
necessary discourage them from mischievous or peevish behavior. They are
exceedingly dangerous for intruders. At the same time, if an intruder can
penetrate the spirit's madness and play upon the spirit's resentment of his
own clan, the angry spirits may be manipulated.
Oblivion
The existence of Oblivion is acknowledged by all Tamriel cultures, but there
is little agreement on the nature of that otherworld, other than it is the
place where the Aedra and Daedra live, and that communication and travel are
possible between this world and Oblivion through magic and ritual.
The Dunmer do not emphasize the distinction between this world and Oblivion
as do the human cultures of Tamriel. They regard our world and the otherworld
as a whole with many paths from one end to the other rather than two separate
worlds of different natures with distinct borders. This philosophical
viewpoint may account for the greater affinity of Elves for magic and its
practices.
Foreign Views of Dunmeri Ancestor Worship and Spirit Magic
The Altmeri and Bosmeri cultures also venerate their ancestors, but only by
respecting the orderly and blissful passage of these spirits from this world
to the next. That is, Wood Elves and High Elves believe it is cruel and
unnatural to encourage the spirits of the dead to linger in our world. Even
more grotesque and repugnant is the display of the bodily remains of
ancestors in ghost fences and ash pits. The presentation of fingerbones in a
family shrine, for example, is sacrilegious to the Bosmer (who eat their
dead) and barbaric to the Altmer (who inter their dead).
The human cultures of Tamriel are ignorant and fearful of Dark Elves and
their culture, considering them to be inhuman and evil, like Orcs and
Argonians, but more sophisticated. The human populations of Tamriel associate
Dunmeri ancestor worship and spirit magic with necromancy; in fact, this
association of the Dark Elves with necromancy is at least partly responsible
for the dark reputation of Dunmer throughout Tamriel. This is generally an
ignorant misconception, for necromancy outside the acceptable clan rituals is
a most abhorrent abomination in the eyes of the Dunmer.
The Dark Elves would never think of practicing sorcerous necromancy upon any
Dark Elf or upon the remains of any Elf. However, Dark Elves consider the
human and orcish races to be little more than animals. There is no injunction
against necromancy upon such remains, or on the remains of any animal, bird,
or insect.
Imperial Policy officially recognizes the practices of Dunmeri ancestor
veneration and spirit magic as a religion, and protects their freedom to
pursue such practices so long as they do not threaten the security of the
Empire. Privately, most Imperial officials and traders believe Dark Elf
ancestor worship and displays of remains are barbaric or even necromantic.
Telvanni "Necromancy"
The Telvanni are adept masters of necromancy. They do not, however, practice
necromancy upon the remains of Dark Elves. Sane Telvanni regard such
practices with loathing and righteous anger. They do practice necromancy upon
the remains of animals and upon the remains of Humans, Orcs, and Argonians --
who are technically no more than animals in Morrowind.
Publisher's Note: This book was written by an unknown scholar as a guide for
foreign visitors to Morrowind shortly after the Armistice was signed. Many of
these practices have since fallen into disfavor. The most obvious changes are
those regarding the practice of Necromancy and the Great Ghostfence. Dunmer
today regard Necromancy upon any of the accepted races as an abomination. The
Ghostfence has forced many changes in the practice of ancestor worship. With
the vast majority of ancestors' remains going to strengthen the Great
Ghostfence around the mountain of Dagoth Ur, there are very few clan ghost
fences in Morrowind. The Temple discourages such practices among the Houses
as selfish. The upkeep of family tombs and private Waiting Doors has also
fallen into disfavor, as very few remains have been buried in these tombs and
shrines since the Armistice. In recent years most Dunmer venerate a small
portion of their ancestor's remains kept at a local temple.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Antecedants of Dwemer Law
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_AntecedantsDwemerLaw
Weight: 3
Value: 25
Special Notes: None
Antecedents of Dwemer Law
[This book is a historical account of the development of Dwemer law and
custom from its roots in High Elven culture.]
In short, so far as I am able to trace the order of development in the
customs of the Bosmeri tribes, I believe it to have been in all ways
comparable to the growth of Altmeri law. The earlier liability for slaves and
animals was mainly confined to surrender, which, as in Sumerset Isles, later
became compensation.
And what does this matter for a study of our laws today? So far as concerns
the influence of the Altmeri law upon our own, especially the Altmeri law of
master and servant, the evidence of it is to be found in every judgment which
has been recorded for the last five hundred years. It has been stated already
that we still repeat the reasoning of the Altmeri magistrates, empty as it
is, to the present day. And I will quickly show how Altmeri custom can be
followed into the courts of the Dwemer.
In the laws of Karndar Watch (P.D. 1180) it is said, "If one who is owned by
another slays one who owns himself, the owner must pay the associates three
fine instruments and the body of the one who his owned." There are many other
similar citations. And the same principle is extended even to the case of a
centurion by which a man is killed. "If, at the common workbench, one is
slain by an Animunculi, the associates of the slain may disassemble the
Animunculi and take its parts within thirty days."
It is instructive to compare what Dhark has mentioned concerning the rude
beasts of the Tenmar forests. "If a marsh cat was killed by an Argonian, his
family were in disgrace till they retaliated by killing the Argonian, or
another like it; but further, if a marsh cat was killed by a fall from a
tree, his relatives would take their revenge by toppling the tree, and
shattering its branches, and casting them to every part of the forest."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Arcana Restored
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_ArcanaRestored
Weight: 3
Value: 75
Special Notes: None
Arcana Restored
A Handbook
By Wapna Neustra
Praceptor Emeritus
FORM THE FIRST: Makest thou the Mana Fountain to be Primed with Pure Gold,
for from Pure Gold only may the Humors be rectified, and the Pure Principles
coaxed from the chaos of Pure Power. Droppest thou then the Pure Gold upon
the surface of the Mana Fountain. Takest thou exceeding great care to
safeguard yourself from the insalubrious tempests of the Mana Fountain, for
through such Assaults may one's health be utterly Blighted.
FORM THE SECOND: Make sure that thou havest with you this Excellent Manual,
so that thou might speak the necessary Words straightaway, and without error,
so that thou not in carelessness cause thyself and much else to discorporate
and disorder the World with your component humors.
FORM THE THIRD: Take in hand the item to be Restored, and hold it forth
within the Primed Fountain, murmuring all the while the appropriate phrases,
which are to be learned most expeditiously and faultlessly from this Manual,
and this Manual alone, notwithstanding the vile calumnies of Kharneson and
Rattor, whose bowels are consumed by envy of my great learning, and who do
falsely give testament to the efficacies of their own Manuals, which are in
every way inferior and steeped in error.
FORM THE FOURTH: Proceed instantly to Heal thyself of all injuries, or to
avail yourself of the Healing powers of the Temples and Healers, for though
the agonies of manacaust must be borne by any who would Restore a prized
Arcana to full Potency, yet it is not wise that suffering be endured unduly,
nor does the suffering in any way render the Potency more Sublime,
notwithstanding the foolish speculations of Kharneson and Rattor, whose
faults and wickednesses are manifest even to the least learned of critics.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Arkay the Enemy
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_ArkayTheEnemy
Weight: 4
Value: 40
Special Notes: None
Hear me, children. Once I was a lowly man such as yourselves. By my will I
entered the ranks of the gods. By your unquestioning devotion, you can share
my glory.
Most Necromancers are fools and weaklings. Fodder for the witchhunters. But
you, my servants, you are among the chosen. In the days to come, few will
dare to stand against your might. But one obstacle remains. His name is
Arkay.
He was also a man who entered the ranks of the gods. The similarities between
his mortal life and my own astonish even me. It is only proper that we should
be enemies.
Arkay's Blessing prevents the souls of men, beastmen, and elves from being
used without consent. Arkay's Law prevents those buried with the proper
rituals from being raised to serve my children's will. As you know, my
children, Arkay's Blessing is flexible to those with daring, but Arkay's Law
is unwavering.
To the Scholars: Humiliate the priests of Arkay. Reveal the primitive burial
customs to be mere superstition. Befriend kings with honeyed words and bind
them to your will. Look to my children in Cyrodiil for guidance.
To the Priests: Use your servants sparingly, let none be seen by the living.
Let the memories of the undead waste away from the people. Send missionaries
to the unbound dead, to the Vampires and the Liches. Let all the nations of
dead carry my banner and my banner alone.
To the Hidden: Wait, as always, in the darkness.
For soon we shall strike. The Temples of Arkay will be torn stone from stone.
The blood of his priests will sate our thirst; their bones will rise as our
servants. The name Arkay will be stuck from the records. Only I shall hold
sway over life and death. Only one name shall be whispered in fear. The name
of your lord and master.
KW
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ashland Hymns
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_Ashland_Hymns
Weight: 4
Value: 35
Special Notes: None
Ashlands Hymns
[This is a volume of folk verses collected from Ashlanders. 'Wondrous Love'
is from the Urshilaku Ashlanders of the northern Ashlands.]
What a wondrous love it is
To bind two souls in faith,
Chained completely together
With never a false word,
Weal and woe, wish and real,
Woven each together
From first kiss to last breath,
First and last whispered in love.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Azura and the Box
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Sneak3
Weight: 3
Value: 200
Special Notes: Raises Sneak skill 1 point the first time the book is read
Azura and the Box
Ancient Tales of the Dwemer, Part XI
By Marobar Sul
Nchylbar had enjoyed an adventurous youth, but had grown to be a very wise,
very old Dwemer who spent his life searching for the truth and dispelling
superstitions. He invented much and created many theorems and logic
structures that bore his name. But much of the world still puzzled him, and
nothing was a greater enigma to him that the nature of the Aedra and Daedra.
Over the course of his research, he came to the conclusion that many of the
Gods were entirely fabricated by man and mer.
Nothing, however, was a greater question to Nchylbar than the limits of
divine power. Were the Greater Beings the masters of the entire world, or
did the humbler creatures have the strength to forge their own destinies? As
Nchylbar found himself nearing the end of his life, he felt he must
understand this last basic truth.
Among the sage's acquaintances was a holy Chimer priest named Athynic. When
the priest was visiting Bthalag-Zturamz, Nchylbar told him what he intended
to do to find the nature of divine power. Athynic was terrified and pleaded
with his friend not to break this great mystery, but Nchylbar was resolute.
Finally, the priest agreed to assist out of love for his friend, though he
feared the results of this blasphemy.
Athynic summoned Azura. After the usual rituals by which the priest declared
his faith in her powers and Azura agreed to do no harm to him, Nchylbar and a
dozen of his students entered the summoning chamber, carrying with them a
large box.
"As we see you in our land, Azura, you are the Goddess of the Dusk and Dawn
and all the mysteries therein," said Nchylbar, trying to appear as kindly and
obsequious as he could be. "It is said that your knowledge is absolute."
"So it is," smiled the Daedra.
"You would know, for example, what is in this wooden box," said Nchylbar.
Azura turned to Athynic, her brow furrowed. The priest was quick to explain,
"Goddess, this Dwemer is a very wise and respected man. Believe me, please,
the intention is not to mock your greatness, but to demonstrate it to this
scientist and to the rest of his skeptical race. I have tried to explain
your power to him, but his philosophy is such that he must see it
demonstrated."
"If I am to demonstrate my might in a way to bring the Dwemer race to
understanding, it might have been a more impressive feat you would have me
do," growled Azura, and turned to look Nchylbar in the eyes. "There is a red-
petalled flower in the box."
Nchylbar did not smile or frown. He simply opened the box and revealed to
all that it was empty.
When the students turned to look to Azura, she was gone. Only Athynic had
seen the Goddess's expression before she vanished, and he could not speak, he
was trembling so. A curse had fallen, he knew that truly, but even crueler
was the knowledge of divine power that had been demonstrated. Nchylbar also
looked pale, uncertain on his feet, but his face shone with not fear, but
bliss. The smile of a Dwemer finding evidence for a truth only suspected.
Two of his students supported him, and two more supported the priest as they
left the chamber.
"I have studied very much over the years, performed countless experiments,
taught myself a thousand languages, and yet the skill that has taught me the
finally truth is the one that I learned when I was but a poor, young man,
trying only to have enough gold to eat," whispered the sage.
As he was escorted up the stairs to his bed, a red flower petal fell from the
sleeve of his voluminous robe. Nchylbar died that night, a portrait of peace
that comes from contented knowledge.
Publisher's Note:
This is another tale whose origin is unmistakably Dwemer. Again, the words of
some Aldmeris translations are quite different, but the essence of the story
is the same. The Dunmer have a similar tale about Nchylbar, but in the Dunmer
version, Azura recognizes the trick and refuses to answer the question. She
slays the Dwemer present for their skepticism and curses the Dunmer for
blasphemy.
In the Aldmeris versions, Azura is tricked not by an empty box, but by a box
containing a sphere which somehow becomes a flat square. Of course the
Aldmeris versions, being a few steps closer to the original Dwemer, are much
more difficult to understand. Perhaps this "stage magic" explanation was
added by Gor Felim because of Felim's own experience with such tricks in his
plays when a mage was not available.
