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| | | | | _ < | | | | \ / | | | | | | | . ` |
| `--' | | |_) | | `----.| | \ / | | | `--' | | |\ |
\______/ |______/ |_______||__| \__/ |__| \______/ |__| \__|
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I:
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==========================================================================
This is a FAQ about the books of the Elder Scrolls IV Oblivion and it's
various offical mods including the Knights of the Nine and Shivering Isles,
where to find them, and the text that is in them.
=================================================
II:
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( (__ )(_)( ) ( )( )__) ) ( )( \__ \
\___)(_____)(_)\_) (__) (____)(_)\_) (__) (___/
===================================================
I. Introduction
II. Table of Contents
III. Contacting Me
IV. Version History
V. Book FAQ
V.1 Skill Books
V.2 The Books
VI. Credits
VII. Legal Stuff
VIII. The End
========================================================================
III:
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=========================================================================
You may contact me at theshadowdragon777@yahoo.com but only for the
following things.
*Errors in my guide
*Spelling Mistakes
*Suggestions
*Praise
*Contributions
*Constructive Criticism
*Asking if you can use this FAQ on your site
Things you should not email to me:
*SPAM
*Things that have nothing to do with Oblivion
*Hate Mail/Flames
*etc...
=================================================
IV:
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\ Y // __ \_ __ \/ ___/ |/ _ \ / \
\ /\ ___/| | \/\___ \| ( <_> ) | \
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\/ \/ \/
___ ___ .__ __
/ | \|__| _______/ |_ ___________ ___.__.
/ ~ \ |/ ___/\ __\/ _ \_ __ < | |
\ Y / |\___ \ | | ( <_> ) | \/\___ |
\___|_ /|__/____ > |__| \____/|__| / ____|
\/ \/ \/
====================================================
Version Number: 0.1
Date Added: 07/04/07
What's New: Started
Version Number: 1.0
Date: 11/15/07
What's New: Finally got over lots of lazyness and finished it,
Everything is new.
Version Number: 1.1
Date: 11/20/07
What's New: Added Shivering Isles books
===========================================================================
V:
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| | | '_ \ / _ \ | _ < / _ \ / _ \| |/ / | __/ /\ \| | | |
| | | | | | __/ | |_) | (_) | (_) | < | | / ____ \ |__| |
|_| |_| |_|\___| |____/ \___/ \___/|_|\_\ |_|/_/ \_\___\_\
===========================================================================
As in previous Elder Scrolls games, Oblivion is full of books.
In this FAQ I will list each one, where to find most of them,
and even have what is said within them. Many of the nonmagic
books are found all over Oblivion and there is not really a
specific spot to look for them so if there is a book without
a location usually that means it is one of these. If there is
a specific location for a book and I don't have in this FAQ
feel free to Email me and I may add it into the FAQ and give
you credit for finding it.
Table of Contents
ACROBATIC BOOKS
LOLZ01 - The Black Arrow, v1
LOLZ02 - A Dance in Fire, v1
LOLZ03 - A Dance in Fire, v4
LOLZ04 - Mystery of Talara, v1
LOLZ05 - Thief
ALCHEMY BOOKS
LOLZ06 - Calcinator Treatise
LOLZ07 - De Rerum Dirennis
LOLZ08 - A Game at Dinner
LOLZ09 - Mannimarco, King of Worms
LOLZ10 - Song of the Alchemists
ALTERATION BOOKS
LOLZ11 - Daughter of the Niben
LOLZ12 - The Dragon Break
LOLZ13 - The Lunar Lorkhan
LOLZ14 - Reality & Other Falsehoods
LOLZ15 - Sithis
ARMORER BOOKS
LOLZ16 - The Armorer's Challenge
LOLZ17 - Cherim's Heart of Anequina
LOLZ18 - Heavy Armor Repair
LOLZ19 - Last Scabbard of Akrash
LOLZ20 - Light Armor Repair
ATHLETICS BOOKS
LOLZ21 - The Argonian Account, Book 1
LOLZ22 - Beggar
LOLZ23 - A Dance in Fire, v3
LOLZ24 - The Ransom of Zarek
LOLZ25 - The Red Kitchen Reader
BLADE BOOKS
LOLZ26 - 2920, Morning Star (V1)
LOLZ27 - Battle of Sancre Tor
LOLZ28 - Fire and Darkness
LOLZ29 - Song of Hrormir
LOLZ30 - Words and Philosophy
BLOCK BOOKS
LOLZ31 - A Dance in Fire, V2
LOLZ32 - Death Blow of Abernaint
LOLZ33 - The Mirror
LOLZ34 - The Warp in the West
LOLZ35 - Warrior
BLUNT BOOKS
LOLZ36 - The Importance of Where
LOLZ37 - King
LOLZ38 - The Legendary Sancre Tor
LOLZ39 - Mace Etiquette
LOLZ40 - Night Falls on Sentinal
CONJURATION BOOKS
LOLZ41 - 2920, Frostfall (v10)
LOLZ42 - 2920, Hearth Fire (V9)
LOLZ43 - The Doors of Oblivion
LOLZ44 - Liminal Bridges
LOLZ45 - Mythic Dawn Commentaries 1
LOLZ46 - The Warrior's Charge
DESTRUCTION BOOKS
LOLZ47 - The Art of War Magic
LOLZ48 - The Horrors of Castle Xyr
LOLZ49 - A Hypothetical Treachery
LOLZ50 - Mystery of Talara, v3
LOLZ51 - Mythic Dawn Commentaries 2
LOLZ52 - Response to Bero's Speech
HAND TO HAND BOOKS
LOLZ53 - Ahzirr Traajijazeri
LOLZ54 - Immortal Blood
LOLZ55 - Master Zoaraym's Tale
LOLZ56 - Way of the Exposed Palm
LOLZ57 - The Wolf Queen, V2
HEAVY ARMOR BOOKS
LOLZ58 - 2920, MidYear (V6)
LOLZ59 - Chimarvamidium
LOLZ60 - Fighters Guild History, 1st Edition/History of the Fighers Guild
LOLZ61 - Hallgerd's Tale
LOLZ62 - How Orsinium Passed to Orcs
ILLUSION BOOKS
LOLZ63 - The Argonian Account, Book 3
LOLZ64 - Incident in Necrom
LOLZ65 - Mystery of Talara, v4
LOLZ66 - Mythic Dawn Commentaries 3
LOLZ67 - Palla, Volume 1
LOLZ68 - The Wolf Queen, v3
LIGHT ARMOR BOOKS
LOLZ69 - Ice and Chitin
LOLZ70 - Lord Jornibret's Last Dance
LOLZ71 - The Rear Guard
LOLZ72 - The Refugees
LOLZ73 - Rislav The Righteous
MARKSMAN BOOKS
LOLZ74 - A Dance in Fire, v5
LOLZ75 - The Black Arrow, v2
LOLZ76 - Father of the Niben
LOLZ77 - The Gold Ribbon of Merit
LOLZ78 - Vernaccus and Bourlor
MERCANTILE BOOKS
LOLZ79 - 2920, Sun's Height (v7)
LOLZ80 - The Buying Game
LOLZ81 - A Dance in Fire, v6
LOLZ82 - A Dance in Fire, v7
LOLZ83 - Wolf Queen, v4
MYSTICISM BOOKS
LOLZ84 - 2920, Sun's Dawn (v2)
LOLZ85 - Before the Ages of Man
LOLZ86 - The Black Arts On Trial
LOLZ87 - The Firsthold Revolt
LOLZ88 - Mythic Dawn Commentaries 4
LOLZ89 - Souls, Black and White
RESTORATION BOOKS
LOLZ90 - 2920, Rain's Hand (v4)
LOLZ91 - The Exodus
LOLZ92 - Mystery of Talara, v2
LOLZ93 - Notes on Racial Phylogeny
LOLZ94 - Withershins
SECURITY BOOKS
LOLZ95 - Advances in Lock Picking
LOLZ96 - The Locked Room
LOLZ97 - Proper Lock Design
LOLZ98 - Surfeit of Thieves
LOLZ99 - The Wolf Queen, v1
SNEAK BOOKS
LOLZ100 - 2920, Last Seed (v8)
LOLZ101 - Legend of Krately House
LOLZ102 - Purloined Shadows
LOLZ103 - Sacred Witness
LOLZ104 - The Wolf Queen, v6
SPEECHCRAFT BOOKS
LOLZ105 - 2920, Second Seed (v5)
LOLZ106 - Biography of the Wolf Queen
LOLZ107 - The Wolf Queen, v5
LOLZ108 - The Wolf Queen, v7
MARKER BOOKS
LOLZ109 - Agnar's Journal
LOLZ110 - Cleansing of the Fane
LOLZ111 - Knightfall
LOLZ112 - Modern Heretics
NON-MAGICAL BOOKS
LOLZ113 - 2920, First Seed (v3)
LOLZ114 - 2920, Sun's Dusk (v11)
LOLZ115 - 2920, Evening Star (v12)
LOLZ116 - Aevar Stone-Singer
LOLZ117 - Amantius Allectus' Diary
LOLZ118 - The Amulet of Kings
LOLZ119 - Ancotar's Journal
LOLZ120 - Arcana Restored
LOLZ121 - The Argonian Account, Book 2
LOLZ122 - The Argonian Account, Book 4
LOLZ123 - Ayleid Reference Text
LOLZ124 - Azura and the Box
LOLZ125 - Beggar Prince
LOLZ126 - Bible of the Deep Ones
LOLZ127 - Biography of Barenziah, v 1
LOLZ128 - Biography of Barenziah, v 2
LOLZ129 - Biography of Barenziah, v 3
LOLZ130 - A Bloody Journal
LOLZ131 - The Book of Daedra
LOLZ132 - Brenus Astis' Journal
LOLZ133 - Brief History of the Empire v 1
LOLZ134 - Brief History of the Empire v 2
LOLZ135 - Brief History of the Empire v 3
LOLZ136 - Brief History of the Empire v 4
LOLZ137 - The Brothers of Darkness
LOLZ138 - Children of the Sky
LOLZ139 - A Children's Anuad
LOLZ140 - Dar-Ma's Diary
LOLZ141 - Darkest Darkness
LOLZ142 - Diary of Springheel Jak
LOLZ143 - Drothan's Field Journal (Mehrunes Razor)
LOLZ144 - Drothan's Journal (Mehrunes Razor)
LOLZ145 - Dwemer History and Culture
LOLZ146 - Earana's Notes
LOLZ147 - The Eastern Provinces
LOLZ148 - Fall of the Snow Prince
LOLZ149 - Feyfolken I
LOLZ150 - Feyfolken II
LOLZ151 - Feyfolken III
LOLZ152 - The Firmament
LOLZ153 - Five Songs of King Wulfharth
LOLZ154 - The Five Tenets
LOLZ155 - Followers of the Gray Fox
LOLZ156 - Fragment: On Artaeum
LOLZ157 - Frontier, Conquest
LOLZ158 - Frostcrag Spire Memoirs (Wizard's Tower)
LOLZ159 - Fundaments of Alchemy
LOZL160 - Galerion the Mystic
LOLZ161 - Gelebourne's Journal
LOLZ162 - Glories and Laments
LOLZ163 - Gods and Worship
LOLZ164 - Greywyn's Journal (Vile Lair)
LOLZ165 - Guide to Anvil
LOLZ166 - Guide to Bravil
LOLZ167 - Guide to Cheydinhal
LOLZ168 - Guide to Chorrol
LOLZ169 - Guide to the Imperial City
LOLZ170 - Guide to Leyawiin
LOLZ171 - Guide to Skingrad
LOLZ172 - Hanging Gardens
LOLZ173 - Hiding With the Shadow
LOLZ174 - History of Lock Picking
LOLZ175 - Imbel Genealogy
LOLZ176 - Journal of the Lord Lovidicus
LOLZ177 - The Knights of the Nine
LOLZ178 - The Last King of the Ayleids
LOLZ179 - The Legendary Scourge
LOLZ180 - A Less Rude Song
LOLZ181 - A Life of Uriel Septim VII
LOLZ182 - Lithnilian's Research Notes
LOLZ183 - Log of the Emma May
LOLZ184 - The Lusty Argonian Maid
LOLZ185 - Macabre Manifest
LOLZ186 - The Madness of Pelagius
LOLZ187 - Mages Guild Charter
LOLZ188 - Magic from the Sky
LOLZ189 - Manifesto Cyrodiil Vampyrum (Vile Lair)
LOLZ190 - Manual of Armor
LOLZ191 - Manual of Arms
LOLZ192 - Manual of Spellcraft
LOLZ193 - Mixed Unit Tactics
LOLZ194 - More than Mortal
LOLZ195 - Mysterious Akavir
LOLZ196 - Mystery of Talara, v 5
LOLZ197 - Mysticism
LOLZ198 - Myth or Menace?
LOLZ199 - Necromancer's Moon
LOLZ200 - N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis!
LOLZ201 - The Old Ways
LOLZ202 - On Morrowind
LOLZ203 - On Oblivion
LOLZ204 - Opusculus Lamae Bal ta Mezzamortie (Vile Lair)
LOLZ205 - Origin of the Mages Guild
LOLZ207 - Palla, Volume 2
LOLZ208 - The Path of Transcendence
LOLZ209 - Pension of the Ancestor Moth
LOLZ210 - The Pig Children
LOLZ211 - The Posting of the Hunt
LOLZ212 - Provinces of Tamriel
LOLZ213 - The Real Barenziah, v 1
LOLZ214 - The Real Barenziah, v 2
LOLZ215 - The Real Barenziah, v 3
LOLZ216 - The Real Barenziah, v 4
LOLZ217 - The Real Barenziah, v 5
LOLZ218 - The Red Book of Riddles
LOLZ219 - Remanada
LOLZ220 - Report: Disaster at Ionith
LOLZ221 - Ruins of Kemel-Ze
LOLZ222 - Rolard Nordssen
LOLZ223 - The Seed
LOLZ224 - Shezarr and the Divines (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ225 - Sir Amiel's Journal (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ226 - The Song of Pelinal, v1 (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ227 - The Song of Pelinal, v2 (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ228 - The Song of Pelinal, v3 (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ229 - The Song of Pelinal, v4 (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ230 - The Song of Pelinal, v5 (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ231 - The Song of Pelinal, v6 (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ232 - The Song of Pelinal, v7 (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ233 - The Song of Pelinal, v8 (Knights of the Nine)
LOLZ234 - Spirit of the Daedra
LOLZ235 - Ten Commands: Nine Divines
LOLZ236 - Thief of Virtue
LOLZ237 - The Third Door
LOLZ238 - Tome of Unlife
LOLZ239 - Traitor's Diary
LOLZ240 - Treatise on Ayleidic Cities (Mehrunes Razor)
LOLZ241 - Trials of St. Alessia
LOLZ242 - The True Nature of Orcs
LOLZ243 - Varieties of Daedra
LOLZ244 - The Waters of Oblivion
LOLZ245 - The Wild Elves
LOLZ246 - The Wolf Queen, v8
LOLZ240A - Lord Kelvyn's Will
LOLZ240B - Lord Jaren's Journal
BLACK HORSE COURIOR (NORMAL)
(Normal Black Horse Papers can be found at
any time in many different locations ranging
from people's houses to guild halls. You can
also get them from couriors.)
LOLZ247 - Assassination!
LOLZ248 - Gray Fox, Man or Myth?
LOLZ249 - Gray Fox Unmasked!
LOLZ250 - New 'Doomstones' Series!
LOLZ251 - A New Guild for Fighters?
LOLZ252 - Night Mother Rituals!
BLACK HORSE COURIOR (TRIGGERED)
(Triggered Black Horse papers are ones
that will appear after a certain task
is done such as the compeletion of a
certain quest)
LOLZ253 - Adamus Phillida Slain!
LOLZ254 - Anvil Tarts Thwarted!
LOLZ255 - Cheydinhal Heir Saved!
LOLZ256 - Greatest Painter Safe!
LOLZ257 - New Watch Captain Named
LOLZ258 - Palace Break-In?
LOLZ259 - Pale Pass Discovery!
LOLZ260 - Poor Burdened by Taxes!
LOLZ261 - Pranks Spoils Society Gathering!
LOLZ262 - Rain of Burning Dogs!
LOLZ263 - Tragic Accident! Baenlin Dead!