"Marobar Sul" left even the character of Nchylbar alone, and he represents
many "Dwemer" virtues. His skepticism, while not nearly as absolute as in
the Aldmeris version, is celebrated even though it brings a curse upon the
Dwemer and the unnamed House of the poor priest.
Whatever the true nature of the Gods, and how right or wrong the Dwemer were
about them, this tale might explain why the dwarves vanished from the face of
Tamriel. Though Nchylbar and his kind may not have intended to mock the
Aedra and Daedra, their skepticism certainly offended the Divine Orders.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Biography of Barenziah v I
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BiographyBarenziah1
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
Biography of Queen Barenziah
by Stern Gamboge, Imperial Scribe
Late in the Second Era, a girl-child, Barenziah, was born to the rulers of
the kingdom of Mournhold in what is now the Imperial Province of Morrowind.
She was reared in all the luxury and security befitting a royal Dark Elven
child until she reached five years of age. At that time, His Excellency
Tiber Septim I, the first Emperor of Tamriel, demanded that the decadent
rulers of Morrowind yield to him and institute imperial reforms. Trusting to
their vaunted magic, the Dark Elves impudently refused until Tiber Septim's
army was on the borders. An Armistice was hastily signed by the now-eager
Dunmer, but not before there were several battles, one of which laid waste to
Mournhold, now called Almalexia.
Little Princess Barenziah and her nurse were found among the wreckage. The
Imperial General Symmachus, himself a Dark Elf, suggested to Tiber Septim
that the child might someday be valuable, and she was therefore placed with a
loyal supporter who had recently retired from the Imperial Army.
Sven Advensen had been granted the title of Count upon his retirement; his
fiefdom, Darkmoor, was a small town in central Skyrim. Count Sven and his
wife reared the princess as their own daughter, seeing to it that she was
educated appropriately-and more importantly, that the imperial virtues of
obedience, discretion, loyalty, and piety were instilled in the child. In
short, she was made fit to take her place as a member of the new ruling class
of Morrowind.
The girl Barenziah grew in beauty, grace, and intelligence. She was sweet-
tempered, a joy to her adoptive parents and their five young sons, who loved
her as their elder sister. Other than her appearance, she differed from
young girls of her class only in that she had a strong empathy for the woods
and fields, and was wont to escape her household duties to wander there at
times.
Barenziah was happy and content until her sixteenth year, when a wicked
orphan stable-boy, whom she had befriended out of pity, told her he had
overheard a conspiracy between her guardian, Count Sven, and a Redguard
visitor to sell her as a concubine in Rihad, as no Nord or Breton would marry
her on account of her black skin, and no Dark Elf would have her because of
her foreign upbringing.
"Whatever shall I do?" the poor girl said, weeping and trembling, for she had
been brought up in innocence and trust, and it never occurred to her that her
friend the stable-boy would lie to her.
The wicked boy, who was called Straw, said that she must run away if she
valued her virtue, but that he would come with her as her protector.
Sorrowfully, Barenziah agreed to this plan; and that very night, she
disguised herself as a boy and the pair escaped to the nearby city of
Whiterun. After a few days there, they managed to get jobs as guards for a
disreputable merchant caravan. The caravan was heading east by side roads in
a mendacious attempt to elude the lawful tolls charged on the imperial
highways. Thus the pair eluded pursuit until they reached the city of
Rifton, where they ceased their travels for a time. They felt safe in
Rifton, close as it was to the Morrowind border so that Dark Elves were
enough of a common sight.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Biography of Barenziah v II
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BiographyBarenziah2
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
Biography of Queen Barenziah, Vol 2
by Stern Gamboge, Imperial Scribe
The first volume of this series told the story of Barenziah's origin-heiress
to the throne of Mournhold until her father rebelled against His Excellency
Tiber Septim I and brought ruin to the province of Morrowind. Thanks largely
to the benevolence of the Emperor, the child Barenziah was not destroyed with
her parents, but reared by Count Sven of Darkmoor, a loyal Imperial trustee.
She grew up into a beautiful and pious child, trustful of her guardian's
care. This trust, however, was exploited by a wicked orphan stable boy at
Count Sven's estate, who with lies and fabrications tricked her into fleeing
Darkmoor with him when she turned sixteen. After many adventures on the
road, they settled in Rifton, a Skyrim city near the Morrowind borders.
The stable boy, Straw, was not altogether evil. He loved Barenziah in his
own selfish fashion, and deception was the only way he could think of that
would cement possession of her. She, of course, felt only friendship toward
him, but he was hopeful that she would gradually change her mind. He wanted
to buy a small farm and settle down into a comfortable marriage, but at the
time his earnings were barely enough to feed and shelter them.
After only a short time in Rifton, Straw fell in with a bold, villainous
Khajiit thief named Therris, who proposed that they rob the Imperial
Commandant's house in the central part of the city. Therris said that he had
a client, a traitor to the Empire, who would pay well for any information
they could gather there. Barenziah happened to overhear this plan and was
appalled. She stole away from their rooms and walked the streets of Rifton
in desperation, torn between her loyalty to the Empire and her love for her
friends.
In the end, loyalty to the Empire prevailed over personal friendship, and she
approached the Commandant's house, revealed her true identity, and warned him
of her friends' plan. The Commandant listened to her tale, praised her
courage, and assured her that no harm would come to her. He was none other
than General Symmachus, who had been scouring the countryside in search of
her since her disappearance, and had just arrived in Rifton, hot in pursuit.
He took her into his custody, and informed her that, far from being sent away
to be sold, she was to be reinstated as the Queen of Mournhold as soon as she
turned eighteen. Until that time, she was to live with the Septim family in
the newly built Imperial City, where she would learn something of government
and be presented at the Imperial Court.
At the Imperial City, Barenziah befriended the Emperor Tiber Septim during
the middle years of his reign. Tiber's children, particularly his eldest son
and heir Pelagius, came to love her as a sister. The ballads of the day
praised her beauty, chastity, wit, and learning. On her eighteenth birthday,
the entire Imperial City turned out to watch her farewell procession
preliminary to her return to her native land. Sorrowful as they were at her
departure, all knew that she was ready for her glorious destiny as sovereign
of the kingdom of Mournhold.
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Biography of Barenziah v III
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BiographyBarenziah3
Weight: 3
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
Biography of Queen Barenziah, Vol 3
by Stern Gamboge, Imperial Scribe
In the second volume of this series, it was told how Barenziah was kindly
welcomed to the newly constructed Imperial City by the Emperor Tiber Septim
and his family, who treated her like a long-lost daughter during her almost
one-year stay. After several happy months there learning her duties as
vassal queen under the Empire, the Imperial General Symmachus escorted her to
Mournhold where she took up her duties as Queen of her people under his wise
guidance. Gradually they came to love one another and were married and
crowned in a splendid ceremony at which the Emperor himself officiated.
After several hundred years of marriage, a son, Helseth, was born to the
royal couple amid celebration and joyous prayer. Although it was not
publicly known at the time, it was shortly before this blessed event that the
Staff of Chaos had been stolen from its hiding place deep in the Mournhold
mines by a clever, enigmatic bard known only as the Nightingale.
Eight years after Helseth's birth, Barenziah bore a daughter, Morgiah, named
after Symmachus' mother, and the royal couple's joy seemed complete. Alas,
shortly after that, relations with the Empire mysteriously deteriorated,
leading to much civil unrest in Mournhold. After fruitless investigations
and attempts at reconciliation, in despair Barenziah took her young children
and travelled to the Imperial City herself to seek the ear of then Emperor
Uriel Septim VII. Symmachus remained in Mournhold to deal with the grumbling
peasants and annoyed nobility, and do what he could to stave off an impending
insurrection.
During her audience with the Emperor, Barenziah, through her magical arts,
came to realize to her horror and dismay that the so-called Emperor was an
impostor, none other than the bard Nightingale who had stolen the Staff of
Chaos. Exercising great self-control she concealed this realization from
him. That evening, news came that Symmachus had fallen in battle with the
revolting peasants of Mournhold, and that the kingdom had been taken over by
the rebels. Barenziah, at this point, did not know where to seek help, or
from whom.
The gods, that fateful night, were evidently looking out for her as if in
redress of her loss. King Eadwyre of High Rock, an old friend of Uriel
Septim and Symmachus, came by on a social call. He comforted her, pledged
his friendship-and furthermore, confirmed her suspicions that the Emperor was
indeed a fraud, and none other than Jagar Tharn, the Imperial Battlemage, and
one of the Nightingale's many alter egos. Tharn had supposedly retired into
seclusion from public work and installed his assistant, Ria Silmane, in his
stead. The hapless assistant was later put to death under mysterious
circumstances-supposedly a plot implicating her had been uncovered, and she
had been summarily executed. However, her ghost had appeared to Eadwyre in a
dream and revealed to him that the true Emperor had been kidnapped by Tharn
and imprisoned in an alternate dimension. Tharn had then used the Staff of
Chaos to kill her when she attempted to warn the Elder Council of his
nefarious plot.
Together, Eadwyre and Barenziah plotted to gain the false Emperor's
confidence. Meanwhile, another friend of Ria's, known only as the Champion,
who apparently possessed great, albeit then untapped, potential, was
incarcerated at the Imperial Dungeons. However, she had access to his
dreams, and she told him to bide his time until she could devise a plan that
would effect his escape. Then he could begin on his mission to unmask the
impostor.
Barenziah continued to charm, and eventually befriended, the ersatz Emperor.
By contriving to read his secret diary, she learned that he had broken the
Staff of Chaos into eight pieces and hidden them in far-flung locations
scattered across Tamriel. She managed to obtain a copy of the key to Ria's
friend's cell and bribed a guard to leave it there as if by accident. Their
Champion, whose name was unknown even to Barenziah and Eadwyre, made his
escape through a shift gate Ria had opened in an obscure corner of the
Imperial Dungeons using her already failing powers. The Champion was free at
last, and almost immediately went to work.
It took Barenziah several more months to learn the hiding places of all eight
Staff pieces through snatches of overheard conversation and rare glances at
Tharn's diary. Once she had the vital information, however -- which she
communicated to Ria forthwith, who in turn passed it on to the Champion-she
and Eadwyre lost no time. They fled to Wayrest, his ancestral kingdom in the
province of High Rock, where they managed to fend off the sporadic efforts of
Tharn's henchmen to haul them back to the Imperial City, or at the very least
obtain revenge. Tharn, whatever else might be said of him, was no one's
fool-save perhaps Barenziah's -- and he concentrated most of his efforts
toward tracking down and destroying the Champion.
As all now know, the courageous, indefatigable, and forever nameless Champion
was successful in reuniting the eight sundered pieces of the Staff of Chaos.
With it, he destroyed Tharn and rescued the true Emperor, Uriel Septim VII.
Following what has come to be known as the Restoration, a grand state
memorial service was held for Symmachus at the Imperial City, befitting the
man who had served the Septim Dynasty for so long and so well.
Barenziah and good King Eadwyre had come to care deeply for one another
during their trials and adventures, and were married in the same year shortly
after their flight from the Imperial City. Her two children from her
previous marriage with Symmachus remained with her, and a regent was
appointed to rule Mournhold in her absence.
Up to the present time, Queen Barenziah has been in Wayrest with Prince
Helseth and Princess Morgiah. She plans to return to Mournhold after
Eadwyre's death. Since he was already elderly when they wed, she knows that
that event, alas, could not be far off as the Elves reckon time. Until then,
she shares in the government of the kingdom of Wayrest with her husband, and
seems glad and content with her finally quiet, and happily unremarkable,
life.
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Biography of the Wolf Queen
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Speechcraft1
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Speechcraft skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Biography of the Wolf Queen
by Katar Eriphanes
Few historic figures are viewed as unambiguously evil, but Potema, the so-
called Wolf Queen of Solitude, surely qualifies for that dishonor. Born to
the Imperial Family in the sixty-seventh year of the third era, Potema was
immediately presented to her grandfather, the Emperor Uriel Septim II, a
famously kindhearted man, who viewed the solemn, intense babe and whispered,
"She looks like a she-wolf about ready to pounce."
Potema's childhood in the Imperial City was certainly difficult from the
start. Her father, Prince Pelagius Septim, and her mother, Qizara, showed
little affection for their brood. Her eldest brother Antiochus, sixteen at
Potema's birth, was already a drunkard and womanizer, infamous in the empire.
Her younger brothers Cephorus and Magnus were born much later, so for years
she was the only child in the Imperial Court.
By the age of 14, Potema was a famous beauty with many suitors, but she was
married to cement relations with King Mantiarco of the Nordic kingdom of
Solitude. She entered the court, it was said, as a pawn, but she quickly
became a queen. The elderly King Mantiarco loved her and allowed her all the
power she wished, which was total.
When Uriel Septim II died the following year, her father was made emperor,
and he faced a greatly depleted treasury, thanks to his father's poor
management. Pelagius II dismissed the Elder Council, forcing them to buy
back their positions. In 3E 97, after many miscarriages, the Queen of
Solitude gave birth to a son, who she named Uriel after her grandfather.
Mantiarco quickly made Uriel his heir, but the Queen had much larger
ambitions for her child.
Two years later, Pelagius II died -- many say poisoned by a vengeful former
Council member -- and his son, Potema's brother Antiochus took the throne.
At age forty-eight, it could be said that Antiochus's wild seeds had yet to
be sown, and the history books are nearly pornographic in their depictions of
life at the Imperial court during the years of his reign. Potema, whose
passion was for power not fornication, was scandalized every time she visited
the Imperial City.
Mantiarco, King of Solitude, died the springtide after Pelagius II. Uriel
ascended to the throne, ruling jointly with his mother. Doubtless, Uriel had
the right and would have preferred to rule alone, but Potema convinced him
that his position was only temporary. He would have the Empire, not merely
the kingdom. In Castle Solitude, she entertained dozens of diplomats from
other kingdoms of Skyrim, sowing seeds of discontent. Her guest list over
the years expanded to include kings and queens of High Rock and Morrowind as
well.
For thirteen years, Antiochus ruled Tamriel, and proved an able leader
despite his moral laxity. Several historians point to proof that Potema cast
the spell that ended her brother's life, but evidence one way or another is
lost in the sands of time. In any event, both she and her son Uriel were
visiting the Imperial court in 3E 112 when Antiochus died, and immediately
challenged the rule of his daughter and heir, Kintyra.
Potema's speech to the Elder Council is perhaps helpful to students of public
speaking.
She began with flattery and self-abasement: "My most august and wise friends,
members of the Elder Council, I am but a provincial queen, and I can only
assume to bring to issue what you yourselves must have already pondered."
She continued on to praise the late Emperor, who was a popular ruler in spite
of his flaws: "He was a true Septim and a great warrior, destroying -- with
your counsel -- the near invincible armada of Pyandonea."
But little time was wasted, before she came to her point: "The Empress Magna
unfortunately did nothing to temper my brother's lustful spirits. In point
of fact, no whore in the slums of the city spread out on more beds than she.
Had she attended to her duties in the Imperial bedchamber more faithfully, we
would have a true heir to the Empire, not the halfwit, milksop bastards who
call themselves the Emperor's children. The girl called Kintyra is popularly
believed to be the daughter of Magna and the Captain of the Guard. It may be
that she is the daughter of Magna and the boy who cleans the cistern. We can
never know for certain. Not as certainly as we can know the lineage of my
son, Uriel. The last of the Septim Dynasty."
Despite Potema's eloquence, the Elder Council allowed Kintyra to assume the
throne as the Empress Kintyra II. Potema and Uriel angrily returned to
Skyrim and began assembling the rebellion.
Details of the War of the Red Diamond are included in other histories: we
need not recount the Empress Kintyra II's capture and eventual execution in
High Rock in the year 3E 114, nor the ascension of Potema's son, Uriel III,
seven years later. Her surviving brothers, Cephorus and Magnus, fought the
Emperor and his mother for years, tearing the Empire apart in a civil war.
When Uriel III fought his uncle Cephorus in Hammerfell at the Battle of
Ichidag in 3E 127, Potema was fighting her other brother, Uriel's uncle
Magnus in Skyrim at the Battle of Falconstar. She received word of her son's
defeat and capture just as she was preparing to mount an attack on Magnus's
weakest flank. The sixty-one-year-old Wolf Queen flew into a rage and led
the assault herself. It was a success, and Magnus and his army fled. In the
midst the victory celebration, Potema heard the news that her son the Emperor
had been killed by an angry mob before he had even made it for trial in the
Imperial City. He had been burned to death within his carriage.
When Cephorus was proclaimed Emperor, Potema's fury was terrible to behold.
She summoned daedra to fight for her, had her necromancers resurrect her
fallen enemies as undead warriors, and mounted attack after attack on the
forces of the Emperor Cephorus I. Her allies began leaving her as her
madness grew, and her only companions were the zombies and skeletons she had
amassed over the years. The kingdom of Solitude became a land of death.
Stories of the ancient Wolf Queen being waited on by rotting skeletal
chambermaids and holding war plans with vampiric generals terrified her
subjects.
Potema died after a month long siege on her castle in the year 3E 137 at the
age of 90. While she lived, she had been the Wolf Queen of Solitude,
Daughter of the Emperor Pelagius II, Wife of King Mantiarco, Aunt of the
Empress Kintyra II, Mother of Emperor Uriel III, and Sister of the Emperors
Antiochus and Cephorus. Three years after her death, Antiochus died, and his
-- and Potema's -- brother Magnus took the throne.
Her death has hardly diminished her notoriety. Though there is little direct
evidence of this, some theologians maintain that her spirit was so strong,
she became a daedra after her death, inspiring mortals to mad ambition and
treason. It is also said that her madness so infused Castle Solitude that it
infected the next king to rule there. Ironically, that was her 18-year-old
nephew Pelagius, the son of Magnus. Whatever the truth of the legend, it is
undeniable that when Pelagius left Solitude in 3E 145 to assume the title of
the Emperor Pelagius III, he quickly became known as Pelagius The Mad. It is
even widely rumored that he murdered his father Magnus.
The Wolf Queen must surely have had the last laugh.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Blasphemous Revenants
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BlasphemousRevenants
Weight: 3
Value: 55
Special Notes: None
Blasphemous Revenants
...not into the world, nor out of it, but between worlds they linger, held to
the hearth and tomb by blood and loyalty. And if they come unbidden, from
love of kin or faith to duty, it is not unholy. It is but the answering of
the ancestors, the awakening of those who never sleep, the summoning to
service of those bound through Hearth and House to the protection of the
clan.
But if sorcerers bring them forth, then such a summons is blasphemy, an
abomination before the Tribes and Temple, and a sin so great that ages of
burning cannot cleanse the fault. Abide not the sorcerer among you, for he
comes to steal the bones of your fathers and dust of your tombs. He seeks to
bind by power what is yours by right, to drag forth the warm spirits from
their world between and bind them to their service like slaves and beasts.
Who can know the shame of the dead, the ceaseless weeping of the
necromancer's thrall? Cruel enough is the ancestor's service given in love to
Hearth and Kin. But ghost or guardian, bonewalker or bonelord, summoned by
profane ritual and bound by force to the corpse miner's will, how may such a
spirit ever find rest? How may it ever find its way back to its blood and
clan?
Only a righteous Dunmer, bound by blood to hearth and kin, bound by oath and
service to the Temple, can call upon the spirits of the Dunmer dead. Those
foreign sorcerers of other races that invade our shores, shall they be
permitted to rob our tombs, to bind our kin-spirits into sorcerous slavery,
to steal the lives of our dead as well as our land of the living? No, I say,
no, and no, three times more. Such necromancers must die, and their profane
magicks must die with them.
And shall we tolerate the hidden hosts of the undead, the arrogant princes of
necromancers, the ancient vampire demons who creep from their lairs in the
West, seeking refuge in profane Daedric shrines, abandoned Dunmer
strongholds, and corrupted subterranean labyrinths of the detested Dwemer
race? For ages the Great Houses and the Temple have kept our land clean of
the vampire's taint, but now these undead lords and their vile cattle have
returned. These vampires must die, and their corrupt cattle with them, and
their blood taint must be forever erased by fire and stake.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Boethiah's Glory
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_Boethiah's Glory_unique
Weight: 2
Value: 25
Special Notes: Part of the Thieves Guild Quests
Boethiah's Glory
Look upon the face of Boethiah and wonder. Raise your arms that Boethiah may
look on them and bestow a blessing. Know that battle is a blessing. Know that
death is an eventuality. Know that you are dust in the eyes of Boethiah.
Long is the arm of Boethiah, and swift is the blade.
Deep is the cut, and subtle is the poison.
Worship, o faithful. Pray your death is short.
Worship, o faithful. Pray your death is quiet.
Worship, o faithful. Worship the glory that is Boethiah.
Into battle strides the Daedra Prince, blade at the ready to cleave the
unworthy.
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Boethiah's Pillow Book
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BoethiahPillowBook
Weight: 10
Value: 0
Special Notes: Part of a thieves guild quest
[No words can describe what you see. Or what you think you see.]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bone, Part One
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Medium Armor2
Weight: 4
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Medium Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Bone, Part I
By Tavi Dromio
"It seems to me," said Garaz, thoughtfully looking into the depths of his
flin. "That all great ideas come from pure happenstance. Take for instance,
the story I told you last night about my cousin. If he hadn't fallen off
that horse, he never would have become one of the Empire's foremost
alchemists."
It was late one Middas night at the King's Ham, and the regulars were always
especially inclined toward philosophy.
"I disagree," replied Xiomara, firmly but politely. "Great ideas and
inventions are most often formed slowly over time by diligence and hard work.
If you'll recall my tale from last month, the young lady -- who I assure you
is based on a real person -- only recognized her one true love after she had
slept with practically everyone in Northpoint."
"I put it to you that neither is the case," said Hallgerd, pouring a topper
on his mug of greef. "The greatest inventions are created by extraordinary
need. Must I remind you of the story I told some time ago about Arslic Oan
and the invention of bonemold?"
"The problem with your theory is that your example is entirely fictional,"
sniffed Xiomara.
"I don't believe I remember the story of Arslic Oan and the invention of
bonemold," frowned Garaz. "Are you sure you told us?"
"Well, this happened many, many, many years ago, when Vvardenfell was a
beauteous green land, when Dunmer were Chimer and Dwemer and Nord lived
together in relative peace when they weren't trying to kill one another,"
Hallgerd relaxed in his chair, warming to his theme. "When the sun and moons
all hung in the sky together--"
"Lord, Mother, and Wizard!" grumbled Xiomara. "If I'm going to be forced to
hear your ridiculous story again, pray don't embellish and make it any longer
than it has to be."
This all happened in Vvardenfell quite some time ago (said Hallgerd, ignoring
Xiomara's interruption with admirable restraint) during an era of a king you
would never have heard of. Arslic Oan was one of this king's nobles and
very, very disagreeable fellow. Because of his allegiance to the crown, the
king had felt the need to grant him a castle and land, but he didn't
necessarily want him as a neighbor so the land he granted was far from
civilization. Right in an area of Vvardenfell that is, even today, not quite
civilized to this day. Arslic Oan built a walled stronghold and settled down
with his unhappy slaves to enjoy a quiet if somewhat grim life.
It was not long before his stronghold's integrity was tested. A tribe of
cannibalistic Nords had been living in the valley for some time, mostly
dining on one another, but occasionally foraging what they liked to call dark
meat, the Dunmer.
Xiomara laughed with appreciation. "Marvelous! I don't remember that from
before. It's funny how you don't hear much about the Nords' rampant
cannibalism nowadays."
This was obviously, as I've said, quite some time ago (said Hallgerd, glaring
at part of his audience with civil malevolence) and things were in many ways
quite different. These cannibalistic Nords began attacking Arslic Oan's
slaves in the fields, and then slowly grew bolder, until they held the very
stronghold itself under siege. They were quite a fearsome sight you can
imagine: a horde of wild-eyed men and women with dagger-like teeth filed to
tear flesh, wielding massive clubs, cloaked only in the skins of their
victims.
Arslic Oan assumed that if he ignored them, they'd go away.
Unfortunately, the first thing that the Nords did was to poison the stream
that carried water into the walled stronghold. All the livestock and most of
the slaves died very quickly before this was discovered. There was no hope
of rescue, at least for several months when the king's emissaries would come
reluctantly to visit the disagreeable vassal. The next closest source of
water was on the other side of the hill, so Arslic Oan sent three of his
slaves with empty jugs to bring some back.
They were beaten with clubs and eaten before they were a few feet outside the
stronghold gates. The next group he sent through he gave sticks to defend
themselves. They made it a few feet farther, but were also overwhelmed,
beaten, and devoured. It was obvious that better personal defensive was
required. Arslic Oan went to talk to his armorer, one of his few slaves with
specific talents and duties.
"The slaves need armor if they're going to make it to the river and back," he
said. "Collect every scrap of steel and iron you can find, every hinge,
knife, ring, cup, everything that isn't needed to keep the walls sturdy,
smelt it, and give me the most and the best armor you can, very, very
quickly."
The armorer, whose name was Gorkith, was used to Arslic Oan's demands, and
knew that there could be no compromise on the quality and quantity of the
armor, or the speed at which he worked. He labored for thirty hours without
a break - and, recall, without any water to slake his thirst as he struggled
with the kiln and anvil - until finally, he had six suits of mixed-metal
armor.
Six slaves were chosen, clad in the armor, and sent with jars to collect
river water. At first, the mission progressed well. The Nord attacked the
armored slaves with their clubs, but they continued their march forward,
warding off the blows. Gradually, however, the slaves seemed to be walking
uncertainly, dazed by the endless barrage. Eventually, one by one, they
fell, the armor was peeled from their bodies, and they were eaten.