LOLZ264 - Vampire Nest in the City!
LOLZ265 - Waterfront Raid Fails!
SHIVERING ISLES BOOKS
LOLZ266 - Alyssa's Journal
LOLZ267 - Brief Journal
LOLZ268 - Bark and Sap
LOLZ269 - Blessing of Sheogorath
LOLZ270 - Cindanwe's Notebook
LOLZ271 - An Elytra's Life
LOLZ272 - Fall of Vitharn
LOLZ273 - From Frog to Man
LOLZ274 - Grommok's Journal
LOLZ275 - Guide to New Sheoth
LOLZ276 - Heretical Thoughts
LOLZ277 - The Liturgy of Affliction
LOLZ278 - The Living Woods
LOLZ279 - Manual of Xedilian
LOLZ280 - Myths of Shegorath
LOLZ281 - The Predecessors
LOLZ282 - The Prophet Arden-Sul
LOLZ283 - The Ravings of Fenroy
LOLZ284 - Saints and Seducers
LOLZ285 - The Shivering Apothecary
LOLZ286 - The Shivering Bestiary
LOLZ287 - 16 Accords of Madness, v. VI
LOLZ288 - 16 Accords of Madness, v. IX
LOLZ289 - 16 Accords of Madness, v. XII
LOLZ290 - The Standing Stones
LOLZ291 - Traelius' Journal
LOLZ292 - Wabbajack
LOLZ293 - Zealotry
NOTES
(Will be added shortly)
-BOOKS BY SERIES-
~2920, THE LAST YEAR OF THE FIRST ERA~
-Morning Star (LOLZ26)
-Sun's Dawn (LOLZ84)
-First Seed (LOLZ113)
-Rain's Hand (LOLZ90)
-Second Seed (LOLZ105)
-MidYear (LOLZ58)
-Sun's Height (LOLZ79)
-Last Seed (LOLZ100)
-Hearth Fire (LOLZ42)
-Frostfall (LOLZ41)
-Sun's Desk (LOLZ114)
-Evening Star (LOLZ115)
~A DANCE IN FIRE~
-Volume 1 (LOLZ02)
-Volume 2 (LOLZ31)
-Volume 3 (LOLZ23)
-Volume 4 (LOLZ03)
-Volume 5 (LOLZ74)
-Volume 6 (LOLZ81)
-Volume 7 (LOLZ82)
~~ANCIENT TALES OF THE DWEMER~~
Book II: The Seed (LOLZ223)
Book III: The Importance of Where (LOLZ36)
Book V: Song of the Alchemists (LOLZ10)
BooK VI: Chimarvamidium (LOLZ59)
Book X: More than Mortal (LOLZ194)
Book XI: Azura and the Box (LOLZ124)
~THE ARGONIAN ACCOUNT~
-Book 1 (LOLZ21)
-Book 2 (LOLZ121)
-Book 3 (LOLZ63)
-Book 4 (LOLZ122)
~THE BLACK ARROW~
-Volume 1 (LOLZ01)
-Volume 2 (LOLZ75)
~~MYSTERY OF TALARA~
-Volume 1 (LOLZ04)
-Volume 2 (LOLZ92)
-Volume 3 (LOLZ50)
-Volume 4 (LOLZ65)
-Volume 5 (LOLZ196)
~~MYTHIC DAWN COMMENTARIES~~
-Book 1 (LOLZ45)
-Book 2 (LOLZ51)
-Book 3 (LOLZ66)
-Book 4 (LOLZ88)
~~PALLA~~
-Book 1 (LOLZ67)
-Book 2 (LOLZ207)
~~STORY OF ESLAF EROL~~
-Beggar (LOLZ22)
-Thief (LOLZ04)
-Warrior (LOLZ35)
-King (LOLZ37)
~~THE WOLF QUEEN~~
-Volume 1 (LOLZ99)
-Volume 2 (LOLZ57)
-Volume 3 (LOLZ68)
-Volume 4 (LOLZ83)
-Volume 5 (LOLZ107)
-Volume 6 (LOLZ104)
-Volume 7 (LOLZ108)
-Volume 8 (LOLZ246)
Template:
(Search Code: Enter this code using Control F while using the table of
contents above to quickly find what you need or want.
Book Name: The Title of the Book
Character that "wrote it": It's ingame author
ID: The PC plays of this game can use this ID to create a copy of the book
whereever they are. For ID's that start with xx that means they are books
that come from one of the official mods and the xx will stand for what
number the mod is. If it is the first mod you installed the xx will be 01
and so on until the 9th mod which is 09. After that it gets a little tricky
as with the 10th mod the xx becomes 1A.
Where It can be Found: Where you can find the book. (Will be added soon)
It's Text: The text of the book so you can read it at your computer instead
of while playing the game.
======ACROBATICS BOOKS======
(Search Code: LOLZ01)
~~The Black Arrow, v1~~
Gorgic Guine
Item ID: 000243CD
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was young when the Duchess of Woda hired me as an assistant footman at
her summer palace. My experience with the ways of the titled aristocracy was
very limited before that day. There were wealthy merchants, traders,
diplomats, and officials who had large operations in Eldenroot, and
ostentatious palaces for entertaining, but my relatives were all far from
those social circles.
There was no family business for me to enter when I reached adulthood, but
my cousin heard that an estate far from the city required servants. It was
so remotely located that there were unlikely to be many applicants for the
positions. I walked for five days into the jungles of Valenwood before I met
a group of riders going my direction. They were three Bosmer men, one Bosmer
woman, two Breton women, and a Dunmer man, adventurers from the look of
them.
“Are you also going to Moliva?” asked Prolyssa, one of the Breton women,
after we had made our introductions.
“I don't know what that is,” I replied. “I'm seeking a domestic position
with the Duchess of Woda.”
“We'll take you to her gate,” said the Dunmer Missun Akin, pulling me up to
his horse. “But you would be wise not to tell Her Grace that students from
Moliva escorted you. Not unless you don't really want the position in her
service.”
Akin explained himself as we rode on. Moliva was the closest village to the
Duchess's estate, where a great and renowned archer had retired after a long
life of military service. His name was Hiomaste, and though he was retired,
he had begun to accept students who wished to learn the art of the bow. In
time, when word spread of the great teacher, more and more students arrived
to learn from the Master. The Breton women had come down all the way from
the Western Reach of High Rock. Akin himself had journeyed across the
continent from his home near the great volcano in Morrowind. He showed me
the ebony arrows he had brought from his homeland. I had never seen anything
so black.
“From what we've heard,” said Kopale, one of the Bosmer men. “The Duchess is
an Imperial whose family has been here even before the Empire was formed, so
you might think that she was accustomed to the common people of Valenwood.
Nothing could be further from the truth. She despises the village, and the
school most of all.”
“I suppose she wants to control all the traffic in her jungle,” laughed
Prolyssa.
I accepted the information with gratitude, and found myself dreading more
and more my first meeting with the intolerant Duchess. My first sight of the
palace through the trees did nothing to assuage my fears.
It was nothing like any building I had ever seen in Valenwood. A vast
edifice of stone and iron, with a jagged row of battlements like the jaws of
a great beast. Most of the trees near the palace had been hewn away long
ago: I could only imagine the scandal that must have caused, and what fear
the Bosmer peasants must have had of the Duchy of Woda to have allowed it.
In their stead was a wide gray-green moat circling in a ring around the
palace, so it seemed to be on a perfect if artificial island. I had seen
such sights in tapestries from High Rock and the Imperial Province, but
never in my homeland.
“There'll be a guard at the gate, so we'll leave you here,” said Akin,
stopping his horse in the road. “It'd be best for you if you weren't damned
by association with us.”
I thanked my companions, and wished them good luck with their schooling.
They rode on and I followed on foot. In a few minutes' time, I was at the
front gate, which I noticed was linked to tall and ornate railings to keep
the compound secure. When the gate-keeper understood that I was there to
inquire about a domestic position, he allowed me past and signaled to
another guard across the open lawn to extend the drawbridge and allow me to
cross the moat.
There was one last security measure: the front door. An iron monstrosity
with the Woda Coat of Arms across the top, reinforced by more strips of
iron, and a single golden keyhole. The man standing guard unlocked the door
and gave me passage into the huge gloomy gray stone palace.
Her Grace greeted me in her drawing room. She was thin and wrinkled like a
reptile, cloaked in a simple red gown. It was obviously that she never
smiled. Our interview consisted of a single question.
“Do you know anything about being a junior footman in the employment of an
Imperial noblewoman?” Her voice was like ancient leather.
“No, Your Grace.”
“Good. No servant ever understands what needs to be done, and I particularly
dislike those who think they do. You're engaged.”
Life at the palace was joyless, but the position of junior footman was very
undemanding. I had nothing to do on most days except to stay out of the
Duchess's sight. At such times, I usually walked two miles down the road to
Moliva. In some ways, there was nothing special or unusual about the village
- there are thousands of identical places in Valenwood. But on the hillside
nearby was Master Hiomaste's archery academy, and I would often take my
luncheon and watch the practice.
Prolyssa and Akin would sometimes meet me afterwards. With Akin, the
subjects of conversation very seldom strayed far from archery. Though I was
very fond of him, I found Prolyssa a more enchanting companion, not only
because she was pretty for a Breton, but also because she seemed to have
interests outside the realm of marksmanship.
“There's a circus in High Rock I saw when I was a little girl called the
Quill Circus,” she said during one of our walks through the woods. “They've
been around for as long as anyone can remember. You have to see them if you
ever can. They have plays, and sideshows, and the most amazing acrobats and
archers you've ever seen. That's my dream, to join them some day when I'm
good enough.”
“How will you know when you're a good enough archer?” I asked.
She didn't answer, and when I turned, I realized that she had disappeared. I
looked around, bewildered, until I heard laughter from the tree above me. She
was perched on a branch, grinning.
“I may not join as an archer, maybe I'll join as an acrobat,” she said. “Or
maybe as both. I figured that Valenwood would be the place to go to see what
I could learn. You've got all those great teachers to imitate in the trees
here. Those ape men.”
She coiled up, bracing her left leg before springing forward on her right. In
a second, she had leapt across to a neighboring branch. I found it difficult
to keep talking to her.
“The Imga, you mean?” I stammered. “Aren't you nervous up at that height?”
“It's a cliche, I know,” she said, jumping to an even higher branch, “But the
secret is not to ever look down.”
“Would you mind coming down?”
“I probably should anyhow,” she said. She was a good thirty feet up now,
balancing herself, arms outstretched, on a very narrow branch. She gestured
toward the gate just barely visible on the other side of the road. “This tree
is actually as close as I want to get to your Duchess's palace.”
I held back a gasp as she dove off the branch, somersaulting until she landed
on the ground, knees slightly bent. That was the trick, she explained.
Anticipating the blow before it happened. I expressed to her my confidence
that she would be a great attraction at the Quill Circus. Of course, I know
now that never was to be.
On that day, as I recall, I had to return early. It was one of the rare
occasions when I had work, of a sort, to do. Whenever the Duchess had guests,
I was to be at the palace. That is not to say that I had any particular
duties, except to be seen standing at attention in the dining room. The
stewards and maids worked hard to bring in the food and clear the plates
afterwards, but the footmen were purely decorative, a formality.
But at least I was an audience for the drama to come.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ02)
~~A Dance in Fire, v1~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 000243CB
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 1
Scene: The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
Date: 7 Frost Fall, 3E 397
It seemed as if the palace had always housed the Atrius Building Commission,
the company of clerks and estate agents who authored and notarized nearly
every construction of any note in the Empire. It had stood for two hundred
and fifty years, since the reign of the Emperor Magnus, a plain-fronted and
austere hall on a minor but respectable plaza in the Imperial City. Energetic
and ambitious middle-class lads and ladies worked there, as well as
complacent middle-aged ones like Decumus Scotti. No one could imagine a world
without the Commission, least of all Scotti. To be accurate, he could not
imagine a world without himself in the Commission.
“Lord Atrius is perfectly aware of your contributions,” said the managing
clerk, closing the shutter that demarcated Scotti's office behind him. “But
you know that things have been difficult.”
“Yes,” said Scotti, stiffly.
“Lord Vanech's men have been giving us a lot of competition lately, and we
must be more efficient if we are to survive. Unfortunately, that means
releasing some of our historically best but presently underachieving senior
clerks.”
“I understand. Can't be helped.”
“I'm glad that you understand,” smiled the managing clerk, smiling thinly and
withdrawing. “Please have your room cleared immediately.”
Scotti began the task of organizing all his work to pass on to his successor.
It would probably be young Imbrallius who would take most of it on, which was
as it should be, he considered philosophically. The lad knew how to find
business. Scotti wondered idly what the fellow would do with the contracts
for the new statue of St Alessia for which the Temple of the One had applied.
Probably invent a clerical error, blame it on his old predecessor Decumus
Scotti, and require an additional cost to rectify.
“I have correspondence for Decumus Scotti of the Atrius Building Commission.”
Scotti looked up. A fat-faced courier had entered his office and was
thrusting forth a sealed scroll. He handed the boy a gold piece, and opened
it up. By the poor penmanship, atrocious spelling and grammar, and overall
unprofessional tone, it was manifestly evident who the writer was. Liodes
Jurus, a fellow clerk some years before, who had left the Commission after
being accused of unethical business practices.
“Dear Sckotti,
I emagine you alway wondered what happened to me, and the last plase you
would have expected to find me is out in the woods. But thats exactly where I
am. Ha ha. If your'e smart and want to make lot of extra gold for Lord Atrius
(and yourself, ha ha), youll come down to Vallinwood too. If you have'nt or
have been following the politics hear lately, you may or may not know that
ther's bin a war between the Boshmer and there neighbors Elswere over the
past two years. Things have only just calm down, and ther's a lot that needs
to be rebuilt.
Now Ive got more business than I can handel, but I need somone with some
clout, someone representing a respected agencie to get the quill in the ink.
That somone is you, my fiend. Come & meat me at the M'ther Paskos Tavern in
Falinnesti, Vallinwood. Ill be here 2 weeks and you wont be sorrie.
-- Jurus
P.S.: Bring a wagenload of timber if you can.”
“What do you have there, Scotti?” asked a voice.
Scotti started. It was Imbrallius, his damnably handsome face peeking through
the shutters, smiling in that way that melted the hearts of the stingiest of
patrons and the roughest of stonemasons. Scotti shoved the letter in his
jacket pocket.
“Personal correspondence,” he sniffed. “I'll be cleared up here in a just a
moment.”
“I don't want to hurry you,” said Imbrallius, grabbing a few sheets of blank
contracts from Scotti's desk. “I've just gone through a stack, and the junior
scribes hands are all cramping up, so I thought you wouldn't miss a few.”
The lad vanished. Scotti retrieved the letter and read it again. He thought
about his life, something he rarely did. It seemed a sea of gray with a black
insurmountable wall looming. There was only one narrow passage he could see
in that wall. Quickly, before he had a moment to reconsider it, he grabbed a
dozen of the blank contracts with the shimmering gold leaf ATRIUS BUILDING
COMMISSION BY APPOINTMENT OF HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY and hid them in the satchel
with his personal effects.
The next day he began his adventure with a giddy lack of hesitation. He
arranged for a seat in a caravan bound for Valenwood, the single escorted
conveyance to the southeast leaving the Imperial City that week. He had
scarcely hours to pack, but he remembered to purchase a wagonload of timber.
“It will be extra gold to pay for a horse to pull that,” frowned the convoy
head.
“So I anticipated,” smiled Scotti with his best Imbrallius grin.
Ten wagons in all set off that afternoon through the familiar Cyrodilic
countryside. Past fields of wildflowers, gently rolling woodlands, friendly
hamlets. The clop of the horses' hooves against the sound stone road reminded
Scotti that the Atrius Building Commission constructed it. Five of the
eighteen necessary contracts for its completion were drafted by his own hand.
“Very smart of you to bring that wood along,” said a gray-whiskered Breton
man next to him on his wagon. “You must be in Commerce.”
“Of a sort,” said Scotti, in a way he hoped was mysterious, before
introducing himself: “Decumus Scotti.”
“Gryf Mallon,” said the man. “I'm a poet, actually a translator of old Bosmer
literature. I was researching some newly discovered tracts of the Mnoriad
Pley Bar two years ago when the war broke out and I had to leave. You are no
doubt familiar with the Mnoriad, if you're aware of the Green Pact.”