"The slaves couldn't move quickly enough in that heavy armor you made," said
Arslic Oan to Gorkith. "I need you to collect all the cadavers of the
poisoned livestock, strip their skin, and give me the most and the best
leather armor you can, very, very quickly."
Gorklith did as he was told, though it was a particularly repulsive task
given the rancid state of the livestock. Normally it takes quite a time to
treat and cure leather, so I understand, but Gorklith worked at it
tirelessly, and in a half a day he had twelve suits of leather armor.
Twelve slaves were chosen, clad in the armor, and sent with jars to collect
river water. They progressed, at first, much better than the earlier
expedition. Two fell almost immediately, but the others had some luck out-
maneuvering their assailants while deflecting an occasional blow of the club.
Several got to the river, three were able to fill up their jars, and one
fellow very nearly made it back to the stronghold gates. Alas, he fell and
was eaten. The Nords possessed a remarkably healthy appetite.
"What we need before I completely run out of slaves," said Arslic Oan
thoughtfully to Gorkith. "Is an armor sturdier than leather but lighter than
metal."
The armorer had already considered that and taken stock of the materials
available. He had thought about doing something with stone or wood, but
there were practical problems with demolishing more of the stronghold. The
next most prevalent stuff present in the stronghold was skinned dead bodies,
hunks of muscle, fat, blood, and bone. For six hours, he toiled relentlessly
until he produced eighteen suits of bonemold, the first ones ever created.
Arslic Oan was somewhat dubious at the sight (and smell) but he was very
thirsty, and willing to sacrifice another eighteen slaves if necessary.
"Might I suggest," Gorklith queried tremulously, "Having the slaves practice
moving about in the armor, here in the courtyard, before sending them to face
the Nords?"
Arslic Oan coolly allowed it, and for a few hours, the slaves wandered about
the stronghold courtyard in their suits of bonemold. They grew used to the
give of the joints, the rigidity of the backplate, the weight pushed onto
their shoulders and hips. They discovered how to plant their feet slightly
askew to keep their balance steady; how to quickly turn, pivoting without
falling down; how to break into a run and stop quickly. By the time they
were sent out of the castle gates, they were easily very nearly almost
amateurs in the use of their medium weight armor.
Seventeen of them were killed and eaten, but one made it back with a jar of
water.
"It's perfect nonsense," said Xiomara. "But my point is still valid even so.
Like all great inventors, even in fiction, the armorer worked diligently to
create the bonemold."
"I think there was a good deal of happenstance as well," frowned Garaz. "But
it is an appalling story. I wish you hadn't told me."
"If you think that's appalling," grinned Hallgerd. "You should hear what
happened next."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bone, Part Two
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Medium Armor3
Weight: 4
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Medium Armor skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Bone, Part II
By Tavi Dromio
"What do you mean the story gets more appalling?" Garaz was incredulous. "How
in Boethiah's name could it get more appalling?"
"It's a ruse," Xiomara scoffed, ordering two more mugs of greef and a glass
of flin for Garaz. "How much worse can a tale get which prominently features
cannibalism, abuse of slaves, and the regular placement of rotting animal
carcasses?"
"Don't you dare dare me," growled Hallgerd, annoyed by his listeners' lack of
appreciation of his prose styling. "Remind me where we were?"
"Arslic Oan is the owner of a stronghold under siege by savage, cannibalistic
Nords," said Xiomara, keeping a straight face. "After a lot of deaths and
several unsuccessful attempts to get water, he had his armorer with the
unlikely name of Gorkith outfit his slaves with the first ever bonemold
armor. One of them finally makes it back with some water."
It was only one jarful of water (said Hallgerd, pulling back in his chair and
continuing the tale), and Arslic Oan drank most of it, passing the remains to
his dear armorer Gorkith and the last dribbles to the few dozen slaves who
still lived. It was hardly enough to sustain health and well-being. Another
expedition was necessary, but they had only one suit of bonemold left, as
there was only one survivor of the trip.
"One out of eighteen slaves made it through the gauntlet of Nords wearing
that marvelous bonemold armor of yours," said Arslic Oan to Gorkith. "And one
can only carry back enough water for one. Therefore, mathematically, as we
have, counting you and me, fifty-six remaining people at the stronghold, we
need armor for fifty-four. Since we already have one, you only need to make
fifty-three to make the total. That way, three will make it back, with
enough water for you and me and whoever's in the best condition to partake.
I don't know what we'll do after that, but if we wait, we won't have enough
slaves to fetch even a couple days' worth of water."
"I understand," whimpered Gorkith. "But how am I going to make the armor? I
used all the livestock bones to make the first batch of bonemold."
Arslic Oan gave an order which Gorkith fearfully complied with. In eighteen
hours -
"What do you mean 'Arslic Oan gave an order which Gorkith fearfully complied
with'?" asked Xiomara. "What was the order?"
"All will be clear," smiled Hallgerd. "I have to chose what to reveal and
what to conceal. Such is the way of the tale teller."
In eighteen hours, Gorkith had fifty-three suits of bonemail (said Hallgerd,
continuing, not really minding the interruption) prepared for the slaves.
Without prompting, he ordered the slaves to practice using the armor, and
even allowed them more training time than their predecessors. They not only
learned how to move and stop quickly in bonemold, but how to adjust their
peripheral vision to see a blow before it came, and to sway to dodge, and
where the sturdiest reinforcement points on the arm were -- the center of the
chest and the abdomen -- and how to position themselves to take blows there,
against their natural instincts. The slaves even had time for a mock battle
before being sent out among the cannibals.
The slaves handled themselves admirably. Very few, just fifteen slaves, were
killed and eaten out right. Only ten were killed and eaten when they reached
the river. That was when things did not go according to Arslic Oan's plans.
Twenty-one slaves with jars of water took off for the hills. Only eight
returned to the castle, largely because they were blocked by the cannibal
Nords. It was a larger percentage than he had anticipated surviving, but
Arslic Oan felt righteous indignation at the paucity of loyalty.
"Are you absolutely certain you wouldn't rather flee?" he hollered from the
battlements.
Finally, he allowed the survivors in. Three had been killed waiting for the
gate to open. Two more died almost upon stepping into the courtyard. One
was delirious, walking around in circles, laughing and dancing before
suddenly collapsing. That meant five jars of water for four people, the two
surviving slaves, Arslic Oan, and Gorkith. As the lord of the manor, Arslic
Oan took the extra jar, but he was democratic with the others.
"You're quite correct," frowned Garaz. "This story is getting more and more
appalling."
"Just wait," smiled Hallgerd.
The next morning (Hallgerd continued) Arslic Oan awoke to a perfectly still
and quiet stronghold. There was no murmuring in the corridors, no sound of
hard labor in the courtyard. He dressed and surveyed the scene. It appeared
that the fortress was utterly deserted. Arslic Oan walked down to the
armorer's quarters, but the door was locked.
"Open up," said Arslic Oan, patiently. "We need to speak. Thirty out of
fifty-four slaves successfully made it to the river and gathered water.
Admittedly, some then fled, and a couple didn't survive because I needed to
correct their fickleness, but mathematically, that's a fifty-five percent
survival rate. If you and I and the two remaining slaves made the next run
to the river, we two should survive."
"Zilian and Gelo left last night with their armor," cried Gorklith through
the door.
"Who are Zilian and Gelo?"
"The two remaining slaves! They don't remain anymore!"
"Well, that's vexing," said Arslic Oan. "Still we must continue on.
Mathematically--"
"I heard something last night," whimpered Gorklith in a funny voice. "Like
footsteps, only different, and they were moving through the walls. And there
were voices too. They sounded strange, like they couldn't move their jaws
very well, but I knew one."
Arslic Oan sighed, humoring his poor armorer: "And who was it?"
"Ponik."
"And who is Ponik?"
"One of the slaves that died when the Nords poisoned our water. One of the
many, many slaves that died, and we made use of. He was always a nice,
uncomplaining fellow, that's why I noticed his voice above all the others,"
Gorklith began to sob. "I understood what he was saying."
"Which was what?" asked Arslic Oan with a sigh.
"'Give me back my bones!'" Gorklith's voice shrieked. There was silence for
a moment, and then more hysterical sobbing.
"I saw that coming," laughed Xiomara.
There was nothing more to be done with the armorer for the time being (said
Hallgerd, a trifle annoyed at the regular interruptions), so Arslic Oan
stripped one of the dead slaves of his suit of bonemold and put it on. He
practiced in the courtyard, impressing himself with his natural comfortably
with medium weight armor. For hours, he boxed, feinted, dodged, sprinted,
skipped, jumped, and generally cavorted about. When he felt tired, he
retired to the shade and took a nap.
The sound of the king's trumpet woke him with a start. Night had fallen, and
for a moment, he thought he had been dreaming. Then the alarum sounded
again, far in the distance, but clear. Arslic Oan leapt to his feet and ran
to the ramparts. Several miles away, he could see the emissaries and their
vast and well-armed escort approach. They were there early! The cannibal
Nords below looked at one another with consternation. Savages they might be,
but they knew when a superior force was approaching.
Arslic Oan joyously dashed down the stairs to Gorklith's chamber. The door
was still locked. He beat on it, cajoling, demanding, threatening. Finally,
he found a key, one of the few scraps of metal that had not been smelted days
before.
Gorklith appeared to be sleeping, but as Arslic Oan approached, he noticed
that the armorer's mouth and eyes were wide open and his arms were folded
unnaturally behind his back. On closer inspection, the armorer was obviously
dead. What was more, his face and whole body were sunken, like an empty
pig's bladder.
Something moved through the walls, like a footfall only... squishy. Arslic
Oan expertly and gracefully turned to face it, completely in balance.
At first, it seemed like nothing more than a bubble expanding through one of
the cracks in the stone. As more of the flesh-colored gelatinous matter
emerged, it more clearly resembled part of a face. A flaccid, almost
shapeless face with a low brow and a slack, toothless jaw. The rest of the
body oozed out of the crack, a soft bag of muscle and blood. Behind Arslic
Oan and to the side, there was more movement, more slaves welling up through
the cracks in the stone. They were all around him, reaching out.
"Give us," moaned Ponik, his tongue rolling about his hanging jaw. "Give us
back our bones."
Arslic Oan began to rip off his bonemold, throwing it to the floor. A
hundred figures, more, pooled into the small chamber.
"That's not enough."
The cannibals had cleared away by the time the king's emissaries arrived at
Arslic Oan's gates. They had not been looking forward to this visit. It was
best, they though philosophically, to begin with the worst of the king's
noblemen, so to end their trip well. They sounded the alarum once again, but
the gates did not open. There was no sound from Arslic Oan's stronghold.
It took a few hours to gain access. If the emissaries had not brought a
professional acrobat with them for entertainment, it might have taken longer.
The place seemed to be abandoned. They searched every room, until finally
they came to the armorer's.
There they found the master of the manor, folded neatly, legs behind his
head, arms behind the legs, like a fine gown. Not a bone in his body.
"The first part of your story was complete nonsense," cried Xiomara. "But now
it doesn't hold true on any level. How could bonemold be made again if the
armorer who invented it died before he could tell anyone how he did it?"
"I said that this was the first time it was created, not the first time
people learned the craft."
"And when did someone first teach someone else the craft?" asked Garaz.
"That, my friends," replied Hallgerd with a sinister smile. "Is a tale for
another night."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Book of Life and Service
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BookOfLifeAndService
Weight: 3
Value: 40
Special Notes: None
THE RANKS OF THE BLESSED
Blessed are the Bonemen, for they serve without self in spirit forever.
Blessed are the Mistmen, for they blend in the glory of the transcendent
spirit.
Blessed are the Wrathmen, for they render their rage unto the ages.
Blessed are the Masters, for they bridge the past and span the future.
THE LITANY OF SERVICE
The Boneman's Oath
We die.
We pray.
To live.
We serve.
The Master's Voice
You swore.
To Serve.
Your Lord.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Book of Rest and Endings
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BookOfRestAndEndings
Weight: 3
Value: 40
Special Notes: None
[The pages of the BOOK OF REST AND ENDINGS are filled with obscure bits of
cult mumbo-jumbo.]
THE RITUAL FOR ENDING OF WRATHMEN
From fifty Fathers
Frozen in slavepast
Rip from the wraithloom
Sunder the lifeweave
Lock tight in earthgrip
Hold firm in gravefast
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Breathing Water
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Alteration1
Weight: 2
Value: 400
Special Notes: Raises Alteration skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
Breathing Water
by Haliel Myrm
He walked through the dry, crowded streets of Bal Fell, glad to be among so
many strangers. In the wharfs of Vivec, he had no such anonymity. They knew
him to be a smuggler, but here, he could be anyone. A lower-class peddler
perhaps. A student even. Some people even pushed against him as he walked
past as if to say, "We would not dream of being so rude as to acknowledge
that you don't belong here."
Seryne Relas was not in any of the taverns, but he knew she was somewhere,
perhaps behind a tenement window or poking around in a dunghill for an exotic
ingredient for some spell or another. He knew little of the ways of
sorceresses, but that they always seemed to be doing something eccentric.