Scotti thought the man might be speaking perfect gibberish, but he nodded his
head.
“Naturally, I don't pretend that the Mnoriad is as renowned as the Meh
Ayleidion, or as ancient as the Dansir Gol, but I think it has a remarkable
significance to understanding the nature of the merelithic Bosmer mind. The
origin of the Wood Elf aversion to cutting their own wood or eating any plant
material at all, yet paradoxically their willingness to import plantstuff
from other cultures, I feel can be linked to a passage in the Mnoriad,”
Mallon shuffled through some of his papers, searching for the appropriate
text.
To Scotti's vast relief, the carriage soon stopped to camp for the night.
They were high on a bluff over a gray stream, and before them was the great
valley of Valenwood. Only the cry of seabirds declared the presence of the
ocean to the bay to the west: here the timber was so tall and wide, twisting
around itself like an impossible knot begun eons ago, to be impenetrable. A
few more modest trees, only fifty feet to the lowest branches, stood on the
cliff at the edge of camp. The sight was so alien to Scotti and he found
himself so anxious about the proposition of entering the wilderness that he
could not imagine sleeping.
Fortunately, Mallon had supposed he had found another academic with a passion
for the riddles of ancient cultures. Long into the night, he recited Bosmer
verse in the original and in his own translation, sobbing and bellowing and
whispering wherever appropriate. Gradually, Scotti began to feel drowsy, but
a sudden crack of wood snapping made him sit straight up.
“What was that?”
Mallon smiled: “I like it too. 'Convocation in the malignity of the moonless
speculum, a dance of fire --'”
“There are some enormous birds up in the trees moving around,” whispered
Scotti, pointing in the direction of the dark shapes above.
“I wouldn't worry about that,” said Mallon, irritated with his audience. “Now
listen to how the poet characterizes Herma-Mora's invocation in the
eighteenth stanza of the fourth book.”
The dark shapes in the trees were some of them perched like birds, others
slithered like snakes, and still others stood up straight like men. As Mallon
recited his verse, Scotti watched the figures softly leap from branch to
branch, half-gliding across impossible distances for anything without wings.
They gathered in groups and then reorganized until they had spread to every
tree around the camp. Suddenly they plummeted from the heights.
“Mara!” cried Scotti. “They're falling like rain!”
“Probably seed pods,” Mallon shrugged, not turning around. “Some of the trees
have remarkable --”
The camp erupted into chaos. Fires burst out in the wagons, the horses wailed
from mortal blows, casks of wine, fresh water, and liquor gushed their
contents to the ground. A nimble shadow dashed past Scotti and Mallon,
gathering sacks of grain and gold with impossible agility and grace. Scotti
had only one glance at it, lit up by a sudden nearby burst of flame. It was a
sleek creature with pointed ears, wide yellow eyes, mottled pied fur and a
tail like a whip.
“Werewolf,” he whimpered, shrinking back.
“Cathay-raht,” groaned Mallon. “Much worse. Khajiti cousins or some such
thing, come to plunder.”
“Are you sure?”
As quickly as they struck, the creatures retreated, diving off the bluff
before the battlemage and knight, the caravan's escorts, had fully opened
their eyes. Mallon and Scotti ran to the precipice and saw a hundred feet
below the tiny figures dash out of the water, shake themselves, and disappear
into the wood.
“Werewolves aren't acrobats like that,” said Mallon. “They were definitely
Cathay-raht. Bastard thieves. Thank Stendarr they didn't realize the value of
my notebooks. It wasn't a complete loss.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ03)
~~A Dance in Fire, v4~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 000243CC
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 4
Eighteen Bosmeri and one Cyrodilic former senior clerk for an Imperial
building commission trudged through the jungle westward from the Xylo River
to the ancient village of Vindisi. For Decumus Scotti, the jungle was
hostile, unfamiliar ground. The enormous vermiculated trees filled the bright
morning with darkness, and resembled nothing so much as grasping claws, bent
on impeding their progress. Even the fronds of the low plants quivered with
malevolent energy. What was worse, he was not alone in his anxiety. His
fellow travelers, the natives who had survived the Khajiit attacks on the
villages of Grenos and Athay, wore faces of undisguised fear.
There was something sentient in the jungle, and not merely the mad but
benevolent indigenous spirits. In his peripheral vision, Scotti could see the
shadows of the Khajiiti following the refugees, leaping from tree to tree.
When he turned to face them, the lithe forms vanished into the gloom as if
they had never been there. But he knew he had seen them. And the Bosmeri saw
them too, and quickened their pace.
After eighteen hours, bitten raw by insects, scratched by a thousand thorns,
they emerged into a valley clearing. It was night, but a row of blazing
torches greeted them, illuminating the leather-wrought tents and jumbled
stones of the hamlet of Vindisi. At the end of the valley, the torches marked
a sacred site, a gnarled bower of trees pressed closed together to form a
temple. Wordlessly, the Bosmeri walked the torch arcade toward the trees.
Scotti followed them. When they reached the solid mass of living wood with
only one gaping portal, Scotti could see a dim blue light glowing within. A
low sonorous moan from a hundred voices echoed within. The Bosmeri maiden he
had been following held out her hand, stopping him.
"You do not understand, but no outsider, not even a friend may enter," she
said. "This is a holy place."
Scotti nodded, and watched the refugees march into the temple, heads bowed.
Their voices joined with the ones within. When the last wood elf had gone
inside, Scotti turned his attention back to the village. There must be food
to be had somewhere. A tendril of smoke and a faint whiff of roasting venison
beyond the torchlight led him.
They were five Cyrodiils, two Bretons, and a Nord, the group gathered around
a campfire of glowing white stones, pulling steaming strips of meat from the
cadaver of a great stag. At Scotti's approach, they rose up, all but the Nord
who was distracted by his hunk of animal flesh.
"Good evening, sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if I might have a
little something to eat. I'm afraid I'm rather hungry, after walking all day
with some refugees from Grenos and Athay."
They bade him to sit down and eat, and introduced themselves.
"So the war's back on, it seems," said Scotti amiably.
"Best thing for these effete do-nothings," replied the Nord in between bites.
"I've never seen such a lazy culture. Now they've got the Khajiiti striking
them on land, and the high elves at sea. If there's any province that
deserves a little distress, it's damnable Valenwood."
"I don't see how they're so offensive to you," laughed one of the Bretons.
"They're congenital thieves, even worse than the Khajiiti because they are so
blessed meek in their aggression," the Nord spat out a gob of fat which
sizzled on the hot stones of the fire. "They spread their forests into
territory that doesn't belong to them, slowly infiltrating their neighbors,
and they're puzzled when Elsweyr shoves back at them. They're all villains of
the worst order."
"What are you doing here?" asked Scotti.
"I'm a diplomat from the court of Jehenna," muttered the Nord, returning to
his food.
"What about you, what are you doing here?" asked one of the Cyrodiils.
"I work for Lord Atrius's building commission in the Imperial City," said
Scotti. "One of my former colleagues suggested that I come down to Valenwood.
He said the war was over, and I could contract a great deal of business for
my firm rebuilding what was lost. One disaster after another, and I've lost
all my money, I'm in the middle of a rekindling of war, and I cannot find my
former colleague."
"Your former colleague," murmured another of the Cyrodiils, who had
introduced himself as Reglius. "He wasn't by any chance named Liodes Jurus,
was he?"
"You know him?"
"He lured me down to Valenwood in nearly the exact same circumstances,"
smiled Reglius, grimly. "I worked for your employer's competitor, Lord
Vanech's men, where Liodes Jurus also formerly worked. He wrote to me, asking
that I represent an Imperial building commission and contract some post-war
construction. I had just been released from my employment, and I thought that
if I brought some new business, I could have my job back. Jurus and I met in
Athay, and he said he was going to arrange a very lucrative meeting with the
Silvenar."
Scotti was stunned: "Where is he now?"
"I'm no theologian, so I couldn't say," Reglius shrugged. "He's dead. When
the Khajiiti attacked Athay, they began by torching the harbor where Jurus
was readying his boat. Or, I should say, my boat since it was purchased with
the gold I brought. By the time we were even aware of what was happening
enough to flee, everything by the water was ash. The Khajiiti may be animals,
but they know how to arrange an attack."
"I think they followed us through the jungle to Vindisi," said Scotti
nervously. "There was definitely a group of something jumping along the
treetops."
"Probably one of the monkey folk," snorted the Nord. "Nothing to be concerned
about."
"When we first came to Vindisi and the Bosmeri all entered that tree, they
were furious, whispering something about unleashing an ancient terror on
their enemies," the Breton shivered, remembering. "They've been there ever
since, for over a day and a half now. If you want something to be afraid of,
that's the direction to look."
The other Breton, who was a representative of the Daggerfall Mages Guild, was
staring off into the darkness while his fellow provincial spoke. "Maybe. But
there's something in the jungle too, right on the edge of the village,
looking in."
"More refugees maybe?" asked Scotti, trying to keep the alarm out his voice.
"Not unless they're traveling through the trees now," whispered the wizard.
The Nord and one of the Cyrodiils grabbed a long tarp of wet leather and
pulled it across the fire, instantly extinguishing it without so much as a
sizzle. Now Scotti could see the intruders, their elliptical yellow eyes and
long cruel blades catching the torchlight. He froze with fear, praying that
he too was not so visible to them.
He felt something bump against his back, and gasped.
Reglius's voice hissed from up above: "Be quiet for Mara's sake and climb up
here."
Scotti grabbed hold of the knotted double-vine that hung down from a tall
tree at the edge of the dead campfire. He scrambled up it as quickly as he
could, holding his breath lest any grunt of exertion escape him. At the top
of the vine, high above the village, was an abandoned nest from some great
bird in a trident-shaped branch. As soon as Scotti had pulled himself into
the soft, fragrant straw, Reglius pulled up the vine. No one else was there,
and when Scotti looked down, he could see no one below. No one, that is
except the Khajiiti, slowly moving toward the glow of the temple tree.
"Thank you," whispered Scotti, deeply touched that a competitor had helped
him. He turned away from the village, and saw that the tree's upper branches
brushed against the mossy rock walls that surrounded the valley below. "How
are you at climbing?"
"You're mad," said Reglius under his breath. "We should stay here until they
leave."
"If they burn Vindisi like they did Athay and Grenos, we'll be dead sure as
if we were on the ground," Scotti began the slow careful climb up the tree,
testing each branch. "Can you see what they're doing?"
"I can't really tell," Reglius stared down into the gloom. "They're at the
front of the temple. I think they also have ... it looks like long ropes,
trailing off behind them, off into the pass."
Scotti crawled onto the strongest branch that pointed toward the wet, rocky
face of the cliff. It was not a far jump at all. So close, in fact, that he
could smell the moisture and feel the coolness of the stone. But it was a
jump nevertheless, and in his history as a clerk, he had never before leapt
from a tree a hundred feet off the ground to a sheer rock. He pictured in his
mind's eye the shadows that had pursued him through the jungle from the
heights above. How their legs coiled to spring, how their arms snapped
forward in an elegant fluid motion to grasp. He leapt.
His hands grappled for rock, but long thick cords of moss were more
accessible. He held hard, but when he tried to plant his feet forward, they
slipped up skyward. For a few seconds, he found himself upside down before he
managed to pull himself into a more conventional position. There was a narrow
outcropping jutting out of the cliff where he could stand and finally exhale.
"Reglius. Reglius. Reglius," Scotti did not dare to call out. In a minute,
there was a shaking of branches, and Lord Vanech's man emerged. First his
satchel, then his head, then the rest of him. Scotti started to whisper
something, but Reglius shook his head violently and pointed downward. One of
the Khajiiti was at the base of the tree, peering at the remains of the
campfire.
Reglius awkwardly tried to balance himself on the branch, but as strong as it
was it was exceedingly difficult with only one free hand. Scotti cupped his
palms and then pointed at the satchel. It seemed to pain Reglius to let it
out of his grasp, but he relented and tossed it to Scotti.
There was a small, almost invisible hole in the bag, and when Scotti caught
it, a single gold coin dropped out. It rang as it bounced against the rock
wall on the descent, a high soft sound that seemed like the loudest alarm
Scotti had ever heard.
Then many things happened very quickly.
The Cathay-Raht at the base of the tree looked up and gave a loud wail. The
other Khajiiti followed in chorus, as the cat below crouched down and then
sprung up into the lower branches. Reglius saw it below him, climbing up with
impossible dexterity, and panicked. Even before he jumped, Scotti could tell
that he was going to fall. With a cry, Reglius the Clerk plunged to the
ground, breaking his neck on impact.
A flash of white fire erupted from every crevice of the temple, and the moan
of the Bosmeri prayer changed into something terrible and otherworldly. The
climbing Cathay-Raht stopped and stared.
"Keirgo," it gasped. "The Wild Hunt."
It was as if a crack in reality had opened wide. A flood of horrific beasts,
tentacled toads, insects of armor and spine, gelatinous serpents, vaporous
beings with the face of gods, all poured forth from the great hollow tree,
blind with fury. They tore the Khajiiti in front of the temple to pieces. All
the other cats fled for the jungle, but as they did so, they began pulling on
the ropes they carried. In a few seconds time, the entire village of Vindisi
was boiling with the lunatic apparitions of the Wild Hunt.
Over the babbling, barking, howling horde, Scotti heard the Cyrodiils in
hiding cry out as they were devoured. The Nord too was found and eaten, and
both Bretons. The wizard had turned himself invisible, but the swarm did not
rely on their sight. The tree the Cathay-Raht was in began to sway and rock
from the impossible violence beneath it. Scotti looked at the Khajiiti's
fear-struck eyes, and held out one of the cords of moss.
The cat's face showed its pitiful gratitude as it leapt for the vine. It
didn't have time to entirely replace that expression when Scotti pulled back
the cord, and watched it fall. The Hunt consumed it to the bone before it
struck the ground.
Scotti's own jump up to the next outcropping of rock was immeasurably more
successful. From there, he pulled himself to the top of the cliff and was
able to look down into the chaos that had been the village of Vindisi. The
Hunt's mass had grown and began to spill out through the pass out of the
valley, pursuing the fleeing Khajiiti. It was then that the madness truly
began.
In the moons' light, from Scotti's vantage, he could see where the Khajiiti
had attached their ropes. With a thunderous boom, an avalanche of boulders
poured over the pass. When the dust cleared, he saw that the valley had been
sealed. The Wild Hunt had nowhere to turn but on itself.
Scotti turned his head, unable to bear to look at the cannibalistic orgy. The
night jungle stood before him, a web of wood. He slung Reglius's satchel over
his shoulder, and entered.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ04)
~~Mystery of Talara, v1~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 000243CE
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The year was 3E 405. The occasion was the millennial celebration of the
founding of the Breton Kingdom of Camlorn. Every grand boulevard and narrow
alley was strung with gold and purple banners, some plain, some marked with
the heraldic symbols of the Royal Family or the various principalities and
dukedoms which were vassals of the King. Musicians played in the plazas great
and small, and on every street corner was a new exotic entertainer: Redguard
snake charmers, Khajiiti acrobats, magicians of genuine power and those whose
flamboyant skill was equally impressive if largely illusion.
The sight that drew most of the male citizens of Camlorn was the March of
Beauty. A thousand comely young women, brightly and provocatively dressed,
danced their way down the long, wide main street of the city, from the Temple
of Sethiete to the Royal Palace. The menfolk jostled one another and craned
their necks, picking their favorites. It was no secret that they were all
prostitutes, and after the March and the Flower Festival that evening, they
would be available for more intimate business.
Gyna attracted much of the attention with her tall, curvaceous figure barely
covered by strips of silk and her curls of flaxen hair specked with flower
petals. In her late twenties, she wasn't the youngest of the prostitutes, but
she was certainly one of the most desirable. It was clear by her demeanor
that she was used to the lascivious glances, though she was far from jaded at
the sight of the city in splendor. Compared to the squalid quarter of
Daggerfall where she made her home, Camlorn at the height of celebration
seemed so unreal. And yet, what was even stranger was how, at the same time,
familiar it all looked, though she had never been there before.
The King's daughter Lady Jyllia rode out of the palace gates, and immediately
cursed her misfortune. She had completely forgotten about the March of
Beauty. The streets were snarled, at a standstill. It would take hours to
wait for the March to pass, and she had promised her old nurse Ramke a visit
in her house south of the city. Jyllia thought for a moment, picturing in her
mind the arrangement of streets in the city, and devised a shortcut to avoid
the main street and the March.
For a few minutes she felt very clever as she wound her way through tight,
curving side streets, but presently she came upon temporary structures, tents
and theaters set up for the celebration, and had to improvise a new path. In
no time at all, she was lost in the city where she had lived all but five
years of her life.
Peering down an alley, she saw the main avenue crowded with the March of
Beauty. Hoping that it was the tale end, and desirous not to be lost again,
Lady Jyllia guided her horse toward the festival. She did not see the snake-
charmer at the mouth of the alley, and when his pet hissed and spread its
hood, her charge reared up in fear.
The women in the parade gasped and surged back at the sight, but Lady Jyllia
quickly calmed her stallion down. She looked abashed at the spectacle she had
caused.
"My apologies, ladies," she said with a mock military salute.
"It's all right, madam," said a blonde in silk. "We'll be out of your way in
a moment."
Jyllia stared as the March passed her. Looking at that whore had been like
looking in a mirror. The same age, and height, and hair, and eyes, and
figure, almost exactly. The woman looked back at her, and it seemed as if she
was thinking the same thing.
And so Gyna was. The old witches who sometimes came in to Daggerfall had
sometimes spoke of doppelgangers, spirits that assumed the guise of their
victims and portended certain death. Yet the experience had not frightened
her: it seemed only one more strangely familiar aspect of the alien city.
Before the March had danced it way into the palace gates, she had all but
forgotten the encounter.
The prostitutes crushed into the courtyard, as the King himself came to the
balcony to greet them. At his side was his chief bodyguard, a battlemage by
the look of him. As for the King himself, he was a handsome man of middle
age, rather unremarkable, but Gyna was awed at the sight of him. A dream,
perhaps. Yes, that was it: she could see him as she had dreamt of him, high
above her as he was now, bending now to kiss her. Not a one of lust as she
had experienced before, but one of small fondness, a dutiful kiss.
"Dear ladies, you have filled the streets of the great capitol of Camlorn
with your beauty," cried the King, forcing a silence on the giggling,
murmuring assembly. He smiled proudly. His eyes met Gyna's and he stopped,
shaken. For an eternity, they stayed locked together before His Highness
recovered and continued his speech.
Afterwards, while the women were all en route back to their tents to change
into their costumes for the evening, one of the older prostitutes approached
Gyna: "Did you see how the King looked at you? If you're smart, you'll be the
new royal mistress before this celebration ends."
"I've seen looks of hunger before, and that wasn't one of them," laughed
Gyna. "I'd wager he thought I was someone else, like that lady who tried to
run us over with her horse. She's probably his kin, and he thought she had
dressed up like a courtesan and joined the March of Beauty. Can you imagine
the scandal?"
When they arrived at the tents, they were greeted by a stocky, well-dressed
young man with a bald pate and a commanding presence of authority. He
introduced himself as Lord Strale, ambassador to the Emperor himself, and
their chief patron. It was Strale who had hired them, on the Emperor's
behalf, as a gift to the King and the kingdom of Camlorn.
"The March of Beauty is but a precursor to the Flower Festival tonight," he
said. Unlike the King, he did not have to yell to be heard. His voice was
loud and precise in its natural modulations. "I expect each of you to perform
well, and justify the significant expense I've suffered bringing you all the
way up here. Now hurry, you must be dressed and in position on Cavilstyr Rock
before the sun goes down."
The ambassador needn't have worried. The women were all professionals,
experts at getting dressed and undressed with none of the time-consuming
measures less promiscuous females required. His manservant Gnorbooth offered
his assistance, but found he had little to do. Their costumes were simplicity
itself: soft, narrow sheets with a hole for their heads. Not even a belt was
required, so the gowns were open at the sides exposing the frame of their
skin.
So it was long before the sun had set that the prostitutes turned dancers
were at Cavilstyr Rock. It was a great, wide promontory facing the sea, and
for the occasion of the Festival of Flowers, a large circle of unlit torches
and covered baskets had been arranged. As early as they were, a crowd of
spectators had already arrived. The women gathered in the center of the
circle and waited until it was time.
Gyna watched the crowd as it grew, and was not surprised when she saw the
lady from the March approaching, hand-in-hand with a very old, very short
white-haired woman. The old woman was distracted, pointing out islands out at
sea. The blonde lady seemed nervous, unsure of what to say. Gyna was used to
dealing with uneasy clients, and spoke first.
"Good to see you again, madam. I am Gyna of Daggerfall."
"I'm glad you bear me no ill will because of the whores, I mean horse," the
lady laughed, somewhat relieved. "I am Lady Jyllia Raze, daughter of the
King."
"I always thought that daughters of kings were called princess," smiled Gyna.
"In Camlorn, only when they are heirs to the throne. I have a younger brother
from my father's new wife whom he favors," Jyllia replied. She felt her head
swim. It was madness, speaking to a common prostitute, talking of family
politics so intimately. "Relative to that subject, I must ask you something
very peculiar. Have you ever heard of the Princess Talara?"
Gyna thought a moment: "The name sounds somewhat familiar. Why would I have?"
"I don't know. It was a name I just thought you might recognize," sighed Lady
Jyllia. "Have you been to Camlorn before?"
"If I did, it was when I was very young," said Gyna, and suddenly she felt it
was her turn to be trusting. Something about the Lady Jyllia's friendly and
forthcoming manner touched her. "To be honest, I don't remember anything at
all of my childhood before I was nine or ten. Perhaps I was here with my
parents, whoever they were, when I was a little girl. I tell you, I think
perhaps I was. I don't recall ever being here before, but everything I've
seen, the city, you, the King himself, all seem ... like I've been here
before, long ago."
Lady Jyllia gasped and took a step back. She gripped the old woman, who had
been looking out to sea and murmuring, by the hand. The elderly creature
looked to Jyllia, surprised, and then turned to Gyna. Her ancient, half-blind
eyes sparkled with recognition and she made a sound like a grunt of surprise.
Gyna also jumped. If the King had seemed like something out of a half-
forgotten dream, this woman was someone she knew. As clear and yet indistinct
as a guardian spirit.
"I apologize," stammered Lady Jyllia. "This is my childhood nursemaid,
Ramke."
"It's her!" the old woman cried, wild-eyed. She tried to run forward, arms
outstretched, but Jyllia held her back. Gyna felt strangely naked, and pulled
her robe against her body.
"No, you're wrong," Lady Jyllia whispered to Ramke, holding the old woman
tightly. "The Princess Talara is dead, you know that. I shouldn't have
brought you here. I'll take you back home." She turned back to Gyna, her eyes
welling with tears. "The entire royal family of Camlorn was assassinated over
twenty years ago. My father was Duke of Oloine, the King's brother, and so he
inherited the crown. I'm sorry to have bothered you. Goodnight."
Gyna gazed after Lady Jyllia and the old nurse as they disappeared into the
crowd, but she had little time to consider all she had heard. The sun was
setting, and it was time for the Flower Festival. Twelve young men emerged
from the darkness wearing only loincloths and masks, and lit the torches. The
moment the fire blazed, Gyna and all the rest of the dancers rushed to the
baskets, pulling out blossoms and vines by the handful.
At first, the women danced with one another, sprinkling petals to the wind.
The crowd then joined in as the music swelled. It was a mad, beautiful chaos.
Gyna leapt and swooned like a wild forest nymph. Then, without warning, she
felt rough hands grip her from behind and push her.
She was falling before she understood it. The moment the realization hit, she
was closer to the bottom of the hundred foot tall cliff than she was to the
top. She flailed out her arms and grasped at the cliff wall. Her fingers
raked against the stone and her flesh tore, but she found a grip and held it.
For a moment, she stayed there, breathing hard. Then she began to scream.
The music and the festival were too loud up above: no one could hear her -
she could scarcely hear herself. Below her, the surf crashed. Every bone in
her body would snap if she fell. She closed her eyes, and a vision came. A
man was standing below her, a King of great wisdom, great compassion, looking
up, smiling. A little girl, golden-haired, mischievous, her best friend and
cousin, clung to the rock beside her.
"The secret to falling is making your body go limp. And with luck, you won't
get hurt," the girl said. She nodded, remembering who she was. Eight years of
darkness lifted.
She released her grip and let herself fall like a leaf into the water below.
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(Search Code: LOLZ05)
~~Thief~~
Reven
Item ID: 000243CA
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If the reader has not yet had the pleasure of reading the first volume in
these series on the life of Eslaf Erol, 'Beggar,' he should close this book
immediately, for I shan't recap.
I will tell you this much, gentle reader. When we last saw Eslaf, he was a
boy, an orphan, a failed beggar, running through the wildy winter woods of
Skyrim, away from his home of Erolgard. He continued running, stopping here
and there, for many more years, until he was a young man.
Eslaf discovered that among the ways of getting food, asking for it was the
most troublesome. Far easier was finding it in the wilderness, or taking it
from unguarded market stalls. The only thing worse than begging to get food
was begging for the opportunity to work for the money to buy it. That seemed
needlessly complicated.
No, as far as Eslaf was concerned, he was best off being a scavenger, a
beggar, and a thief.
He commited his first act of thievery shortly after leaving Erolgard, while in
the southern woods of Tamburkar in the rugged land near Mount Jensen just east
of the village of Hoarbeld. Eslaf was starving, having not eaten anything but
a rather scrawny raw squirrel in four days, and he smelled meat cooking and
then found the smoke. A band of minstral bards was making camp. He watched
them from the bushes as they cooked, and joked, and flirted, and sang.
He could've asked them for some food, but so many others had refused him
before. Instead, he rushed out, grabbed a piece of meat from the fire, and
wincing from the burns, scrambled up the nearest tree to devour it while the
bards stood under him and laughed.
'What is your next move, thief?' giggled a fair, red-headed woman who was
covered with tattoos. 'How do you intend to disappear without us catching and
punishing you?'
As the hunger subsided, Eslaf realized she was right. The only way to get out
of the tree without falling in their midst was to take the branch down to
where it hung over a creek. It was a drop off a cliff of about fifty feet.
That seemed like the wisest strategy, so Eslaf began crawling in that
direction.
'You do know how to fall, boy?' called out a young Khajiiti, but a few years
older than Eslaf, thin but muscular, graceful in his slightest movements. 'If
you don't, you should just climb down here and take what's coming to you. It's
idiotic to break your neck, when we'd just give you some bruises and send you
on your way.'
'Of course I know how to fall,' Eslaf called back, but he didn't. He just
thought the trick of falling was to have nothing underneath you, and let
nature take its course. But fifty feet up, when you're looking down, is enough
to give anyone pause.
'I'm sorry to doubt your abilities, Master Thief,' said the Khajiiti,
grinning. 'Obviously you know to fall feet first with your body straight but
loose to avoid cracking like an egg. It seems you are destined to escape us.'
Eslaf wisely followed the Khajiiti's hints, and leapt into the river, falling
without much grace but without hurting himself. In the years that followed, he
had to make several more drops from even greater heights, usually after a
theft, sometimes without water beneath him, and he improved the basic
technique.
When he arrived in the western town of Jallenheim on the morning of his
twenty-first birthday, it didn't take him long to find out who was the richest
person, most deserving of being burgled. An impregnable palace in a park near
the center of town was owned by a mysterious young man named Suoibud. Eslaf
wasted no time in finding the palace and watching it. A fortified palace he
had come to learn was like a person, with quirks and habits beneath its hard
shell.
It was not an old place, evidently whatever money this Suoibud had come into
was fairly recent. It was regularly patrolled by guards, implying that the
rich man was fearful of been burgled, with good reason. The most distinctive
feature of the palace was its tower, rising a hundred feet above the stone
walls, doubtless giving the occupant a good defensive view. Eslaf guessed that
that if Suoibud was as paranoid as he guessed him to be, the tower would also
provide a view of the palace storehouse. The rich man would want to keep an
eye on his fortune. That meant that the loot couldn't be directly beneath the
tower, but somewhere in the courtyard within the walls.
The light in the tower shone all night long, so Eslaf boldly decided that the
best time to burgle was by the light of day, when Suoibud must sleep. That
would be the time the guards would least expect a thief to pounce.
And so, when the noon sun was shining over the palace, Eslaf quickly scaled
the wall near the front gate and waited, hidden in the crenelations. The
interior courtyard was plain and desolate, with few places to hide, but he saw
that there were two wells. One the guards used from time to time to draw up
water and slake their thirst, but Eslaf noticed that guards would pass by the
other well, never using it.
He waited until the guards were distracted, just for a second, by the arrival
of a merchant in a wagon, bearing goods for the palace. While they were
searching his wagon, Eslaf leapt, elegantly, feet first, from the wall into
the well.
It was not a particularly soft landing for, as Eslaf had guessed, the well was
not full of water, but gold. Still, he knew how to roll after a fall, and he
didn't hurt himself. In the dank subterranean storehouse, he stuffed his
pockets with gold and was about to go to the door which he assumed would lead
to the tower when he noticed a gem the size of an apple, worth more than all
the gold that was left. Eslaf found room for it down his pants.
The door did indeed lead to the tower, and Eslaf followed its curving
stairwell up, walking quietly but quickly. At the top, he found the master of
the palace's private quarters, ornate and cold, with invaluable artwork and
decorative swords and shields on the walls. Eslaf assumed the snoring lump
under the sheets was Suoibud, but he didn't investigate too closely. He crept
to the windows and looked out.
It was going to be a difficult fall, for certes. He needed to jump from the
tower, past the walls, and hit the tree on the other side. The tree branches
would hurt, but they would break his fall, and there was a pile of hay he had
left under the tree to prevent further injury.
Eslaf was about to leap when the occupant of the room woke up with a start,
yelling, 'My gem!'
Eslaf and stared at him for a second, wide-eyed. They looked alike. Not
surprising, since they were brothers.
Eslaf Erol's story is continued in the book 'Warrior.'
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~~ALCHEMY BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ06)
~~Calcinator Treatise~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00073A5F
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Argonian alchemists of the Black Marsh have long held that the phases of the
moon dictate the precise positioning of the Calcinator. During the full moon,
the Calcinator should face due South, aligned with the Southron pole star. It
is well known that the Southron pole star is slightly offset from true south.
The diligent Alchemist will refer to star charts for the specific day and time
to more precisely align the Calcinator.
For each night of the phases of the moon after full, the Calcinator should be
rotated clockwise one twenty-eighth of a circle. If the Alchemist is closer to
the Southron pole star than the Northern Sisters, he should rotate it counter-
clockwise instead. Set the device where the moonlight is shining on half of
it. Of course, if it is a new moon, the Calcinator should be fully exposed
instead.
Proper alignment of the Calcinator will create one part in forty-seven more
purity of the distillate. Obviously this is a highly desired attribute, even
though the effect may not be that noticeable.
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(Search Code: LOLZ07)
~~De Rerum Dirennis~~
Vorian Direnni
Item ID: 000243D2
It is found on a shelf on the second floor of All Things Alchemical.
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I am six-hundred-and-eleven years old. I have never had children of my own,
but I have many nieces and nephews and cousins who have been raised with the
tales and traditions of our ancient, illustrious, and occasionally notorious
clan, the Direnni. Few families in Tamriel can boast so many famous figures,
wielding so much power over the fate of so many. Our warriors and kings are
stuff of legend, and it is not to dismiss their honor and their achievements
to say you have heard quite enough about them.
I myself have never picked up a sword or written an important law, but I am
part of a lesser known but still important Direnni tradition: the way of the
wizard. My own autobiography would be of little interest to posterity — though
my nephew, nieces, and cousins indulge me to tell wild tales of life in the
chaotic Second Era of Tamriel — but I have a few ancestors whose stories
should be told. They may have changed history as we know it as dramatically as
my better known relatives, but their names are in danger of being forgotten.