Because of this prejudice, he nearly passed by the old Dunmer woman having a
drink from a well. It was too prosaic, but he knew from the look of her that
she was Seryne Relas, the great sorceress.
"I have gold for you," he said to her back. "If you will teach me the secret
of breathing water."
She turned around, a wide wet grin stretched across her weathered features.
"I ain't breathing it, boy. I'm just having a drink."
"Don't mock me," he said, stiffly. "Either you're Seryne Relas and you will
teach me the spell of breathing water, or you aren't. Those are the only
possibilities."
"If you're going to learn to breath water, you're going to have to learn
there are more possibilities than that, boy. The School of Alteration is
all about possibilities, changing patterns, making things be what they could
be. Maybe I ain't Seryne Relas, but I can teach how to breathe water," she
wiped her mouth dry. "Or maybe I am Seryne Relas and I won't. Or maybe even
I can teach you to breath water, but you can't learn."
"I'll learn," he said, simply.
"Why don't you just buy yourself a spell of water breathing or a potion over
at the Mages Guild?" she asked. "That's how it's generally done."
"They're not powerful enough," he said. "I need to be underwater for a long
time. I'm willing to pay whatever you ask, but I don't want any questions.
I was told you could teach me."
"What's your name, boy?"
"That's a question," he replied. His name was Tharien Winloth, but in Vivec,
they called him the Tollman. His job, such as it was, was collecting a
percentage of the loot from the smugglers when they came into harbor to bring
to his boss in the Camonna Tong. Of the value of that percentage, he earned
another percentage. In the end it was very small indeed. He had scarcely
any gold of his own, and what he had, he gave to Seryne Relas.
The lessons began that very day. The sorceress brought her pupil, who she
simply called "boy," out to a low sandbank along the sea.
"I will teach you a powerful spell for breathing water," she said. "But you
must become a master of it. As with all spells and all skills, you more you
practice, the better you get. Even that ain't enough. To achieve true
mastery, you must understand what it is you're doing. It ain't simply enough
to perform a perfect thrust of a blade -- you must also know what you are
doing and why."
"That's common sense," said Tharien
"Yes, it is," said Seryne, closing her eyes. "But the spells of Alteration
are all about uncommon sense. The infinite possibilities, breaking the sky,
swallowing space, dancing with time, setting ice on fire, believing that the
unreal may become real. You must learn the rules of the cosmos and then
break them."
"That sounds ... very difficult," replied Tharien, trying to keep a straight
face.
Seryne pointed to the small silver fish darting along the water's edge: "They
don't find it so. They breath water just fine."
"But that's not magic."
"What I'm saying to you, boy, is that it is."
For several weeks, Seryne drilled her student, and the more he understood
about what he was doing and the more he practiced, the longer he could breath
underwater. When he found that he could cast the spell for as long as he
needed, he thanked the sorceress and bade her farewell.
"There is one last lesson I have to teach you," she said. "You must learn
that desire is not enough. The world will end your spell no matter how good
you are, and no matter how much you want it."
"That's a lesson I'm happy not to learn," he said, and left at once for the
short journey back to Vivec.
The wharfs were much the same, with all the same smells, the same sounds, and
the same characters. His boss had found a new Tollman, he learned from his
mates. They were still looking out for the smuggler ship Morodrung, but they
had given up hope of ever seeing it. Tharien knew they would not. He had
seen it sink from the wharf a long time ago.
On a moonless night, he cast his spell and dove into the thrashing purple
waves. He kept his mind on the world of possibilities, that books could
sing, that green was blue, that that water was air, that every stroke and
kick brought him closer to a sunken ship filled with treasure. He felt
magicka surge all around him as he pushed his way deeper down. Ahead he saw
a ghostly shadow of the Morodrung, its mast billowing in a wind of deep water
currents. He also felt his spell begin to fade. He could break reality long
enough to breath water all the way back up to the surface, but not enough to
reach the ship.
The next night, he dove again, and this time, the spell was stronger. He
could see the vessel in detail, clouded over and dusted in sediment. The
wound in its hull where it had struck the reef. A glint of gold beckoning
from within. But still he felt reality closing in, and he had to surface.
The third night, he made it into the steerage, past the bloated corpses of
the sailors, nibbled and picked apart by fish. Their glassy eyes bulging,
their mouths stretched open. Had they only known the spell, he thought
briefly, but his mind was more occupied by the gold scattered along the
floor, the boxes that contained them shattered. He considered scooping as
much he could carry into his pockets, but a sturdy iron box seemed to bespeak
more treasures.
On the wall was a row of keys. He took each down and tried it on the locked
box, but none opened it. One key, however, was missing. Thalien looked
around the room. Where could it be? His eyes went to the corpse of one of
the sailors, floating in a dance of death not far from the box, his hands
tightly clutching something. It was a key. When the ship had begun to sink,
this sailor had evidently gone for the iron box. Whatever was in it had to
be very valuable.
Thalien took the sailor's key and opened the box. It was filled with broken
glass. He rummaged around until he felt something solid, and pulled out two
flasks of some kind of wine. He smiled as he considered the foolishness of
the poor alcoholic. This was what was important to the sailor, out of all
the treasure in the Morodrung.
Then, suddenly, Thalien Winloth felt reality.
He had not been paying attention to the grim, tireless advance of the world
on his spell. It was fading away, his ability to breath water. There was no
time to surface. There was no time to do anything. As he sucked in, his
lungs filled with cold, briny water.
A few days later, the smugglers working on the wharf came upon the drowned
body of the former Tollman. Finding a body in the water in Vivec was not in
itself noteworthy, but the subject that they discussed over many bottles of
flin was how did it happen that he drowned with two potions of water
breathing in his hands.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Brief History of the Empire v 1
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BriefHistoryEmpire1
Weight: 4
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
A Brief History of the Empire
Part One
by Stronach k'Thojj III
Imperial Historian
Before the rule of Tiber Septim, all Tamriel was in chaos. The poet Tracizis
called that period of continuous unrest "days and nights of blood and venom."
The kings were a petty lot of grasping tyrants, who fought Tiber's attempts
to bring order to the land. But they were as disorganized as they were
dissolute, and the strong hand of Septim brought peace forcibly to Tamriel.
The year was 2E 896. The following year, the Emperor declared the beginning
of a new Era-thus began the Third Era, Year Aught.
For thirty-eight years, the Emperor Tiber reigned supreme. It was a lawful,
pious, and glorious age, when justice was known to one and all, from serf to
sovereign. On Tiber's death, it rained for an entire fortnight as if the
land of Tamriel itself was weeping.
The Emperor's grandson, Pelagius, came to the throne. Though his reign was
short, he was as strong and resolute as his father had been, and Tamriel
could have enjoyed a continuation of the Golden Age. Alas, an unknown enemy
of the Septim Family hired that accursed organization of cutthroats, the Dark
Brotherhood, to kill the Emperor Pelagius I as he knelt at prayer at the
Temple of the One in the Imperial City. Pelagius I's reign lasted less than
three years.
Pelagius had no living children, so the Crown Imperial passed to his first
cousin, the daughter of Tiber's brother Agnorith. Kintyra, former Queen of
Silvenar, assumed the throne as Kintyra I. Her reign was blessed with
prosperity and good harvests, and she herself was an avid patroness of art,
music, and dance.
Kintyra's son was crowned after her death, the first Emperor of Tamriel to
use the imperial name Uriel. Uriel I was the great lawmaker of the Septim
Dynasty, and a promoter of independent organizations and guilds. Under his
kind but firm hand, the Fighters Guild and the Mages Guild increased in
prominence throughout Tamriel. His son and successor Uriel II reigned for
eighteen years, from the death of Uriel I in 3E64 to Pelagius II's accession
in 3E82. Tragically, the rule of Uriel II was cursed with blights, plagues,
and insurrections. The tenderness he inherited from his father did not serve
Tamriel well, and little justice was done.
Pelagius II inherited not only the throne from his father, but the debt from
the latter's poor financial and judicial management. Pelagius dismissed all
of the Elder Council, and allowed only those willing to pay great sums to
resume their seats. He encouraged similar acts among his vassals, the kings
of Tamriel, and by the end of his seventeen year reign, Tamriel had returned
to prosperity. His critics, however, have suggested that any advisor
possessed of wisdom but not of gold had been summarily ousted by Pelagius.
This may have led to some of the troubles his son Antiochus faced when he in
turn became Emperor.
Antiochus was certainly one of the more flamboyant members of the usually
austere Septim Family. He had numerous mistresses and nearly as many wives,
and was renowned for the grandeur of his dress and his high good humor.
Unfortunately, his reign was rife with civil war, surpassing even that of his
grandfather Uriel II. The War of the Isle in 3E110, twelve years after
Antiochus assumed the throne, nearly took the province of Summurset Isle away
from Tamriel. The united alliance of the kings of Summurset and Antiochus
only managed to defeat King Orghum of the island-kingdom of Pyandonea due to
a freak storm. Legend credits the Psijic Order of the Isle of Artaeum with
the sorcery behind the tempest.
The story of Kintyra II, heiress to her father Antiochus' throne, is
certainly one of the saddest tales in imperial history. Her first cousin
Uriel, son of Queen Potema of Solitude, accused Kintyra of being a bastard,
alluding to the infamous decadence of the Imperial City during her father's
reign. When this accusation failed to stop her coronation, Uriel bought the
support of several disgruntled kings of High Rock, Skyrim, and Morrowind, and
with Queen Potema's assistance, he coordinated three attacks on the Septim
Empire.
The first attack occurred in the Iliac Bay region, which separates High Rock
and Hammerfell. Kintyra's entourage was massacred and the Empress taken
captive. For two years, Kintyra II languished in an Imperial prison believed
to be somewhere in Glenpoint or Glenmoril before she was slain in her cell
under mysterious circumstances. The second attack was on a series of
Imperial garrisons along the coastal Morrowind islands. The Empress' consort
Kontin Arynx fell defending the forts. The third and final attack was a
siege of the Imperial City itself, occurring after the Elder Council had
split up the army to attack western High Rock and eastern Morrowind. The
weakened government had little defence against Uriel's determined aggression,
and capitulated after only a fortnight of resistance. Uriel took the throne
that same evening and proclaimed himself Uriel III, Emperor of Tamriel. The
year was 3E 121. Thus began the War of the Red Diamond, described in Volume
II of this series.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Brief History of the Empire v 2
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BriefHistoryEmpire2
Weight: 4
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
A Brief History of the Empire
Part Two
by Stronach k'Thojj III
Imperial Historian
Volume I of this series described in brief the lives of the first eight
Emperors of the Septim Dynasty, beginning with the glorious Tiber Septim and
ending with his great, great, great, great, grandniece Kintyra II. Kintyra's
murder in Glenpoint while in captivity is considered by some to be the end of
the pure strain of Septim blood in the imperial family. Certainly it marks
the end of something significant.
Uriel III not only proclaimed himself Emperor of Tamriel, but also Uriel
Septim III, taking the eminent surname as a title. In truth, his surname was
Mantiarco from his father's line. In time, Uriel III was deposed and his
crimes reviled, but the tradition of taking the name Septim as a title for
the Emperor of Tamriel did not die with him.
For six years, the War of the Red Diamond (which takes its name from the
Septim Family's famous badge) tore the Empire apart. The combatants were the
three surviving children of Pelagius II-Potema, Cephorus, and Magnus-and
their various offspring. Potema, of course, supported her son Uriel III, and
had the combined support of all of Skyrim and northern Morrowind. With the
efforts of Cephorus and Magnus, however, the province of High Rock turned
coat. The provinces of Hammerfell, Summurset Isle, Valenwood, Elsweyr, and
Black Marsh were divided in their loyalty, but most kings supported Cephorus
and Magnus.
In 3E127, Uriel III was captured at the Battle of Ichidag in Hammerfell. En
route to his trial in the Imperial City, a mob overtook his prisoner's
carriage and burned him alive within it. His captor and uncle continued on
to the Imperial City, and by common acclaim was proclaimed Cephorus I,
Emperor of Tamriel.
Cephorus' reign was marked by nothing but war. By all accounts, he was a
kind and intelligent man, but what Tamriel needed was a great warrior -- and
he, fortunately, was that. It took an additional ten years of constant
warfare for him to defeat his sister Potema. The so-called Wolf Queen of
Solitude who died in the siege of her city-state in the year 137. Cephorus
survived his sister by only three years. He never had time during the war
years to marry, so it was his brother, the fourth child of Pelagius II, who
assumed the throne.
The Emperor Magnus was already elderly when he took up the imperial diadem,
and the business of punishing the traitorous kings of the War of the Red
Diamond drained much of his remaining strength. Legend accuses Magnus' son
and heir Pelagius III of patricide, but that seems highly unlikely-for no
other reason than that Pelagius was King of Solitude following the death of
Potema, and seldom visited the Imperial City.