Most recently, Lysandus, the King of Daggerfall, was able to conquer his
ancient enemies of Sentinel in part thanks to his court sorceress, Medora
Direnni. Her grandfather Jovron Direnni was Imperial Battlemage to the court
of the Dunmer Empress of Tamriel, Katariah, assisting her in creating peace in
a time of turmoil. His great great grandfather Pelladil Direnni had a similar
role with the first Potentate, and encouraged the Guild Act without which we
would not have all the professional organizations we have today. His ancestor,
many times back, was the witch Raven Direnni, who with her better known
cousins Aiden and Ryain, brought an end to the tyranny of the latter Alessian
Empire. Before the Psijics of Artaeum, it is said, she created the art of
enchantment, learning how to bind a soul into a gem and use that to ensorcel
all manners of weaponry.
But it is the story of an ancestor even more ancient, more distant than Raven
I wish to tell.
Asliel Direnni harkens back to the humble beginnings of our clan, in the tiny
farming village of Tyrigel on the banks of the river Caomus which was then
called the Diren, hence the family name. Like all on Summurset Isle in those
days, he was a simple planter of the fields. But while others only grew enough
to sustain their immediate kin, even distant cousins of the Dirennis worked
together. They would decide as a group which fields were best for wheat,
orchard, vine, livestock, or apiary, and thereby always have the best yields
of any farm which worked alone, doing the best as it could with what it had.
Asliel had a particularly poor farm for most kind of agriculture, but small
herbs found its stony, loamless, acidic soil very comfortable. Out of
necessity more than anything else he became an expert on all manners of herbs.
For the most part, of course, they were used in flavoring cooking, but as you
know, hardly any plant grows on the surface of our world without a magickal
potential.
Even so long ago, witches already were in existence. It would be ridiculous
for me to suggest that Asliel Direnni invented alchemy. What he did, what we
can all be grateful for, is that he formulated it into an art and science.
There were no witches' covens in Tyrigel, and, of course, there would be no
Mages Guild yet for thousands of years, so people would come to him for cures.
He learned for himself the exact formula for combining black lichen and
roobrush to create a cure for all manners of poison, and the amount of willow
anther to crush and mix with chokeweed to cure diseases.
There were few much greater threats in Tyrigel in those peaceful days than
disease or accidental poisonings. Yes, there were some dark forces in the
wilderness, trolls, chimera, the occasional malevolent fairy folk and Will-O-
the-Wisp, but even the youngest, most foolish Altmer knew how to avoid them.
There were, however, a few unusual threats which Asliel had a hand in
defeating.
One of the tales told of him that I believe to be true is how he was brought a
young niece who had been suffering from an unknown disease. Despite his
ministrations, she grew weaker and weaker every morning. Finally, he gave her
a bitter tasting drink, and the next morning, ashes were found all around her
bed. A vampire had been feeding on the poor girl, but Asliel's potion had
turned her very blood into poison, without harming her in the least.
If only this formula had not been lost in the mists of history!
This would have been enough to make him a minor but significant figure in the
annals of early Summurset, but at that point in history, a barbarian tribe
called the Locvar had found their way down the Diren River, and recognized
Tyrigel as a rich target for raids. The Direnni, not being warriors yet but
simple farmers, were helpless and could only flee and watch the Locvar take
the best of their crops, raid after raid.
Asliel, however, had been experimenting with the vampire dust, and brought his
cousins to him with a plan. The next time the Locvar were sighted on the
Diren, the word went out and all the most able-bodied came to Asliel's
laboratory. When the barbarians arrived in Tyrigel, they found the farms
deserted, and assumed that all had fled as usual. As they set about stealing
the bounty, they suddenly found themselves under attack by invisible forces.
Believing the Direnni farms to be haunted, they ran away very quickly.
They attempted a few more raids, for their greed would always eventually
overpower their fear, and each time, they were set upon by attackers who they
could not see. As barbaric as they were, they were not stupid, and they
changed their mind about the source of their defeat. It could not be that the
farms were haunted, because the crops were still being tended and harvested,
and the animals seemed to show no fear. The Locvar decided to send a scout to
the farm to see if he could spy their secrets.
The scout sent word back to the Locvar that the Direnni farms were populated
with flesh and blood, entirely visible Altmer. He continued to watch as his
barbarian cohorts moved down the river, and he saw the elderly and children
flee for the hills, while the able-bodied farmers and their wives went to
Asliel's laboratory. He saw them go in; he saw no one come out.
As usual, the Locvar were repelled by invisible forces, but their scout soon
told them what he saw happening in the laboratory.
The next night, two of the Locvar approached Asliel's farm very stealthily,
and managed to kidnap him without alerting the rest of the Direnni. The Locvar
chieftain, knowing that the farmers could no longer count on the alchemist to
make them invisible, considered an immediate attack on the farms. But he was a
vengeful sort, and felt he had been humiliated by these simple farmers. A
crafty plan emerged in his mind. What if the Direnni, who always saw his
barbarian tribe coming, for once did not? Imagine the slaughter if no one even
had a chance to flee.
The scout had told the chieftain that Asliel had used the dust of a vampire to
make the farmers invisible, but he was not sure what the other ingredient had
been. He described an incandescent powder that Asliel had mixed into the dust.
Asliel, of course, refused to help the Locvar, but they were experts in
torture as well as pillage, and he knew he would have to talk or die.
Finally after hours of torture, he agreed to tell them what the incandescent
powder was. He did not know the name, but he called it "Glow Dust," the only
remains of a slain Will-O-The-Wisp. He told them they would need a lot of it
if they wanted to turn the whole tribe invisible for the raid.
The Locvar grumbled that not only did they have to find and kill a vampire to
attain his dust, but find and kill several Will-O-The-Wisps to get theirs. In
a few days time, they came back with the ingredients the alchemist asked for.
The chieftain, not being a complete idiot, made Asliel taste the potion first.
He did as he was told and turned invisible, demonstrating that it did truly
work. The chieftain put him to work creating more. No one apparently noticed
that while he did, he was nibbling on black lichen and roobrush.
The Locvar took the potion as he doled it out, and soon, but not too soon that
they didn't suffer, they were all dead.
The scout who had seen Asliel mixing the invisibility potion had apparently
mistook the glow of the candlelight in the laboratory for an incandescence
which the second ingredient of the invisibility potion did not possess. The
second ingredient was actually dull, simple redwort, one of the most common
herbs in Tamriel. When they had insisted during torture that Asliel tell them
what the incandescent powder was, Asliel remembered that he had once
experimentally mixed glow dust and vampire dust together once and created a
powerful poison. It was simple enough to steal a little redwort from the
barbarian's camp, mix that with the vampire and glow dust mixture, and create
a potion that was in fact an invisibility poison. After curing himself, he
gave the poison to the barbarians.
The Locvar, being dead, never again raided the Direnni farms, and having no
other enemies, they were able to grow more and more prosperous and powerful.
Generations later, they left Summurset and began their historic adventures on
the Tamriel mainland. Asliel Direnni, because of his excellence as an
alchemist, was invited to Artaeum and became a Psijic. It is not known how
many more of the common formulas we know today were invented by him there, but
I have no doubt, the science and art of alchemy as we know it today would not
exist without him.
But that is all in the distant past. Asliel's innovations, like my modest
ones, like the achievements of the Dirennis throughout history, are but a
stepping stone to the wonders which will come in the future. I wish I could be
there to witness them, but if I can only share some of the past with the
children of Direnni and the children of Tamriel, then I will consider my life
well spent.
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(Search Code: LOLZ08)
~~A Game at Dinner~~
An Anonymous Spy
Item ID: 000243CF
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Forward From The Publisher:
The history behind this letter is almost as interesting and dark as the
story it tells. The original letter to the mysterious Dhaunayne was copied and
began circulating around the Ashlands of Vvardenfell a few months ago. In
time, a print found its way to the mainland and Prince Hlaalu Helseth's palace
outside Almalexia. While the reader may conclude after reading this letter
that the Prince would be furious about such a work, impugning his highness
with great malevolence, quite the reverse was true. The Prince and his mother,
Queen Barenziah, had it privately printed into bound copies and sent to
libraries and booksellers throughout Morrowind.
As matter of record, the Prince and the Queen have not officially stated
whether the letter is a work of pure imagination or based on an actual
occurrence. The House Dres has publicly denounced the work, and indeed, no one
named Dhaunayne, despite the suggestions in the letter, has ever been linked
to the house. We leave the reader to interpret the letter as he or she
believes.
— Nerris Gan, Publisher
Dark Liege Dhaunayne,
You asked for a detailed description of my experience last night and the
reasons for my plea to House Dres for another assignment. I hope I have served
you well in my capacity as informant in the court of Prince Helseth, a man who
I have stated in many previous reports could teach Molag Bal how to scheme. As
you know, I've spent nearly a year now working my way into his inner circle of
advisors. He was in need of friendship when he first arrived in Morrowind and
eagerly took to me and a few others. Still, he was disinclined to trust any of
us, which is perhaps not surprising, given his tenuous position in Morrowind
society.
For your unholiness's recollection, the Prince is the eldest son of Barenziah,
who was once the Queen of Morrowind and once the Queen of the High Rock
kingdom of Wayrest. At the death of her husband, Prince Helseth's stepfather,
King Eadwyre, there was a power struggle between the Prince and Eadwyre's
daughter, the Princess Elysana. Though details of what transpired are
imperfect, it is clear that Elysana won the battle and became Queen, banishing
Helseth and Barenziah. Barenziah's only other child, Morgiah, had already left
court to marry and become Queen of the Summurset Isle kingdom of Firsthold.
Barenziah and Helseth crossed the continent to return to Morrowind only last
year. They were well received by Barenziah's uncle, our current king, Hlaalu
Athyn Llethan, who had taken the throne after Barenziah's abdication more than
forty years ago. Barenziah made it clear that she had no designs on reclaiming
the throne, but merely to retire to her family estates. Helseth, as you know,
has lingered in the royal court, and many have whispered that while he lost
the throne of Wayrest, he does not intend to lose the throne of Morrowind at
Llethan's death.
I've kept your unholiness informed of the Prince's movements, meetings, and
plots, as well as the names and characters of his other advisors. As you may
recall, I've often thought that I was not the only spy in Helseth's court. I
told you before that a particular Dunmer counselor of Helseth looked like a
fellow I had seen in the company of Tholer Saryoni, the Archcanon of the
Tribunal Temple. Another, a young Nord woman, has been verified to visit the
Imperial fortress in Balmora. Of course, in their cases, they might well have
been on Helseth's own business, but I couldn't be certain. I had begun to
think myself paranoid as the Prince himself when I found myself doubting the
sincere loyalty of the Prince's chamberlain, Burgess, a Breton who had been in
his employ since his days in the court of Wayrest.
That is the background on that night, last night.
Yesterday morning, I received a curt invitation to dine with the Prince. Based
only on my own paranoia, I dispatched one of my servants, who is a good and
loyal servant of the House Dres, to watch the palace and report back anything
unusual. Just before dinner, he returned and told me what he had witnessed.
A man cloaked in rags had been given entrance into the palace, and had stayed
there for some time. When he left, my servant saw his face beneath the cloak —
an alchemist of infamous repute, said to be a leading suppliers of exotic
poisons. A fine observer, my servant also noticed that the alchemist entered
the palace smelling of wickwheat, bittergreen, and something alien and sweet.
When he left, he was odorless.
He had come to the same conclusion as I did. The Prince had procured
ingredients to prepare a poison. Bittergreen alone is deadly when eaten raw,
but the other ingredients suggested something far deeper. As your unholiness
can doubtless imagine, I went to dinner that night, prepared for any
eventuality.
All of Prince Helseth's other counselors were in attendance, and I noticed
that all were slightly apprehensive. Of course, I imagined that I was in a
nest of spies, and all knew of the Prince's mysterious meeting. It is just as
likely that some knew of the alchemist's visit, while others were simply
concerned by the nature of the Prince's invitation, and still others merely
unconsciously adopted the tense disposition of their fellow, better informed
counselors.
The Prince, however, was in fine mettle and soon had everyone relaxed and at
ease. At nine, we were all ushered into his dining hall where the feast had
been laid out. And what a feast! Honeyed gorapples, fragrant stews, roasts in
various blood sauces, and every variety of fish and fowl expertly and
ostentatiously prepared. Crystal and gold flagons of wine, flin, shein, and
mazte were at our seats to be savored as appropriate with each course. As
tantalizing as the aromas were, it occurred to me that in such a maze of
spices and flavors, a discreet poison would be undetectable.
Throughout the meal, I maintained the illusion of eating the food and drinking
the liquor, but I was surreptitious and swallowed nothing. Finally, the plates
and food were cleared from the table, and a tureen of a spicy broth was placed
in the center of the banquet. The servant who brought it then retired, closing
the banquet hall door behind him.
“It smells divine, my Prince,” said the Marchioness Kolgar, the Nord woman.
“But I cannot eat another thing.”
“Your Highness,” I added, feigning a tone of friendliness and slight
intoxication. “You know that every one at this table would gladly die to put
you on the throne of Morrowind, but is it really necessary that we gorge
ourselves to death?”
The others at the table agreed with appreciative groans. Prince Helseth
smiled. I swear by Vaernima the Gifter, my dark liege, even you have never
seen a smile such as this one.
“Ironic words. You see, an alchemist visited me today, as some of you already
doubtless know. He showed me how to make a marvelous poison and its antidote.
A most potent potion, excellent for my purposes. No Restoration spell will aid
you once you've ingested it. Only the antidote in the tureen will save you
from certain death. And what a death, from what I've heard. I am eager to see
if the effects are all that the alchemist promised. It should be horribly
painful for the afflicted, but quite entertaining.”
No one said a word. I could feel my heart beating hard in my chest.
“Your Highness,” said Allarat, the Dunmer I suspected of alliance with the
Temple. “Have you poisoned someone at this table?”
“You are very astute, Allarat,” said Prince Helseth, looking about the table,
eying each of his advisors carefully. “Little wonder I value your counsel. As
indeed I value all in this room. It would be perhaps easiest for me to say who
I haven't poisoned. I haven't poisoned any who serve but one master, any whose
loyalty to me is sincere. I haven't poisoned any person who wants to see King
Helseth on the throne of Morrowind. I haven't poisoned anyone who isn't a spy
for the Empire, the Temple, the House of Telvanni, the House of Redoran, the
House of Indoril, the House of Dres.”
Your unholiness, he looked directly at me at his last words. I know that in
certainty. My face is practiced at keeping my thoughts from showing, but I
immediately thought of every secret meeting I've had, every coded message I
sent to you and the House, my dark liege. What could he know? What could he,
even without knowing, suspect?
I felt my heart beating even faster. Was it fear, or poison? I couldn't speak,
certain as I was that my voice would betray my calm facade.
“Those loyal to me who wish harm on my enemies may be wondering how can I be
certain that the poison has been ingested. Is it possible that the guilty
party, or dare I say, parties were suspicious and merely pretended to eat and
drink tonight? Of course. But even the craftiest of pretenders would have to
raise a glass to his or her lips and put empty forks or spoons in their mouths
to play the charade. The food, you see, was not poisoned. The cups and cutlery
were. If you did not partake out of fear, you're poisoned just the same, and
sadly, missed an excellent roast.”
Sweat beaded on my face and I turned from the Prince so he would not see. My
fellow advisors, all of them, were frozen in their seats. From the Marchioness
Kolgar, white with fear, to Kema Inebbe, visibly shaking; from the furrowed,
angry brow of Allarat to the statue-like stare of Burgess.
I couldn't help thinking then, could the Prince's entire counsellorship be
comprised of nothing but spies? Was there any person at the table loyal? And
then I thought, what if I were not a spy myself, would I trust Helseth to know
that? No one knows better than his advisors both the depth of the Prince's
paranoia and the utter implacability of his ambition. If I were not a spy for
the House Dres, even then would I be safe? Could a loyalist be poisoned
because of a not-so-innocent misjudgment?
The others must have been thinking the same, loyalists and spies alike.
While my mind whirled, I could hear the Prince's voice, addressing all
assembled: “The poison acts quickly. If the antidote is not taken within one
minute from now, there will be death at the table.”
I couldn't decide whether I had been poisoned or not. My stomach ached, but I
reminded myself it might have been the result of sitting at a sumptuous
banquet and not partaking. My heart shook in my chest and a bitter taste like
Trama Root stung my lips. Again, was it fear or poison?
“These are the last words you will hear if you are disloyal to me,” said
Prince Helseth, still smiling that damned smile as he watched his advisors
squirming in their seats. “Take the antidote and live.”
Could I believe him? I thought of what I knew of the Prince and his character.
Would he kill a self-confessed spy at his court, or would he rather send the
vanquished back to his masters? The Prince was ruthless, but either
possibility was within his manner. Surely the theatricality of this whole
dinner was meant to be a presentation to instill fear. What would my ancestors
say if I joined them after sitting at a table, eventually dying of poison?
What would they say if I took the antidote, confessing my allegiance to you
and the House Dres, and was summarily executed? And, I confess, I thought of
what you might to do me even after I was dead.
I had grown so light-headed and filled with my own thoughts, that I didn't see
Burgess jump from his seat. I was only suddenly aware that he had the tureen
in his hands and was gulping down the liquid within. There were guards all
around, though I never noticed them entering.
“Burgess,” said Prince Helseth, still smiling. “You have spent some time at
Ghostgate. House Redoran?”
“You didn't know?” Burgess laughed sourly. “No House. I report to your
stepsister, the Queen of Wayrest. I've always been in her employ. By Akatosh,
you poisoned me because you thought I was working for some damnable Dark
Elves?”
“You're half right,” said the Prince. “I didn't guess who you were working
for, or even that you were a spy. But you're also wrong about me poisoning
you. You poisoned yourself when you drank from the tureen.”
Your unholiness, you don't need to hear how Burgess died. I know that you have
seen much over the many, many years of your existence, but you truly don't
want to know. I wish I could erase the memory of his agonies from my own mind.
The council was dismissed shortly thereafter. I do not know if Prince Helseth
knows or suspects that I too am a spy. I do not know how many others that
night, last night, were as close as I was from drinking from the tureen before
Burgess did. I only know that if the Prince does not suspect me now, he will.
I cannot win at the games he mastered long ago at the court of Wayrest, and I
beg your unholiness, my dark liege Dhaunayne to use your influence in the
House Dres and dismiss your loyal servant from this charge.
Publisher's Note: Of course, the anonymous writer's signature has not been on
any reprint of the letter since the original.
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(Search Code: LOLZ09)
~~Mannimarco, King of Worms~~
Horicles
Item ID: 000243D0
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O sacred isle Artaeum, where rosy light infuses air,
O'er towers and through flowers, gentle breezes flow,
Softly sloping green-kissed cliffs to crashing foam below,
Always springtide afternoon housed within its border,
This mystic, mist-protected home of the Psijic Order:
Those counselors of kings, cautious, wise, and fair.
Ten score years and thirty since the mighty Remans fell,
Two brilliant students studied within the Psijics' fold.
One's heart was light and warm, the other dark and cold.
The madder latter, Mannimarco, whirled in a deathly dance,
His soul in bones and worms, the way of the necromance.
Entrapping and enslaving souls, he cast a wicked spell.
The former, Galerion had magic bold and bright as day.
He confronted Mannimarco beneath gray Ceporah Tower,
Saying, 'Your wicked mysticism is no way to wield your power,
Bringing horror to the spirit world, your studies must cease.'
Mannimarco scoffed, hating well the ways of life and peace,
And returned to his dark artistry; his paints, death and decay.
O sacred isle Artaeum, how slow to perceive the threat,
When the ghastly truth revealed, how weak the punishment.
The ghoulish Mannimarco from the isle of the wise was sent
To the mainland Dawn's Beauty, more death and souls to reap.
'You have found a wolf, and sent the beast to flocks of sheep,'
Galerion told his Masters, 'A terror on Tamriel has set.'
'Speak no more of him,' the sage Cloaks of Gray did say.
'Twas not the first time Galerion thought his Masters callous,
Unconcerned for men and mer, aloof in their island palace.
'Twas not the first time Galerion thought 'twas time to build
A new Order to bring true magic to all, a mighty Mages Guild.
But 'twas the time he left, at last, fair Artaeum's azure bay.
O, but sung we have of Vanus Galerion many times before,
How cast he off the Psijics' chains, bringing magic to the land.
Throughout the years, he saw the touch of Mannimarco's hand,
Through Tamriel's deserts, forests, towns, mountains, and seas.
The dark grip stretching out, growing like some dread disease
By his dark Necromancers, collecting cursed artifacts of yore.
They brought to him these tools, mad wizards and witches,
And brought blood-tainted herbs and oils to his cave of sin,
Sweet Akaviri poison, dust from saints, sheafs of human skin,
Toadstools, roots, and much more cluttered his alchemical shelf,
Like a spider in his web, he sucked all their power into himself,
Mannimarco, Worm King, world's first of the undying liches.
Corruption on corruption, 'til the rot sunk to his very core,
Though he kept the name Mannimarco, his body and his mind
Were but a living, moving corpse as he left humanity behind.
The blood in his veins became instead a poison acid stew.
His power and his life increased as his fell collection grew .
Mightiest were these artifacts, long cursed since days of yore.
They say Galerion left the Guild, calling it 'a morass,'
But untruth is a powerful stream, polluting the river of time.
Galerion beheld Mannimarco's rise through powers sublime,
To his mages and Lamp Knights, 'Before my last breath,
Face I must the tyranny of worms, and kill at last, undeath.'
He led them north to cursed lands, to a mountain pass.
O those who survived the battle say its like was never seen.
Armored with magicka, armed with ensorcelled sword and axe,
Galerion cried, echoing, 'Worm King, surrender your artifacts,
And their power to me, and you shall live as befits the dead.'
A hollow laugh answered, 'You die first,' Mannimarco said.
The mage army then clashed with the unholy force obscene.
Imagine waves of fire and frost, and the mountain shivers,
Picture lightning arching forth, crackling in a dragon's sigh.
Like leaves, the battlemages fly to rain down from the sky,
At the Necromancers' call, corpses burst from earth to fight,
To be shattered into nothingness with a flood of holy light.
A maelstrom of energy unleashed, blood cascades in rivers.
Like a thunderburst in blue skies or a lion's sudden roar,
Like sharp razors tearing over delicate embroidered lace,
So at a touch did Galerion shake the mountain to its base.
The deathly horde fell fatally, but heeding their dying cries
From the depths, the thing they called Worm King did rise.
Nirn itself did scream in the Mages' and Necromancers' war
His eyes burning dark fire, he opened his toothless maw,
Vomiting darkness with each exhalation of his breath,
All sucking in the fetid air felt the icy touch of death.
In the skies above the mountain, darkness overcame pale,
Then Mannimarco Worm King felt his dismal powers fail:
The artifacts of death pulled from his putrid skeletal claw.
A thousand good and evil perished then, history confirms.
Among, alas, Vanus Galerion, he who showed the way,
It seemed once that Mannimarco had truly died that day.
Scattered seemed the Necromancers, wicked, ghastly fools,
Back to the Mages Guild, victors kept the accursed tools,
Of him, living still in undeath, Mannimarco, King of Worms.
Children, listen as the shadows cross your sleeping hutch,
And the village sleeps away, streets emptied of the crowds,
And the moons do balefully glare through the nightly clouds,
And the graveyard's people rest, we hope, in eternal sleep,
Listen and you'll hear the whispered tap of the footsteps creep,
Then pray you'll never feel the Worm King's awful touch.
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(Search Code: LOLZ10)
~~Song of the Alchemists~~
Marobar Sul
Item ID: 000243D1
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When King Maraneon's alchemist had to leave his station
After a laboratory experiment that yielded detonation,
The word went out that the King did want
A new savant
To mix his potions and brews.
But he declared he would only choose
A fellow who knew the tricks and the tools.
The King refused to hire on more fools.
After much deliberation, discussions, and debates,
The King picked two well-learned candidates.
Ianthippus Minthurk and Umphatic Faer,
An ambitious pair,
Vied to prove which one was the best.
Said the King, "There will be a test."
They went to a large chamber with herbs, gems, tomes,
Pots, measuring cups, all under high crystalline domes.
"Make me a tonic that will make me invisible,"
Laughed the King in a tone some would call risible.
So Umphatic Faer and Ianthippus Minthurk
Began to work,
Mincing herbs, mashing metal, refining strange oils,
Cautiously setting their cauldrons to burbling boils,
Each on his own, sending mixing bowls mixing,
Sometimes peeking to see what the other was fixing.
After they had worked for nearly three-quarters an hour,
Both Ianthippus Minthurk and Umphatic Faer
Winked at the other, certain he won.
Said King Maraneon,
"Now you must taste the potions you've wrought,
Take a spoon and sample it right from your pot."
Minthurk vanished as his lips touched his brew,
But Faer tasted his and remained apparent in view.
"You think you mixed silver, blue diamonds, and yellow grass!"
The King laughed, "Look up, Faer, up to the ceiling glass.
The light falling makes the ingredients you choose
Quite different hues."
"What do you get," asked the floating voice, bold,
"Of a potion of red diamonds, blue grass, and gold?"
"By [Dwemer God]," said Faer, his face in a wince,
"I've made a potion to fortify my own intelligence."
Publisher's Note:
This poetry is so clearly in the style of Gor Felim that it really does not
need any commentary. Note the simple rhyming scheme of AA/BB/CC, the sing-song
but purposefully clumsy meter, and the recurring jokes at the obviously absurd
names, Umphatic Faer and Ianthippus Minthurk. The final joke that the stupid
alchemist invents a potion to make himself smarter by pure accident would have
appealed to the anti-intellectualism of audiences in the Interregnum period,
but would certainly be rejected by the Dwemer.
Note that even "Marobar Sul" refuses to name any Dwemer gods. The Dwemer
religion, if it can even be called that, is one of the most complex and
difficult puzzles of their culture.
Over the millennia, the song became a popular tavern song in High Rock before
eventually disappearing from everything but scholarly books. Much like the
Dwemer themselves.
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~~ALTERATION BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ11)
~~Daughter of the Niben~~
Sathyr Longleat
Item ID: 000243D4
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Bravil is one of the most charming towns in Cyrodiil, sparkling in her simple
beauty, illustrious by her past. No visit to the southern part of the Imperial
Province is complete without a walk along Bravil's exciting river port, a talk
with her friendly native children, and, of course, in the tradition of the
village, a whispered word to the famous statue of the Lucky Old Lady.
Many thousands of years before the arrival of the Atmorans, the native Ayleid
people had long lived in the vicinity of modern day Bravil. The Niben then, as
now, provided food and transportation, and the village was even more populous
than it is today. We are not certain what they called their region: as insular
as they were, the word they used would be translated to simply mean "home."
These savage Ayleids were so firmly entrenched that the Bravil region was one
of the very last areas to be liberated by the Alessian army in the second
century of the 1st era. Though little remains of that era culturally or
archeologically, thank Mara, the tales of debauchery and depravity have
entered into the realm of legends.
How the Ayleids were able to survive such a long siege is debated by scholars
to this day. All, however, grant the honor of the victory to one of the
Empress Alessia's centurions, a man called Teo Bravillius Tasus, the man for
whom the modern town is named.
It was said he invaded the village no less than four times, after heavy
resistance, but each time upon the morning dawning, all his soldiery within
would be dead, murdered. By the time more centuria had arrived, the fortified
town was repopulated with Ayleids. After the second successful invasion,
secret underground tunnels were found and filled in, but once again, come
morning, the soldiers were again dead, and the citizens had returned. After
the third successful siege, legions were posted outside of the town, watching
the roads and riverway for signs of attacks, but no one came. The next
morning, the bodies of the invading soldiers were thrown from the parapets of
town's walls.
Teo Bravillius Tasus knew that the Ayleids must be hiding themselves somewhere
in the town, waiting until nightfall, and then murdering the soldiers while
they slept. The question was where. After the fourth invasion, he himself led
the soldiers in a thorough inspection of every corner, every shadow. Just as
they were ready to give up, the great centurion noticed two curious things.
High in the sheer walls of the town, beyond anyone's ability to climb, there
were indentations, narrow platforms. And by the river just inside the town, he
discovered a single footprint from someone clearly not wearing the Imperial
boot.
The Ayleids, it seemed, had taken two routes to hide themselves. Some had
levitated up to the walls and hidden themselves high above, and others had
slipped into the river, where they were able to breathe underwater. It was a
relatively easy task once the strange elves' even stranger hiding holes had
been discovered to rout them out, and see to it that there were no more
midnight assassinations of the Empress's troops.
It may seem beyond belief that an entire community could be so skilled in
these spells hundreds and hundreds of years before the Mages Guild was formed
to teach the ways of magicka to the common folk. There does, however, appear
to be evidence that, just as the Psijics on the Isle of Artaeum developed
Mysticism long before there was a name for it, the even more obscure Ayleids
of southern Cyrodiil had developed what was to be known as the school of
Alteration. It is not, after all, much of a stretch when one considers that
other Ayleids at the time of Bravil's conquering and even later were
shapeshifters. The community of pre-Bravil could not turn into beasts and
monsters, but they could alter their bodies to hide themselves away. A related
and useful skill, to be sure. But not so effective to save themselves in the
end.
Very little is left of the Ayleid presence in Bravil of today, though
archetectural marvels of other kinds are very evident. As beautiful and
arresting as the Benevolence of Mara cathedral and the lord's palace are, no
manmade structure in Bravil is as famous as the statue called The Lucky Old
Lady.
The tales about the Lady and who she was are too numerous to list.
It was said she was born the illegitimate daughter of a prostitute in Bravil,
certainly an inauspicious beginning to a lucky life. She was teased by the
other children, who forever asked her who her father was. Every day, she would
run back to her little shack in tears from their cruelty.
One day, a priest of Stendarr came to Bravil to do charitable work. He saw the
weeping little girl, and when asked, she told him the cause of her misery: she
didn't know who her father was.
"You have kind eyes and a mouth that tells no lies," replied the priest after
a moment, smiling. "You are clearly a child of Stendarr, the God of Mercy,
Charity, and Well-Earned Luck."
The priest's thoughtful words changed the girl forever. Whenever she was asked
who her father was, she would cheerfully reply, "I am a child of Luck."
She grew up to be a barmaid, it was said, kind and generous to her customers,
frequently allowing them to pay when they were able to. On a particularly
rainy night, she gave shelter to a young man dressed in rags, who not only had
no money to pay, but was belligerent and rude to her as she fed him and gave
him a room. The next morning, he left without so much as a thank you. Her
friends and family admonished her, saying that she had to be careful, he might
have even been dangerous.
A week later, a royal carriage arrived in Bravil, with an Imperial prince
within. Though he was scarcely reconizable, it was the same young man the Lady
had helped. He apologized profusely for his appearance and behavior,
explaining that he had been kidnapped and cursed by a band of witches, and it
wasn't until later he had returned to his senses. The Lady was showered with
riches, which she, of course, generously shared with all the people of Bravil,
where she lived to a content old age.
No one knows when the statue to her was erected in the town square, or who the
artist was, but it has stood there for thousands of years, since the first
era. To this day, visitors and Bravillians alike go to the Lucky Old Lady to
ask for her to bless them with luck in their travails.
Just one more charming aspect of the charming, and very lucky village of
Bravil.
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(Search Code: LOLZ12)
~~The Dragon Break~~
Fal Droon
Item ID: 000243D5
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The late 3rd era was a period of remarkable religious ferment and creativity.
The upheavals of the reign of Uriel VII were only the outward signs of the
historical forces that would eventually lead to the fall of the Septim
Dynasty. The so called "Dragon Break" was first proposed at this time, by a
wide variety of cults and fringe sects across the Empire, connected only by a
common obsession with the events surrounding Tiber Septim's rise to power --
the "founding myth", if you will, of the Septim Dynasty.
The basis of the Dragon Break doctrine is now known to be a rather prosaic
error in the timeline printed in the otherwise authoritative "Encyclopedia
Tamrielica", first published in 3E 12, during the early years of Tiber
Septim's reign. At that time, the archives of Alinor were still inaccessible
to human scholars, and the extant records from the Alessian period were
extremely fragmentary. The Alessians had systematically burned all the
libraries they could find, and their own records were largely destroyed during
the War of Righteousness.