Pelagius III, sometimes called Pelagius the Mad, was proclaimed Emperor in
the 145th year of the Third Era. Almost from the start, his eccentricities
of behaviour were noted at court. He embarrassed dignitaries, offended his
vassal kings, and on one occasion marked the end of an imperial grand ball by
attempting to hang himself. His long-suffering wife was finally awarded the
Regency of Tamriel, and Pelagius III was sent to a series of healing
institutions and asylums until his death in 3E153 at the age of thirty-four.
The Empress Regent of Tamriel was proclaimed Empress Katariah I upon the
death of her husband. Some who do not mark the end of the Septim bloodline
with the death of Kintyra II consider the ascendancy of this Dark Elf woman
the true mark of its decline. Her defenders, on the other hand, assert that
though Katariah was not descended from Tiber, the son she had with Pelagius
was, so the imperial chain did continue. Despite racist assertions to the
contrary, Katariah's forty-six-year reign was one of the most celebrated in
Tamriel's history. Uncomfortable in the Imperial City, Katariah travelled
extensively throughout the Empire such as no Emperor ever had since Tiber's
day. She repaired much of the damage that previous emperor's broken
alliances and bungled diplomacy created. The people of Tamriel came to love
their Empress far more than the nobility did. Katariah's death in a minor
skirmish in Black Marsh is a favorite subject of conspiracy minded
historians. The Sage Montalius' discovery, for instance, of a
disenfranchised branch of the Septim Family and their involvement with the
skirmish was a revelation indeed.
When Cassynder assumed the throne upon the death of his mother, he was
already middle-aged. Only half Elven, he aged like a Breton. In fact, he
had left the rule of Wayrest to his half-brother Uriel due to poor health.
Nevertheless, as the only true blood relation of Pelagius and thus Tiber, he
was pressed into accepting the throne. To no one's surprise, the Emperor
Cassynder's reign did not last long. In two years he joined his predecessors
in eternal slumber.
Uriel Lariat, Cassynder's half-brother, and the child of Katariah I and her
Imperial consort Gallivere Lariat (after the death of Pelagius III), left the
kingdom of Wayrest to reign as Uriel IV. Legally, Uriel IV was a Septim:
Cassynder had adopted him into the royal family when he had become King of
Wayrest. Nevertheless, to the Council and the people of Tamriel, he was a
bastard child of Katariah. Uriel did not possess the dynamism of his mother,
and his long forty-three-year reign was a hotbed of sedition.
Uriel IV's story is told in the third volume of this series.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Brief History of the Empire v 3
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BriefHistoryEmpire3
Weight: 4
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
A Brief History of the Empire
Part Three
by Stronach k'Thojj III
Imperial Historian
The first volume of this series told in brief the story of the succession of
the first eight Emperors of the Septim Dynasty, from Tiber I to Kintyra II.
The second volume described the War of the Red Diamond and the six Emperors
that followed its aftermath, from Uriel III to Cassynder I. At the end of
that volume, it was described how the Emperor Cassynder's half-brother Uriel
IV assumed the throne of the Empire of Tamriel.
It will be recalled that Uriel IV was not a Septim by birth. His mother,
though she reigned as Empress for many years, was a Dark Elf married to a
true Septim Emperor, Pelagius III. Uriel's father was actually Katariah I's
consort after Pelagius' death, a Breton nobleman named Gallivere Lariat.
Before taking the throne of Empire, Cassynder I had ruled the kingdom of
Wayrest, but poor health had forced him to retire. Cassynder had no
children, so he legally adopted his half-brother Uriel and abdicated the
kingdom. Seven years later, Cassynder inherited the Empire at the death of
his mother. Three years after that, Uriel once again found himself the
recipient of Cassynder's inheritance.
Uriel IV's reign was a long and difficult one. Despite being a legally
adopted member of the Septim Family, and despite the Lariat Family's high
position -- indeed, they were distant cousins of the Septims -- few of the
Elder Council could be persuaded to accept him fully as a blood descendant of
Tiber. The Council had assumed much responsibility during Katariah I's long
reign and Cassynder I's short one, and a strong-willed "alien" monarch like
Uriel IV found it impossible to command their unswerving fealty. Time and
again the Council and Emperor were at odds, and time and again the Council
won the battles. Since the days of Pelagius II, the Elder Council had
consisted of the wealthiest men and women in the Empire, and the power they
wielded was conclusive.
The Council's last victory over Uriel IV was posthumous. Andorak, Uriel IV's
son, was disinherited by vote of Council, and a cousin more closely related
to the original Septim line was proclaimed Cephorus II in 3E268. For the
first nine years of Cephorus II's reign, those loyal to Andorak battled the
Imperial forces. In an act that the Sage Eraintine called "Tiber Septim's
heart beating no more," the Council granted Andorak the High Rock kingdom of
Shornhelm to end the war, and Andorak's descendants still rule there.
By and large, Cephorus II had foes that demanded more of his attention than
Andorak. "From out of a cimmerian nightmare," in the words of Eraintine, a
man who called himself the Camoran Usurper led an army of Daedra and undead
warriors on a rampage through Valenwood, conquering kingdom after kingdom.
Few could resist his onslaughts, and as month turned to bloody month in the
year 3E249, even fewer tried. Cephorus II sent more and more mercenaries
into Hammerfell to stop the Usurper's northward march, but they were bribed
or slaughtered and raised as undead.
The story of the Camoran Usurper deserves a book of its own. (It is
recommended that the reader find Palaux Illthre's The Fall of the Usurper for
more detail.) In short, however, the destruction of the forces of the
Usurper had little do with the efforts of the Emperor. The result was a
great regional victory and an increase in hostility toward the seemingly
inefficacious Empire.
Uriel V, Cephorus II's son and successor, swivelled opinion back toward the
latent power of the Empire. Turning the attention of Tamriel away from
internal strife, Uriel V embarked on a series of invasions beginning almost
from the moment he took the throne in 3E268. Uriel V conquered Roscrea in
271, Cathnoquey in 276, Yneslea in 279, and Esroniet in 284. In 3E288, he
embarked on his most ambitious enterprise, the invasion of the continent
kingdom of Akavir. This ultimately proved a failure, for two years later
Uriel V was killed in Akavir on the battlefield of Ionith. Nevertheless,
Uriel V holds a reputation second only to Tiber as one of the two great
Warrior Emperors of Tamriel.
The last four Emperors, beginning with Uriel V's infant son, are described in
the fourth and final volume of this series.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Brief History of the Empire v 4
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BriefHistoryEmpire4
Weight: 4
Value: 50
Special Notes: None
A Brief History of the Empire
Part Four
by Stronach k'Thojj III
Imperial Historian
The first book of this series described, in brief, the first eight Emperors
of the Septim Dynasty beginning with Tiber I. The second volume described
the War of the Red Diamond and the six Emperors who followed. The third
volume described the troubles of the next three Emperors-the frustrated Uriel
IV, the ineffectual Cephorus II, and the heroic Uriel V.
On Uriel V's death across the sea in distant, hostile Akavir, Uriel VI was
but five years old. In fact, Uriel VI was born only shortly before his
father left for Akavir. Uriel V's only other progeny, by a morganatic
alliance, were the twins Morihatha and Eloisa, who had been born a month
after Uriel V left. Uriel VI was crowned in the 290th year of the Third Era.
The Imperial Consort Thonica, as the boy's mother, was given a restricted
Regency until Uriel VI reached his majority. The Elder Council retained the
real power, as they had ever since the days of Katariah I.
The Council so enjoyed its unlimited and unrestricted freedom to promulgate
laws (and generate profits) that Uriel VI was not given full license to rule
until 307, when he was already 22 years old. He had been slowly assuming
positions of responsibility for years, but both the Council and his mother,
who enjoyed even her limited Regency, were loath to hand over the reins. By
the time he came to the throne, the mechanisms of government gave him little
power except for that of the imperial veto.
This power, however, he regularly and vigorously exercised. By 313, Uriel VI
could boast with conviction that he truly did rule Tamriel. He utilized
defunct spy networks and guard units to bully and coerce the difficult
members of the Elder Council. His half-sister Morihatha was (not
surprisingly) his staunchest ally, especially after her marriage to Baron
Ulfe Gersen of Winterhold brought her considerable wealth and influence. As
the Sage Ugaridge said, "Uriel V conquered Esroniet, but Uriel VI conquered
the Elder Council."
When Uriel VI fell off a horse and could not be resuscitated by the finest
Imperial healers, his beloved sister Morihatha took up the imperial tiara.
At 25 years of age, she had been described by (admittedly self-serving)
diplomats as the most beautiful creature in all of Tamriel. She was
certainly well-learned, vivacious, athletic, and a well-practised politician.
She brought the Archmagister of Skyrim to the Imperial City and created the
second Imperial Battlemage since the days of Tiber Septim.
Morihatha finished the job her brother had begun, and made the Imperial
Province a true government under the Empress (and later, the Emperor).
Outside the Imperial Province, however, the Empire had been slowly
disintegrating. Open revolutions and civil wars had raged unchallenged since
the days of her grandfather Cephorus II. Carefully coordinating her
counterattacks, Morihatha slowly claimed back her rebellious vassals, always
avoiding overextending herself.
Though Morihatha's military campaigns were remarkably successful, her
deliberate pace often frustrated the Council. One Councilman, an Argonian
who took the Colovian name of Thoricles Romus, furious at her refusal to send
troops to his troubled Black Marsh, is commonly believed to have hired the
assassins who claimed her life in 3E 339. Romus was summarily tried and
executed, though he protested his innocence to the last.
Morihatha had no surviving children, and Eloisa had died of a fever four
years before. Eloisa's 25-year-old son Pelagius was thus crowned Pelagius
IV. Pelagius IV continued his aunt's work, slowly bringing back under his
wing the radical and refractory kingdoms, duchies, and baronies of the
Empire. He exercised Morihatha's poise and circumspect pace in his
endeavours-but alas, he did not attain her success. The kingdoms had been
free of constraint for so long that even a benign Imperial presence was
considered odious. Nevertheless, when Pelagius died after an astonishing
forty-nine-year reign, Tamriel was closer to unity than it had been since the
days of Uriel I.
Our current Emperor, His Awesome and Terrible Majesty, Uriel Septim VII, son
of Pelagius IV, has the diligence of his great-aunt Morihatha, the political
skill of his great-uncle Uriel VI, and the military prowess of his great
grand-uncle Uriel V. For twenty-one years he reigned and brought justice and
order to Tamriel. In the year 3E389, however, his Imperial Battlemage, Jagar
Tharn, betrayed him.
Uriel VII was imprisoned in a dimension of Tharn's creation, and Tharn used
his sorcery of illusion to assume the Emperor's aspect. For the next ten
years, Tharn abused imperial privilege but did not continue Uriel VII's
schedule of reconquest. It is not yet entirely known what Tharn's goals and
personal accomplishments were during the ten years he masqueraded as his
liege lord. In 3E399, an enigmatic Champion defeated the Battlemage in the
dungeons of the Imperial Palace and freed Uriel VII from his other-
dimensional jail.
Since his emancipation, Uriel Septim VII has worked diligently to renew the
battles that would reunite Tamriel. Tharn's interference broke the momentum,
it is true -- but the years since then have proven that there is hope of the
Golden Age of Tiber Septim's rule glorifying Tamriel once again.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Brown Book of 3E 426
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_BrownBook426
Weight: 3
Value: 75
Special Notes: Opens Telvanni councilor conversation topics
Brown Book of Great House Telvanni
[The Brown Book is a yearbook of the affairs of the Telvanni Council of
Vvardenfell District for 3E 426. It lists the current members of the council,
their residences, and their representatives in Sadrith Mora. It also
chronicles significant events and council actions for the year.]
Councilors of House Telvanni, Vvardenfell District, Imperial Era 426
Archmagister Gothren, Lord High Magus of Telvanni Council, Vvardenfell
District, Tower of Tel Aruhn, East Molag Amur, District of Vvardenfell,
Province of Morrowind
Master Aryon, Mage Lord of Telvanni Council, Vvardenfell District, Tower of
Tel Vos, Village of Vos, The Grazelands, District of Vvardenfell, Province of
Morrowind
Master Neloth, Mage Lord of Telvanni Council, Vvardenfell District, Tower of
Tel Naga, Sadrith Mora, District of Vvardenfell, Province of Morrowind
Mistress Dratha, Mage Lord of Telvanni Council, Vvardenfell District, Tower
of Tel Mora, The Grazelands, District of Vvardenfell, Province of Morrowind
Mistress Therana, Mage Lord of Telvanni Council, Vvardenfell District, Tower
of Tel Branora, Azura's Coast, District of Vvardenfell, Province of Morrowind
Councilor Representatives of House Telvanni, Council Hall, Sadrith Mora
For Archmagister Gothren: Mouth Mallam Ryon, Mage
For Master Aryon: Mouth Arara Uvulas
For Master Neloth: Mouth Raven Omayn
For Mistress Therana: Felisa Ulessen
For Mistress Dratha: Mouth Mallam Ryon
Council Actions
In response to repeated protests from Duke Dren and representative of the
other Great Houses, Telvanni Council reminded them that, according to ancient
law and custom, Telvanni Council places no constraint on the ambitions and
enterprise of its individual members. If the Empire or other House Councils
wish to dispute Telvanni exploration and colonization of the wastes and
wildernesses of Vvardenfell, they are welcome to do so, with the Councilors'
best wishes, but Telvanni Council will not contribute its resources or
authority to such endeavors.