The author of the Encyclopedia Tamrielica was apparently unfamiliar with the
Alessian "year", which their priesthood used to record all dates. We now know
this refers to the length of the long vision-trances undertaken by the High
Priestess, which might last anywhere from a few weeks to several months. Based
on analysis of the surviving trance scrolls, as well as murals and friezes
from Alessian temples, I estimate that the Alessian Order actually lasted only
about 150 years, rather than the famous "one thousand and eight years" given
by the Encyclopedia Tamrielica. The "mystery" of the millennial-plus rule of
the Alessians was accepted but unexplained until the spread of the Lorkhan
cults in the late 3rd era, when the doctrine of the Dragon Break took hold.
Because this dating (and explanation) was so widely held at the time, and then
repeated by historians down through today, it has come to have the force of
tradition. Recall, however, that the 3rd era historians were already separated
from the Alessians by a gulf of more than 2,000 years. And history was still
in its infancy, relying on the few archives from those early days.
Today, modern archaeology and paleonumerology have confirmed what my own
research in Alessian dating first suggested: that the Dragon Break was
invented in the late 3rd era, based on a scholarly error, fueled by obsession
with eschatology and Numidiumism, and perpetuated by scholarly inertia.
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(Search Code: LOLZ13)
~~The Lunar Lorkhan~~
Fal Droon
Item ID: 000243D8
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I will not go into the varying accounts of what happened at Adamantine Tower,
nor will I relate the War of Manifest Metaphors that rendered those stories
unable to support most qualities of what is commonly known as "narrative." We
all have our favorite Lorkhan story and our favorite Lorkhan motivation for
the creation of Nirn and our favorite story of what happened to His Heart. But
the Theory of the Lunar Lorkhan is of special note.
In short, the Moons were and are the two halves of Lorkhan's 'flesh-divinity'.
Like the rest of the Gods, Lorkhan was a plane(t) that participated in the
Great Construction... except where the Eight lent portions of their heavenly
bodies to create the mortal plane(t), Lorkhan's was cracked asunder and his
divine spark fell to Nirn as a shooting star "to impregnate it with the
measure of its existence and a reasonable amount of selfishness."
Masser and Secunda therefore are the personifications of the dichotomy-- the
"Cloven Duality," according to Artaeum-- that Lorkhan legends often rail
against: ideas of the anima/animus, good/evil, being/nothingness, the poetry
of the body, throat, and moan/silence-as-the-abortive, and so on -- set in the
night sky as Lorkhan's constant reminder to his mortal issue of their duty.
Followers of this theory hold that all other "Heart Stories" are mythical
degradations of the true origin of the moons (and it needn't be said that they
observe the "hollow crescent theory" as well).
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(Search Code: LOLZ14)
~~Reality & Other Falsehoods~~
Item ID: 00073A69
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It is easy to confuse Illusion and Alteration. Both schools of magic attempt
to create what is not there. The difference is in the rules of nature.
Illusion is not bound by them, while Alteration is. This may seem to indicate
that Alteration is the weaker of the two, but this is not true. Alteration
creates a reality that is recognized by everyone. Illusion's reality is only
in the mind of the caster and the target.
To master Alteration, first accept that reality is a falsehood. There is no
such thing. Our reality is a perception of greater forces impressed upon us
for their amusement. Some say that these forces are the gods, other that they
are something beyond the gods. For the wizard, it doesn't really matter. What
matters is the appeal couched in a manner that cannot be denied. It must be
insistent without being insulting.
To cast Alteration spells is to convince a greater power that it will be
asier to change reality as requested than to leave it alone. Do not assume
that these forces are sentient. Our best guess is that they are like wind and
water. Persistent but not thoughtful. Just like directing the wind or water,
diversions are easier than outright resistance. Express the spell as a subtle
change and it is more likely to be successful.
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(Search Code: LOLZ15)
~~Sithis~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 000243D6
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Sithis is the start of the house. Before him was nothing, but the foolish
Altmer have names for and revere this nothing. That is because they are lazy
slaves. Indeed, from the Sermons, 'stasis asks merely for itself, which is
nothing.'
Sithis sundered the nothing and mutated the parts, fashioning from them a
myriad of possibilities. These ideas ebbed and flowed and faded away and this
is how it should have been.
One idea, however, became jealous and did not want to die; like the stasis, he
wanted to last. This was the demon Anui-El, who made friends, and they called
themselves the Aedra. They enslaved everything that Sithis had made and
created realms of everlasting imperfection. Thus are the Aedra the false gods,
that is, illusion.
So Sithis begat Lorkhan and sent him to destroy the universe. Lorkhan!
Unstable mutant!
Lorkhan had found the Aedric weakness. While each rebel was, by their nature,
immeasurable, they were, through jealously and vanity, also separate from each
other. They were also unwilling to go back to the nothing of before. So while
they ruled their false dominions, Lorkhan filled the void with a myriad of new
ideas. These ideas were legion. Soon it seemed that Lorkhan had a dominion of
his own, with slaves and everlasting imperfections, and he seemed, for all the
world, like an Aedra. Thus did he present himself as such to the demon Anui-El
and the Eight Givers: as a friend.
Go unto the Sharmat Dagoth Ur as a friend.
AE HERMA MORA ALTADOON PADHOME LKHAN AE AI.
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(Search Code: LOLZ16)
~~The Armorer's Challenge~~
Mymophonus
Item ID: 000243D9
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Three hundred years ago, when Katariah became Empress, the first and only
Dunmer to rule all of Tamriel, she faced opposition from the Imperial Council.
Even after she convinced them that she would be the best regent to rule the
Empire while her husband Pelagius sought treatment for his madness, there was
still conflict. In particular from the Duke of Vengheto, Thane Minglumire, who
took a particular delight in exposing all of the Empress's lack of practical
knowledge.
In this particular instance, Katariah and the Council were discussing the
unrest in Black Marsh, the massacre of Imperial troops outside the village of
Armanias. The sodden swampland and the sweltering climate, particular in
summertide, would endanger the troops if they wore their usual armor.
"I know a very clever armorer," said Katariah, "His name is Hazadir, an
Argonian who knows the environments our army will be facing. He knew him in
Vivec where he was a slave to the master armorer there, before he moved to the
Imperial City as a freedman. We should have him design armor and weaponry for
the campaign."
Minglumire gave a short, barking laugh: "She wants a slave to design the armor
and weaponry for our troops! Sirollus Saccus is the finest armorer in the
Imperial City. Everyone knows that."
After much debate, it was finally decided to have both armorers contend for
the commission. The Council also elected two champions of equal power and
prowess, Nandor Beraid and Raphalas Eul, to battle using the arms and
armaments of the real competitors in the struggle. Whichever champion won, the
armorer who supplied him would earn the Imperial commission. It was decided
that Beraid would be outfitted by Hazadir, and Eul by Saccus.
The fight was scheduled to commence in seven days.
Sirollus Saccus began work immediately. He would have preferred more time, but
he recognized the nature of the test. The situation in Armanias was urgent.
The Empire had to select their armorer quickly, and once selected, the
preferred armorer had to act swiftly and produce the finest armor and weaponry
for the Imperial army in Black Marsh. It wasn't just the best armorer they
were looking for. It was the most efficient.
Saccus had only begun steaming the half-inch strips of black virgin oak to
bend into bands for the flanges of the armor joints when there was a knock at
his door. His assistant Phandius ushered in the visitor. It was a tall
reptilian of common markings, a dull, green-fringed hood, bright black eyes,
and a dull brown cloak. It was Hazadir, Katariah's preferred armorer.
"I wanted to wish you the best of luck on the — is that ebony?"
It was indeed. Saccus had bought the finest quality ebony weave available in
the Imperial City as soon as he heard of the competition and had begun the
process of smelting it. Normally it was a six month procedure refining the
ore, but he hoped that a massive convection oven stoked by white flames born
of magicka would shorten the operation to three days. Saccus proudly pointed
out the other advancements in his armory. The acidic lime pools to sharpen the
blade of the dai-katana to an unimaginable degree of sharpness. The Akaviri
forge and tongs he would use to fold the ebony back and forth upon itself.
Hazadir laughed.
"Have you been to my armory? It's two tiny smoke-filled rooms. The front is a
shop. The back is filled with broken armor, some hammers, and a forge. That's
it. That's your competition for the millions of gold pieces in Imperial
commission."
"I'm sure the Empress has some reason to trust you to outfit her troops," said
Sirollus Saccus, kindly. He had, after all, seen the shop and knew that what
Hazadir said was true. It was a pathetic workshop in the slums, fit only for
the lowliest of adventurers to get their iron daggers and cuirasses repaired.
Saccus had decided to make the best quality regardless of the inferiority of
his rival. It was his way and how he became the best armorer in the Imperial
City.
Out of kindness, and more than a bit of pride, Saccus showed Hazadir how, by
contrast, things should be done in a real professional armory. The Argonian
acted as an apprentice to Saccus, helping him refine the ebony ore, and to
pound it and fold it when it cooled. Over the next several days, they worked
together to create a beautiful dai-katana with an edge honed to a keen sharp
enough to trim a mosquito's eyebrows, and a suit of armor of bound wood,
leather, silver, and ebony to resist the winds of Oblivion.
On the day of the battle, Saccus, Hazadir, and Phandius finished polishing the
armor and brought in Raphalas Eul for the fitting. Hazadir left only then,
realizing that Nandor Beraid would be at his shop shortly to be outfitted.
The two warriors met in the arena in the Imperial City with an audience of the
Empress and the Imperial Council two hours later. From the moment Saccus saw
Eul in his suit of shining ebony and dai-katana blazing and Beraid in his
collection of dusty, rusted merchandise from Hazadir's shop, he knew who would
win. And he was right.
The first blow from the dai-katana lodged in the soft shield, as there was no
metal trim to deflect it. Before l could pull his sword back, Beraid lashed
out with his long sword at the weak points in the armor, it was the perfect
weapon to perforate the joints. Eul retrieved his sword and slashed at Beraid
but his armor was scaled and angled, and the attacks rolled off like water.
When Eul's armor began to fall off, the Empress and Council, out of mercy,
called a victor.
Hazadir received the commission and thanks to his knowledge of Argonian battle
tactics and weaponry and how best to combat them, he designed implements of
war that brought down the insurrection in Armanias. Katariah won the respect
of Council, and even, grudgingly, that of Thane Minglumire. Sirollus Saccus
went to Morrowind to learn what Hazadir learned there, and was never heard
from again.
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(Search Code: LOLZ17)
~~Cherim's Heart of Anequina~~
Livillus Perus, Professor at the Imperial University
Item ID: 000243DC
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Contemporary with Maqamat Lusign (interviewed in volume seventeen of this
series) is the Khajiti Cherim, whose tapestries have been hailed as
masterpieces all over the Empire for nigh on thirty years now. His four
factories located throughout Elsweyr make reproductions of his work, but his
original tapestries command stellar prices. The Emperor himself owns ten
Cherim tapestries, and his representatives are currently negotiating the sale
of five more.
The muted use of color contrasted with the luminous skin tones of Cherim's
subjects is a marked contrast with the old style of tapestry. The subjects of
his work in recent years have been fabulous tales of the ancient past: the
Gods meeting to discuss the formation of the world; the Chimer following the
Prophet Veloth into Morrowind; the Wild Elves battling Morihaus and his
legions at the White Gold Tower. His earliest designs dealt with more
contemporary subjects. I had the opportunity to discuss with him one of his
first masterpieces, The Heart of Anequina, at his villa in Orcrest.
The Heart of Anequina presents an historic battle of the Five Year War between
Elsweyr and Valenwood which raged from 3E 394 (or 3E 395, depending on what
one considers to be the beginning of the war) until 3E 399. In most fair
accounts, the war lasted 4 years and 9 months, but artistic license from the
great epic poets added an additional three months to the ordeal.
The actual details of the battle itself, as interpreted by Cherim, are
explicit. The faces of a hundred and twenty Wood Elf archers can be
differentiated one from the other, each registering fear at the approach of
the Khajiti army. Their hauberks catch the dim light of the sun. The menacing
shadows of the Elsweyr battlecats loom on the hills, every muscle strained,
ready to pounce in command. It is not surprising that he got all the details
right, because Cherim was in the midst of it, as a Khajiti foot soldier.
Every minute part of the Khajiti medium-weight armor can be seen in the
soldiers in the foreground. The embroidered edging and striped patterns on the
tunics. Each lacquered plate on loose-fitting leather in the Elsweyr style.
The helmets of cloth and fluted silver.
“Cherim does not understand the point of plate mail,” said Cherim. “It is hot,
for one, like being both burned and buried alive. Cherim wore it at the
insistence of our Nord advisors during the Battle of Zelinin, and Cherim
couldn't even turn to see what my fellow Khajiit were doing. Cherim did some
sketches for a tapestry of the Battle of Zelinin, but Cherim finds that to
make it realistic, the figures came out very mechanical, like iron golems or
dwemer centurions. Knowing our Khajiti commanders, Cherim would not be
surprised if giving up the heavy plate was more aesthetic than practical.”
“Elsweyr lost the Battle of Zelinin, didn't she?”
“Yes, but Elsweyr won the war, starting at the next battle, the Heart of
Anequina,” said Cherim with a smile. “The tide turned as soon as we Khajiit
sent our Nordic advisors back to Solitude. We had to get rid of all the heavy
armor they brought to us and find enough traditional medium armor our troops
felt comfortable wearing. Obviously, the principle advantage of the medium
armor was that we could move easily in it, as you can see from the natural
stances of the soldiers in the tapestry.
“Now if you look at this poor perforated Cathay-raht who just keeps battling
on in the bottom background, you see the other advantage. It seems strange to
say, but one of the best features of medium armor is that an arrow will either
deflect completely or pass all the way through. An arrow head is like a hook,
made to stick where it strikes if it doesn't pass through. A soldier in medium
armor will find himself with a hole in his body and the bolt on the other
side. Our healers can fix such a wound easily if it isn't fatal, but if the
arrow still remains in the armor, as it does with heavier armor, the wound
will be reopened every time the fellow moves. Unless the Khajiit strips off
the armor and pulls out the arrow, which is what we had to do at the Battle of
Zelinin. A difficult and time-consuming process in the heat of battle, to say
the least.”
I asked him next, “Is there a self portrait in the battle?”
“Yes,” Cherim said with another grin. “You see the small figure of the Khajiit
stealing the rings off the dead Wood Elf? His back is facing you, but he has a
brown and orange striped tail like Cherim's. Cherim does not say that all
stereotypes about the Khajiit are fair, but Cherim must sometimes acknowledge
them.”
A self-deprecating style in self-portraiture is also evident in the tapestries
of Ranulf Hook, the next artist interviewed in volume nineteen of this series.
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(Search Code: LOLZ18)
~~Heavy Armor Repair~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00073A68
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Heavy armor must be designed to take a lot of punishment. It will receive
direct blows from all sorts of weapons while protecting the wearer. Such armor
tends to be made from a few large pieces rather than lots of small pieces like
light armor.
Iron and steel are easy to work. Just heat them up and pound them back into
shape. You can even use a camp fire for field repairs. Avoid filing off any of
the metal. Always try to conserve the metal and work it back into shape.
If a piece needs a lot of hammering, it may become brittle. Reheating the
armor every now and then can reduce the brittleness after severe repairs. Once
the hammering is done, be sure to oil it well. The freshly hammered surfaces
will rust more quickly and need to be protected.
Dwarven and Orcish armor require small and large hammers. Heat should be used
sparingly, particularly with Orcish. Both types respond better to many small
hammer strokes rather than fewer heavy strokes.
Ebony can only be hammered when heated. It will develop small cracks that
eventually shatter the material if hammered cold. Daedric should always be
worked on at night... ideally under a new or full moon, and never during an
eclipse. A red harvest moon is best.
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(Search Code: LOLZ19)
~~Last Scabbard of Akrash~~
Tabar Vunqidh
Item ID: 000243DA
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For several warm summer days in the year 3E 407, a young, pretty Dunmer woman
in a veil regularly visited one of the master armorers in the city of Tear.
The locals decided that she was young and pretty by her figure and her poise,
though no one ever saw her face. She and the armorer would retire to the back
of his shop, and he would close down his business and dismiss his apprentices
for a few hours. Then, at mid-afternoon, she would leave, only to return at
precisely the same time the next day. As gossip goes, it was fairly meager
stuff, though what the old man was doing with such a well dressed and
attractively proportioned woman was the source of several crude jokes. After
several weeks, the visits stopped, and life returned to normal in the slums of
Tear.