The council renews its objection to proposals placed before Duke Dren and the
Grand Council concerning slavery and slave trading in Vvardenfell District.
The right to own and trade slaves is guaranteed by the terms of the Treaty of
the Armistice, and Telvanni Council will not entertain any discussion of
abridgements of those rights.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Caldera Ledger
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_CalderaRecordBook1
Weight: 3
Value: 0
Special Notes: None
[This book shows the ebony mined in and shipped from Caldera. You don't see
anything suspicious in the figures.]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Capn's Guide to the Fishy Stick
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bk_fishystick
Weight: 2
Value: 5
Special Notes: None
[This book is supposedly the definitive reference to fishy sticks throughout
Tamriel, but the pages are so smeared with fishy stick sauce it is impossible
to read any of them.]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chance's Folly
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_security4
Weight: 3
Value: 250
Special Notes: Raises Security skill 1 point the first time the book is read
Chance's Folly
by Zylmoc Golge
By the time she was sixteen, Minevah Iolos had been an unwelcome guest in
every shop and manor in Balmora. Sometimes, she would take everything of
value within; other times, it was enough to experience the pure pleasure of
finding a way past the locks and traps. In either situation, she would leave
a pair of dice in a prominent location as her calling card to let the owners
know who had burgled them. The mysterious ghost became known to the locals as
Chance.
A typical conversation in Balmora at this time:
"My dear, whatever happened to that marvelous necklace of yours?"
"My dear, it was taken by Chance."
The only time when Chance disliked her hobby was when she miscalculated, and
she came upon an owner or a guard. So far, she had never been caught, or even
seen, but dozens of times she had uncomfortably close encounters. There came
a day when she felt it was time to expand her reach. She considered going to
Vivec or Gnisis, but one night at the Eight Plates, she heard a tale of the
Heran Ancestral Tomb, an ancient tomb filled with traps and possessing
hundreds of years of the Heran family treasures.
The idea of breaking the spell of the Heran Tomb and gaining the fortune
within appealed to Chance, but facing the guardians was outside of her
experience. While she was considering her options, she saw Ulstyr Moresby
sitting at a table nearby, by himself as usual. He was huge brute of a Breton
who had a reputation as a gentle eccentric, a great warrior who had gone mad
and paid more attention to the voices in his head than to the world around
him.
If she must have a partner in this enterprise, Chance decided, this man would
be perfect. He would not demand or understand the concept of getting an equal
share of the booty. If worse came to worse, he would not be missed if the
inhabitants of the Heran Tomb were too much for him. Or if Chance found his
company tiresome and elected to leave him behind.
"Ulstyr, I don't think we've ever met, but my name is Minevah," she said,
approaching the table. "I'm fancying a trip to the Heran Ancestral Tomb. If
you think you could handle the monsters, I could take care of unlocking doors
and popping traps. What do you think?"
The Breton took a moment to reply, as if considering the counsel of the
voices in his head. Finally he nodded his head in the affirmative, mumbling,
"Yes, yes, yes, prop a rock, hot steel. Chitin. Walls beyond doors. Fifty-
three. Two months and back."
"Splendid," said Chance, not the least put off by his rambling. "We'll leave
early tomorrow."
When Chance met Ulstyr the next morning, he was wearing chitin armor and had
armed himself with an unusual blade that glowed faintly of enchantment. As
they began their trek, she tried to engage him in conversation, but his
responses were so nonsensical that she quickly abandoned the attempts. A
sudden rainstorm swelled over the plain, dousing them, but as she was wearing
no armor and Ulstyr was wearing slick chitin, their progress was not impeded.
Into the dark recesses of the Heran Tomb, they delved. Her instincts had been
correct -- they made very good partners.
She recognized the ancient snap-wire traps, deadfalls, and brittle backs
before they were triggered, and cracked all manners of lock: simple tumbler,
combination, twisted hasp, double catch, varieties from antiquity with no
modern names, rusted heaps that would have been dangerous to open even if one
possessed the actual key.
Ulstyr for his part slew scores of bizarre fiends, the likes of which Chance,
a city girl, had never seen before. His enchanted blade's spell of fire was
particularly effective against the Frost Atronachs. He even saved her when
she lost her footing and nearly plummeted into a shadowy crack in the floor.
"Not to hurt thyself," he said, his face showing genuine concern. "There are
walls beyond doors and fifty-three. Drain ring. Two months and back. Prop a
rock. Come, Mother Chance."
Chance had not been listening to much of Ulstyr's babbling, but when he said
"Chance," she was startled. She had introduced herself to him as Minevah.
Could it be that the peasants were right, and that when mad men spoke, they
were talking to the daedra prince Sheogorath who gave them advice and
information beyond their ken? Or was it rather, more sensibly, that Ulstyr
was merely repeating what he heard tell of in Balmora where in recent years
"Chance" had become synonymous with lockpicking?
As the two continued on, Chance thought of Ulstyr's mumblings. He had said
"chitin" when they met as if it had just occurred to him, and the chitin
armor that he wore had proven useful. Likewise, "hot steel." What could
"walls beyond doors" mean? Or "two months and back"? What numbered "fifty-
three"?
The notion that Ulstyr possessed secret knowledge about her and the tomb they
were in began to unnerve Chance. She made up her mind then to abandon her
companion once the treasure had been found. He had cut through the living and
undead guardians of the dungeon: if she merely left by the path they had
entered, she would be safe without a defender.
One phrase he said made perfect sense to her: "drain ring." At one of the
manors in Balmora, she had picked up a ring purely because she thought it was
pretty. It was not until later that she discovered that it could be used to
sap other people's vitality. Could Ulstyr be aware of this? Would he be taken
by surprise if she used it on him?
She formulated her plan on how best to desert the Breton as they continued
down the hall. Abruptly the passage ended with a large metal door, secured by
a golden lock. Using her pick, Chance snapped away the two tumblers and bolt,
and swung the door open. The treasure of the Heran Tomb was within.
Chance quietly slipped her glove off her hand, exposing the ring as she
stepped into the room. There were fifty-three bags of gold within. As she
turned, the door closed between her and the Breton. On her side, it did not
resemble a door anymore, but a wall. Walls beyond doors.
For many days, Chance screamed and screamed, as she tried to find a way out
of the room. For some days after that, she listened dully to the laughter of
Sheogorath within her own head. Two months later, when Ulstyr returned, she
was dead. He used a rock to prop open the door and remove the gold.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 1
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_unarmored2
Weight: 3
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Unarmored skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Charwich-Koniinge Letters, Book I
6 Suns Height, 3E 411
Kambria, High Rock
My Dear Koniinge,
I hope this letter reaches you in Sadrith Mora. It's been many weeks since
I've heard from you, and I hope that the address that I have for you is still
up-to-date. I gave the courier some extra gold, so if he doesn't find you,
he is to make inquiries to your whereabouts. As you can see, after a rather
tedious crossing, I've at long last made my way from Bhoriane to my favorite
principality in High Rock, surprisingly literate and always fascinating
Kambria. I at once ensconced myself in one of the better libraries here,
becoming reacquainted with the locals and the lore. At the risk of being
overly optimistic, I think I might have struck on something very interesting
about this mysterious fellow, Hadwaf Neithwyr.
Many here in town remember him, though few very fondly. When Hadwaf Neithwyr
left, so too did a great plague. No one thinks it a coincidence.
According to my contacts here, Azura is not his only master. It may be that
when he summoned forth the Daedra and accepted her Star, he was doing so for
someone named Baliasir. Apparently, Neithwyr worked for this Baliasir in
some capacity, but I never could find out from anyone exactly what Baliasir's
line of business was, nor what Neithwyr did for him. Zenithar, the God of
Work and Commerce, is the most revered deity in Kambria, which served my
(that is to say our) purposes well, as the people are naturally receptive to
bribery. Still, it did me little good. I could find nothing specific about
our quarry. After days of inquiry, an old crone recommended that I go to a
nearby village called Grimtry Garden, and find the cemetery caretaker there.
I set off at once.
I know you are impatient when it comes to details, and have little taste for
Breton architecture, but if you ever find yourself in mid-High Rock, you owe
it to yourself to visit this quaint village. Like a number of other similar
towns in High Rock, there is a high wall surrounded it. As well as being
picturesque, it's a remnant of the region's turbulent past and a useful
barrier against the supernatural creatures that sometimes stalk the
countryside. More about that in a moment.
The cemetery is actually outside of the city gates, I discovered. The locals
warned me to wait until morning to speak to the caretaker, but I was
impatient for information, and did not want to waste a moment. I trekked
through the woods to the lonely graveyard, and immediately found the
shuffling, elderly man who was the caretaker. He bade me leave, that the
land was haunted and if I chose to stay I would be in the greatest danger. I
told him that I would not go until he told me what he knew about Hadwaf
Neithwyr and his patron Baliasir. On hearing their names, he fled deeper
into the jumble of broken tombstones and decrepit mausoleums. I naturally
pursued.
I saw him scramble down into an enormous crypt and gave chase. There was no
light within, but I had planned enough to bring with me a torch. The minute
I lit it, I heard a long, savage howl pierce the silence, and I knew that the
caretaker had left quickly not merely because he feared speaking of Neithwyr
and Baliasir. Before I saw the creature, I heard its heavy breath and the
clack of its clawed feet on stone moving closer to me. The werewolf emerged
from the gloom, brown and black, with slavering jaws, looking at me with the
eyes of the cemetery caretaker, now given only to animal hunger.
I instantly had three different instinctive reactions. The first was, of
course, flight. The second was to fight. But if I fled, I might never find
the caretaker again, and learn what he knew. If I fought, I might injure or
even kill the creature and be even worse off. So I elected to go with my
third option: to hold my ground and keep the creature within its tomb until
the night became morning, and the caretaker resumed his humanity.
I've sparred often enough unarmored, but surely never with so much at stake,
and never with so savage an opponent. My mind was always on danger not only
of injury but the dread disease of lycanthropy. Every rake of its claw I
parried, every snap of its foaming jaws I ducked. I sidestepped when it
tried to rush me, but closed the distance to keep it from escaping into the
night. For hours we fought, I always on the defense, it always trying to
free itself, or slay me, or both. I have no doubt that a werewolf has
greater energy reserves than a man, but it is a beast and does not know how
to save and temper its movements. As the dawn rose, we were both nearly
unconscious from fatigue, but I received my reward. The creature became a
man once again.
He was quite considerably friendlier than he had been before. In fact, when
he realized that I had prevented him from going on his nocturnal rampage
through the countryside, he became positively affable.
Here's what I learned: Neithwyr never returned to High Rock. As far as the
old man knows, he is still in Morrowind. I visited the gravesite of his
sister Peryra, and learned that it was probably through her that Neithwyr
first met his patron. It would seem that she was quite a well-known
courtesan in her day, and very well traveled, though she chose to return home
to die. Unlike Neithwyr, Baliasir is not far away from me. He is a shadowy
character, but lately, according to the caretaker, he has been paying court
to Queen Elysana in Wayrest. I leave at once.
Please write to me as soon as possible to tell me of your progress. I should
be in Wayrest at the home of my friend Lady Elysbetta Moorling in a week's
time. If Baliasir is at court, Lady Moorling will be able to arrange an
introduction.
I feel confident in saying that we are very close to Azura's Star.
Your Friend,
Charwich
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 2
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: bookskill_hand to hand3
Weight: 3
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Hand-to-Hand skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Charwich-Koniinge Letters, Book II
3 Last Seed, 3E 411
Tel Aruhn, Morrowind
My Good Friend Charwich,
I only just last week received your letter dated 6 Sun's Height, addressed to
me in Sadrith Mora. I did not know how to reach you before to tell you of my
progress finding Hadwaf Neithwyr, so I send this to you now care of the lady
you mentioned in your letter, the Lady Elysbetta Moorling of Wayrest. I hope
that if you have left her palace, she will know where you've gone and can
send this to you. And I hope further that you receive it in a timelier manner
that I received your letter. It is essential that I hear from you soon so we
may coordinate our next course of action.
My adventures here have two acts, one before I received your letter, and one
immediately after. While you searched for the elusive possessor of Azura's
Star in his homeland to the west, I searched for him here where we understood
he conjured up the Daedra Prince and received from her the artifact.
Like you, I had little difficulty finding people who had heard of or even
knew Neithwyr. In fact, not long after we parted company and you left for the
Iliac Bay, I met someone who knew where he went to perform the ceremony, so I
left at once to come here to Tel Aruhn. It took some time to locate my
contact, for he is a Dissident Priest named Minerath. The Temple and
Tribunal, the real powers of Morrowind, tend to frown on his Order, and while
they haven't begun so much of crusade to stamp them out, there are certainly
rumors that they will soon. This tends to make priests like Minerath skittish
and paranoid. Difficult people to set appointments with.
Finally I was told that he would be willing to talk to me at the Plot and
Plaster, a tiny tavern without even a room to rent. Downstairs, there were
several cloaked men crammed around the tavern's only table, and they searched
me to see if I had any weaponry. Of course, I hadn't. You know that isn't my
preferred method of doing business.
When it decided that I was harmless, one of the cloaked figures revealed
himself to be Minerath. I paid him the gold I promised and asked him what he
knew about Hadwaf Neithwyr. He remembered him well enough, saying that after
he received the Star, the lad intended to return to High Rock. It seemed he
had unfinished business there, presumably of a violent nature, which Azura's
Star would facilitate. He had no other information, and I did not know what
else to ask.
We parted company and I waited for your letter, hoping you had found Neithwyr
and perhaps even the Star. I confess that as I lingered in Morrowind and
never heard from you, I began to have doubts about your character. You'll
forgive me for saying so, but I began to fear that you had taken the artifact
for yourself. In fact, I was making plans to come to High Rock myself when
your letter came at last.
The tale of your adventure in the cemetery at Grimtry Garden, and the
information you gathered from the lycanthropic caretaker inspired me to have
another meeting with Minerath. Thus began the second act of my story.
I returned to the Pot and Plaster, reasoning that the priest must frequent
that area of the city to feel so comfortable setting clandestine meetings
there. It took some time searching, but I finally found him, and as luck
would have it, he was alone. I called his name, and he quickly drew me to a
dark alleyway, nervous that we would be seen by a Temple ordinator.
It is a rare and beautiful thing when a victim insists on dragging his killer
to a remote location.
I began at once asking about this fellow you mentioned, Neithwyr's mysterious
patron Baliasir. He denied ever having heard the name. We were still in that
easy, fairly conversational state when I attacked the priest. Of course, he
was completely taken by surprise. In some ways, that can be more effective
than an ambush from behind. No matter how many times I've done it, no one
ever expected the friendly man they're talking to grip them by the neck.
I pressed hard against my favorite spot in the soft part of the throat, just
below the thyroid cartilage, and it took him too long to react to my lunge
and try pushing back. He began to lose consciousness, and I whispered that if
I released my grip a little so he could talk and breath, but he tried to call
for help, I would snap his neck. He nodded, and I relaxed the pressure, just
a bit.
I asked him again about Baliasir, and he shook his head, insisting that he
had never heard the name. As frightened as he was, it seemed most likely that
he was telling the truth, so I asked him more generally if he knew anyone
else who might know something about Hadwaf Neithwyr. He told me that there
was a woman present also during the ceremony, someone he introduced as his
sister.
I remembered then the part of your letter about seeing the grave of
Neithwyr's sister, Peryra. When I mentioned the name to the priest he nodded
frantically, but I could see that the interrogation had reached an ending.
There is, after all, something about being throttled that causes a man to
answer yes to every question. I snapped Minerath's neck, and returned home.
So now I'm again unsure how to proceed. I've made several more inquiries and
several of the same people who met Neithwyr remember him being with a woman.
A few recall him saying that she was his sister. One or two believe they
remember her name as being Peryra, though they're not certain. No one,
however, has heard of anyone named Baliasir.
If I do not hear word from you in response to this in the next couple of
weeks, I will come to High Rock, because it's there that most people believe
Neithwyr returned. I will only stay here long enough to see if there are
other inquiries I can make only in Morrowind to bring us closer to our goal
of recovering Azura's Star.
Your Friend,
Koniinge
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Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 3
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Object ID: BookSkill_Mysticism5
Weight: 3
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Mysticism skill 1 point the first time the book is read
The Charwich-Koniinge Letters, Book III
13 Last Seed, 3E 411
Wayrest, High Rock
My Dear Koniinge,
Please forgive the quality of the handwriting on this note, but I have not
long to live. I can only reply in detail to one part of your letter, and that
is that I fear Baliasir, contrary to what you've heard, is very much real.
Had he been but a figment of that caretaker's imagination, I would not be
feeling life ebb from me as I write this.
Lady Moorling has sent for healers, but I know they won't arrive in time. I
just need to explain what happened so that you'll understand, and then all my
affairs in this world will be ended. The one advantage of my condition is
that I must be brief, without my habitually ornamental descriptions of people
and places. I know that you will appreciate that at least.
It started when I came to Wayrest, and through my friend Lady Moorling and
her court connections was introduced to Baliasir himself. I had to proceed
carefully, not wanting him to know of our designs on Azura's Star which I
presumed he possessed, given to him by his servant Hadwaf Neithwyr. His
function in Queen Elysana's court seemed to be decorative, like so many of
her courtiers, and it was not hard to differentiate myself from the others
when we began conversing on the school of mysticism. Many of the other
hangers-on at the palace can speak eloquently on the subject of the magickal
arts, but it seemed that only he and I had deep knowledge of the craft.
Many a nobleman or adventurer who aren't mages by profession learn a spell or
two from the useful schools of restoration or destruction. I told Baliasir
quite truthfully that I had never learned any of that (oh, but I wish I knew
some healing spells of the school of restoration now), but that I had
developed some small skill in mysticism. Not enough to be a Psijic, of
course, but in telekinesis, password, and spell reflection I had some amateur
ability. He responded with compliments, which allowed me to segue into the
topic of another spell of mysticism, the soul trap.
I told him I was unlearned but curious about that spell. And very naturally
and comfortably, I was able to bring up the subject of Azura's Star, the
endless well of souls.
Imagine how I had to hold back my excitement when he leaned in and whispered
to me, "If that interests you, come to Klythic's Cairn west of the city
tomorrow night."
I couldn't sleep at all. The only thing I could think of was how I would get
the Star when he showed it to me. I still knew so little about Baliasir, his
past and his power, but the opportunity was too great to let pass. Still, I
must admit that I held hopes that you would arrive, as you threatened you
might in your letter, so I might have someone of physical strength to aid me
in my adventure.
I am growing weaker and weaker as I write this, so I must proceed with the
basic facts. I went to the crypt the following night, and Baliasir led me
through the maze of it to the repository where he kept the Star. We were
talking quite casually, and as you've so often said, it seemed an excellent
time for an ambush. I grabbed the Star and unsheathed my blade in what I felt
was amazing speed.
He turned to me and I suddenly felt that I was moving like a snail. In a
flash, Baliasir changed his form and became his true self, not man or mer,
but daedra. A colossal daedra lord who swiped back the Star from my grasp and
laughed at my sword as it thudded against his impenetrable hide.
I knew I had been beaten, and I threw myself towards the corridor. A blue
flash of energy coursed through me, flung by Baliasir's claws. At once, I
began to feel death. He could have smote me with a thousand spells, but he
chose the one where I could lie down, and suffer, and hear him laugh. At the
very least, I did not give him that pleasure.
Already struck, it was too late for me to cast a counterspell of mysticism,
one to dispel the magicka, reflect it or absorb it as my own. But I did still
know how to teleport myself, what mystics term 'Recall,' to whatever place
I'd last set a spiritual anchor. I confess that at the time, I didn't
remember where that would be. Perhaps in Bhoriane when I arrived in the Iliac
Bay, or in Kambria, or in Grimtry Garden where I met the caretaker, or my
hostess's palace in Wayrest. I prayed that I had not set the anchor last when
I was with you in Morrowind, for it said that if the distance is too great,
one can be caught between dimensions. Still, I was willing to take that
chance, rather than being the plaything of Baliasir.
I cast the spell and found myself back on the doorstep of Lady Moorling's
palace. To be out of the crypt and away from the daedra was a relief, but I
had so hoped that I had been smart enough to cast an anchor near a Mages
Guild or a temple where I could find a healer. Instead, knowing I was too
weak to walk far, I beat on the door and was taken here, where I write this
letter, lying in my bed.
As I wrote those words, dear Elysbetta, Lady Moorling, came in, quite
tearfully and frantic, to tell me the healers should be hre withn but a few
minute. But I wil be ded ere they arrve. I know thes are m last wors. Der
frend, stay away frm this cursd place.
Yr Frend,
Charwich
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Charwich-Koniinge, Volume 4
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Object ID: bookskill_hand to hand4
Weight: 3
Value: 300
Special Notes: Raises Hand-to-Hand skill 1 point the first time the book is
read
The Charwich-Koniinge Letters, Book IV
8 Sun's Dawn, 3E 412
Amiglith, Summurset Isle
My Good Friend, Lord Gemyn,
You must forgive me for not meeting you at the palace personally, but I've
been unavoidably, tragically detained. I've left the front gate and door
unlocked, and if you're reading this, you must have made it at least as far
the antechamber to the east drawing room. Perhaps you've already wandered
the estate and seen some of its delights before coming to this chamber: the
seven fountains of marble and porphyry, the reflecting pool, the various
groves, the colonnades and quincunx. I don't think you would have already
gone to the second floor suites and the west wing as you would have had to
pass this room first, and picked up this letter. But believe me, they're
beautifully appointed with magnificent balustrades, winding staircases,
intimate salons, and bedchambers worthy of your affluence.
The price of this property is exorbitant, certainly, but for a man like you
who seeks only the best, this is the villa you must have. As you undoubtedly
noticed as you arrived through the gates, there are several smaller buildings
ideally suited to be guard stations. I know you are concerned with security.
I am an intensely greedy man, and there is nothing I would have liked more
than to meet you here today, show you the grounds, fawn on you obsequiously,
and collect a fat percentage of the cost of the sale when you bought this
marvelous palace, as I'm sure you would have. My dilemma that caused my
inexcusable absence began shortly after I arrived here early to make certain
the villa was well-cleaned for your inspection. A man named Koniinge crept
up behind me, and gripped me by the throat. Clamping his left hand over my
mouth and nose, and throttling me with his right hand, crushing the soft spot
on my throat just below the thyroidal cartilage, he effectively strangled me
in a few quick but very painful minutes.
I am currently buried in a pile of leaves in the north statuary parterre,
close to the exceptional sculptural representation of the Transformation of
Trinimac. It should not be too long before I am discovered: someone at my
bank will surely notice my absence in due time. Koniinge might have buried
me deeper, but he wanted to be ready for the arrival of his old partner,
Charwich.
Perhaps part of you thinks it best to stop reading now, Lord Gemyn. You are
looking around the antechamber and seeing nothing but doors. The large one
you took to come in from the garden is locked now behind you, and without a
better knowledge of the layout of the estate, I could not recommend you
attempt to flee down a corridor that might easily come to a dead end. No.
Much better to keep reading, and see where this is going.
Koniinge, it seems, was in a partnership with his friend Charwich to try to
recover Azura's Star. They understood it to be in the possession of someone
named Hadwaf Neithwyr, a man who conjured up the Daedra Prince Azura herself
to acquire it. As Neithwyr originally haled from High Rock, Charwich went
there to look for him, while his partner searched Morrowind. They planned to
communicate their findings by letters sent through couriers.
Charwich's first letter stated that he had found information that Neithwyr
had a mysterious patron named Baliasir, a fact he had learned at a cemetery
with a gravestone of Neithwyr's sister Peryra and a lycanthropic caretaker.
Koniinge replied back that he could find nothing about Baliasir, but believed
that Neithwyr had returned to High Rock with Peryra after getting the Star.
Charwich's last letter was a written on his deathbed, having sustained mortal
wounds from his battle with Baliasir, who it seemed had been a mighty daedra
lord.
Koniinge grieved for his friend, and traveled the span of the Empire to
Wayrest, to pay his call of condolences on Lady Moorling, the woman at whose
house Charwich had been staying. After making some inquiries, Koniinge
learned that her ladyship had left the city, quite suddenly. She had been
entertaining a guest named Charwich, and it was understood that he had died,
though no one ever saw the body. Certainly no healers had been sent to her
house on the 13th of Last Seed of last year. And no one in Wayrest, just
like no one in Tel Aruhn, had ever heard of Baliasir.
Poor Koniinge was suddenly unsure of everything. He retraced his late
partner's path through Boriane and Grimtry Gardens, but found that the
Neithwyr family crypt was elsewhere, in a small town in the barony of
Dwynnen. There was indeed a lycanthropic caretaker, fortunately in human
form at the time. When questioned (using the technique of strangulation,
release, strangulation, release), he told Koniinge the story that he had told
Charwich many months before.
Hadwaf and Peryra Neithwyr had returned to Dwynnen, intent on settling old
business. As the Star requires potent spirits for power, they thought they
would begin small by capturing the spirit of the werewolf they knew of in the
family graveyard. Sadly, for them, their grasp exceeded their reach. When
the poor caretaker resumed his human form one morning, he found himself lying
next to the shredded, bloody bodies of the Neithwyr siblings. Distressed and
fearful, he brought the corpses and all their possessions down into the
crypt. They were still there when Charwich came, and so too was Azura's
Star.
Koniinge now saw things clearly. The letters he had received from Charwich
were lies, intended to keep him away. Undoubtedly with the assistance of
Lady Moorling, his new partner, he