It was not until a month or two after the visits had stopped, that in one of
the many taverns in the neighborhood, a young local tailor, having imbibed too
much sauce, asked the armorer, “So whatever happened to your lady friend? You
break her heart?”
The armorer, well aware of the rumors, simply replied, “She is a proper young
lady of quality. There was nothing between her and the likes of me.”
“What was she doing at your shop every day for?” asked the tavern wench, who
had been dying to get the subject open.
“If you must know,” said the armorer. “I was teaching her the craft.”
“You're putting us on,” laughed the tailor.
“No, the young lady had a particular fascination with my particular kind of
artistry,” the armorer said, with a hint of pride before getting lost in the
reverie. “I taught her how to mend swords specifically, from all kinds of
nicks and breaks, hairline fissures, cracked pommels, quillons, and grips.
When she first started, she had no idea how to secure the grips to the tang of
the blade... Well, of course she was green to start off with, why wouldn't she
be? But she weren't afraid to get her hands dirty. I taught her how to patch
the little inlaid silver and gold filigree you find on really fine blades, and
how to polish it all to a mirror sheen so the sword looks like the gods just
pulled it from their celestial anvil.”
The tavern wench and the tailor laughed out loud. No matter what he alleged,
the armorer was speaking of the young lady's training as another man speaks of
a long lost love.
More of the locals in the tavern would have listened to the armorer's pathetic
tale, but more important gossip had taken precedence. There was another
murdered slave-trader found in the center of town, gutted from fore to aft.
That made six of them total in barely a fortnight. Some called the killer “The
Liberator,” but that sort of anti-slavery zeal was rare among the common folk.
They preferred calling him “The Lopper,” as several of the earlier victims had
been completely beheaded. Others had been simply perforated, sliced, or
gutted, but “The Lopper” still kept his original sobriquet.
While the enthusiastic hooligans made bets about the condition of the next
slave-trader's corpse, several dozen of the surviving members of that trade
were meeting at the manor house of Serjo Dres Minegaur. Minegaur was a minor
houseman of House Dres, but a major member of the slave-trading fraternity.
Perhaps his best years were behind him, but his associates still counted on
him for wisdom.
“We need to take what we know of this Lopper and search accordingly,” said
Minegaur, seated in front of his opulent hearth. “We know he has an
unreasonable hatred of slavery and slave-traders. We know he is skilled with a
blade. We know he has the stealth and finesse to execute our most well-secured
brethren in their most secure abodes. It sounds to me to be an adventurer, an
Outlander. Surely no citizen of Morrowind would strike at us like this.”
The slave-traders nodded in agreement. An Outlander seemed most likely for
their troubles. It was always true.
“Were I fifty years younger, I would take down my blade Akrash from the
hearth,” Minegaur made an expansive gesture to the shimmering weapon. “And
join you in seeking out this terror. Search him out where adventurers meet --
taverns and guildhalls. Then show him a little lopping of my own.”
The slave-traders laughed politely.
“You wouldn't let us borrow your blade for the execution, I suppose, would
you, Serjo?” asked Soron Jeles, a young toadying slaver enthusiastically.
“It would be an excellent use for Akrash,” sighed Minegaur. “But I vowed to
retire her when I retired.”
Minegaur called for his daughter Peliah to bring the slavers more flin, but
they waved the girl away. It was to be a night for hunting the Lopper, not
drinking away their troubles. Minegaur heartily approved of their devotion,
particular as expensive as the liquor was getting to be.
When the last of the slavers had left, the old man kissed his daughter on the
head, took one last admiring look at Akrash, and toddled off to his bed. No
sooner had he done so then Peliah had the blade off the mantle, and was flying
with it across the field behind the manor house. She knew Kazagh had been
waiting for her for hours in the stables.
He sprung out at her from the shadows, and wrapping his strong, furry arms
around her, kissed her long and sweet. Holding him as long as she dared to,
she finally broke away and handed him the blade. He tested its edge.
“The finest Khajiiti swordsmith couldn't hone an edge this keen,” he said,
looking at his beloved with pride. “And I know I nicked it up good last
night.”
“That you did,” said Peliah. “You must have cut through an iron cuirass.”
“The slavers are taking precautions now,” he replied. “What did they say
during their meeting?”
“They think it's an Outlander adventurer,” she laughed. “It didn't occur to
any of them that a Khajiiti slave would possess the skill to commit all these
'loppings.'”
“And your father doesn't suspect that it's his dear Akrash that is striking
into the heart of oppression?”
“Why would he, when every day he finds it fresh as the day before? Now I must
go before anyone notices I'm gone. My nurse sometimes comes in to ask me some
detail about the wedding, as if I had any choice in the matter at all.”
“I promise you,” said Kazagh very seriously. “You will not be forced into any
marriage to cement your family's slave-dealing dynasty. The last scabbard
Akrash will be sheathed into will be your father's heart. And when you are an
orphan, you can free the slaves, move to a more enlightened province, and
marry who you like.”
“I wonder who that will be,” Peliah teased, and raced out of the stables.
Just before dawn, Peliah awoke and crept out to the garden, where she found
Akrash hidden in the bittergreen vines. The edge was still relatively keen,
but there were scratches vertically across the blade's surface. Another
beheading, she thought, as she took pumice stone and patiently rubbed out the
marks, finally polishing it with a solution of salt and vinegar. It was up on
the mantle in pristine condition when her father came into the sitting room
for his breakfast.
When the news came that Kemillith Torom, Peliah's husband-to-be, had been
found outside of a canton, his head on a spike some feet away, she did not
have to pretend to grieve. Her father knew she did not want to marry him.
“It is a shame,” he said. “The lad was a good slaver. But there are plenty of
other young men who would appreciate an alliance with our family. What about
young Soron Jeles?”
Two days nights later, Soron Jeles was visited by the Lopper. The struggle did
not take long, but Soron had had armed himself with one small defense -- a
needle dipped in the ichor of poisonplant, hidden up his sleeve. After the
mortal blow, he collapsed forward and stuck Kazagh in the calf with the pin.
By the time he made it back to the Minegaur manorhouse, he was dying.
Vision blurring, he climbed up to the eaves of the house to Peliah's window
and rapped. Peliah did not answer immediately, as she was in a deep, wonderful
sleep, dreaming about her future with her Khajiiti lover. He rapped louder,
which woke up not only Peliah, but also her father in the next room.
“Kazagh!” she cried, opening up the window. The next person in the bedroom was
Minegaur himself.
As he saw it, this slave, his property, was about to lop off the head of his
daughter, his property, with his sword, his property. Suddenly, with the
energy of a young man, Minegaur rushed at the dying Khajiit, knocking the
sword out of his hand. Before Peliah could stop him, her father had thrust the
blade into her lover's heart.
The excitement over, the old man dropped the sword and turned to the door to
call the Guard. As an after thought, it occurred to him to make certain that
his daughter hadn't been injured and might require a Healer. Minegaur turned
to her. For a moment, he felt simply disoriented, feeling the force of the
blow, but not the blade itself. Then he saw the blood and then felt the pain.
Before he fully realized that his daughter had stabbed him with Akrash, he was
dead. The blade, at last, found its scabbard.
A week later, after the official investigations, the slave was buried in an
unmarked grave in the manor field, and Serjo Dres Minegaur found his resting
place in a modest corner of the family's opulent mausoleum. A larger crowd of
curious onlookers came to view the funeral of the noble slaver whose secret
life was as the savage Lopper of his competitors. The audience was
respectfully quiet, though there was not a person there not imagining the
final moments of the man's life. Attacking his own daughter in his madness,
luckily defended by the loyal, hapless slave, before turning the blade on
himself.
Among the viewers was an old armorer who saw for one last time the veiled
young lady before she disappeared forever from Tear.
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(Search Code: LOLZ20)
~~Light Armor Repair~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00073A67
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There are two classes of light armor, metallic and non-metallic. Chainmail,
Elven, Mithril and Glass are all examples of metallic light armor. You may be
surprised to think that Glass can be thought of as metallic, but appearances
are deceiving. What we call Glass is nothing like the windows panes you see in
houses. The greenish material is far stronger and has a much higher melting
point.
Non-metallic armors are Fur and Leather. For these armor types, the hammer is
less useful than the sewing kit. A sharp awl is necessary to restitch the
thick material. Holes frequently have to be patched with spare material. The
rule of thumb is once you have to patch a patch, it's time to throw out the
armor and get a new set.
Metallic armor will occasionally need a patch. Usually it can be repaired by
hammering the torn pieces back together. Elven and Mithril will repair better
when heated. Chainmail is usually malleable enough to work on cold.
The trickiest of all is Glass. Hammer blows struck across the grain run the
risk of shattering the armor. Whenever possible, allign the hammer blows with
the grain. In extreme cases, place the armor in tub of oil. Place the anvil so
that the affected piece is on the anvil, but just under the oil. Vibrations
from the hammer blows are absorbed by the oil and less likely to shatter the
Glass.
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~~ATHLETIC BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ21)
~~The Argonian Account, Book 1~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 000243E2
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On a minor but respectable plaza in the Imperial City sat, or perhaps lounged,
Lord Vanech's Building Commission. It was an unimaginative, austere building
not noted so much for its aesthetic or architectural design as for its
prodigious length. If any critics wondered why such an unornamented, extended
erection held such fascination for Lord Vanech, they kept it to themselves.
In the 398th year of the 3rd Era, Decumus Scotti was a senior clerk at the
Commission.
It had been a few months since the shy, middle-aged man had brought Lord
Vanech the most lucrative of all contracts, granting the Commission the
exclusive right to rebuild the roads of Valenwood which had been destroyed in
the Five Year War. For this, he had become the darling of the managers and the
clerks, spending his days recounting his adventures, more or less
faithfully... although he did omit the ending of the tale, since many of them
had partaken in the celebratory Unthrappa roast provided by the Silenstri.
Informing one's listeners that they've gorged on human flesh improves very few
stories of any good taste.
Scotti was neither particularly ambitious nor hard-working, so he did not mind
that Lord Vanech had not given him anything to actually do.
Whenever the squat little gnomish man would happen upon Decumus Scotti in the
offices, Lord Vanech would always say, "You're a credit to the Commission.
Keep up the good work."
In the beginning, Scotti had worried that he was supposed to be doing
something, but as the months went on, he merely replied, "Thank you. I will."
There was, on the other hand, the future to consider. He was not a young man,
and though he was receiving a respectable salary for someone not doing actual
work, Scotti considered that soon he might have to retire and not get paid for
not doing work. It would be nice, he decided, if Lord Vanech, out of gratitude
for the millions of gold the Valenwood contract was generating, might deign to
make Scotti a partner. Or at least give him a small percentage of the bounty.
Decumus Scotti was no good at asking for things like that, which was one of
the reasons why, previous to his signal successes in Valenwood as a senior
clerk for Lord Atrius, he was a lousy agent. He had just about made up his
mind to say something to Lord Vanech, when his lordship unexpectedly pushed
things along.
"You're a credit to the Commission," the waddling little thing said, and then
paused. "Do you have a moment free on your schedule?"
Scotti nodded eagerly, and followed his lordship to his hideously decorated
and very enviable hectare of office space.
"Zenithar blesses us for your presence at the Commission," the little fellow
squeaked grandly. "I don't know whether you know this, but we were having a
bad time before you came along. We had impressive projects, for certain, but
they were not successful. In Black Marsh, for example, for years we've been
trying to improve the roads and other routes of travel for commerce. I put my
best man, Flesus Tijjo, on it, but every year, despite staggering investments
of time and money, the trade along those routes only gets slower and slower.
Now, we have your very clean, very, very profitable Valenwood contract to
boost the Commission's profits. I think it's time you were rewarded."
Scotti grinned a grin of great modesty and subtle avarice.
"I want you to take over the Black Marsh account from Flesus Tijjo."
Scotti shook as if awaking from a pleasant dream to hideous reality, "My Lord,
I - I couldn't -"
"Nonsense," chirped Lord Vanech. "Don't worry about Tijjo. He will be happy to
retire on the money I give him, particularly as soul-wrenchingly difficult as
this Black Marsh business has been. Just your sort of a challenge, my dear
Decumus."
Scotti couldn't utter a sound, though his mouth feebly formed the word "No" as
Lord Vanech brought out the box of documentation on Black Marsh.
"You're a fast reader," Lord Vanech guessed. "You can read it all en route."
"En route to ..."
"Black Marsh, of course," the tiny fellow giggled. "You are a funny chap.
Where else would you go to learn about the work that's being done, and how to
improve it?"
The next morning, the stack of documentation hardly touched, Decumus Scotti
began the journey south-east to Black Marsh. Lord Vanech had hired an able-
bodied guard, a rather taciturn Redguard named Mailic, to protect his best
agent. They rode south along the Niben, and then south-east along the
Silverfish, continuing on into the wilds of Cyrodiil, where the river
tributaries had no names and the very vegetation seemed to come from another
world than the nice, civilized gardens of the northern Imperial Province.
Scotti's horse was tied to Mailic's, so the clerk was able to read. It made it
difficult to pay attention to the path they were taking, but Scotti knew he
needed at least a cursory familiarity with the Commission's business dealings
in Black Marsh.
It was a huge box of paperwork going back forty years, when the Commission had
first been given several million in gold by a wealthy trader, Lord Xellicles
Pinos-Revina, to improve the condition of the road from Gideon to Cyrodiil. At
that time, it took three weeks, a preposterously long time, for the rice and
root he was importing to arrive, half-rotten, in the Imperial Province. Pinos-
Revina was long dead, but many other investors over the decades, including
Pelagius IV himself, had hired the Commission to build roads, drain swamps,
construct bridges, devise anti-smuggling systems, hire mercenaries, and, in
short, do everything that the greatest Empire in history knew would work to
aid trade with Black Marsh. According to the latest figures, the result of
this was that it took two and a half months for goods, now thoroughly rotten,
to arrive.
Scotti found that when he looked up after concentrating on what he was
reading, the landscape had always changed. Always dramatically. Always for the
worse.
"This is Blackwood, sir," said Mailic to Scotti's unspoken question. It was
dark and woodsy, so Decumus Scotti thought that a very appropriate name.
The question he longed to ask, which in due course he did ask, was, "What's
that terrible smell?"
"Slough Point, sir," Mailic replied as they turned the next bend, where the
umbrageous tunnel of tangled tree and vine opened to a clearing. There
squatted a cluster of formal buildings in the dreary Imperial design favored
by Lord Vanech's Commission and every Emperor since Tiber, together with a
stench so eye-blindingly, stomach-wrenchingly awful that Scotti wondered,
suddenly, if it were deadly poisonous. The swarms of blood-colored, sand-
grain-sized insects obscuring the air did not improve the view.
Scotti and Mailic batted at the buzzing clouds as they rode their horses
towards the largest of the buildings, which on approach revealed itself to be
perched at the edge of a thick, black river. From its size and serious aspect,
Scotti guessed it to be the census and excise office for the wide, white
bridge that stretched across the burbling dark water to the reeds on the other
side. It was a very nice, bright, sturdy-looking bridge, built, Scotti knew,
by his Commission.
A poxy, irritable official opened the door quickly on Scotti's first knock.
"Come in, come in, quickly! Don't let the fleshflies in!"
"Fleshflies?" Decumus Scotti trembled. "You mean, they eat human flesh?"
"If you're fool enough to stand around and let them," the soldier said,
rolling his eyes. He had half an ear, and Scotti, looking around at the other
soldiers in the fort noted that they all were well-chewed. One of them had no
nose at all to speak of. "Now, what's your business?"
Scotti told them, and added that if they stood outside the fortress instead of
inside, they might catch more smugglers.
"You better be more concerned with getting across that bridge," the soldier
sneered. "Tide's coming up, and if you don't get a move on, you won't get to
Black Marsh for four days."
That was absurd. A bridge swamped by a rising tide on a river? Only the look
in the soldier's eyes told Scotti he wasn't joking.
Upon stepping out of the fort, he saw that the horses, evidently tired of
being tortured by the fleshflies, had ripped free of their restraints and were
bounding off into the woods. The oily water of the river was already lapping
on the planks, oozing between the crevices. Scotti reflected that perhaps he
would be more than willing to endure a wait of four days before going to Black
Marsh, but Mailic was already running across.
Scotti followed him, wheezing. He was not in excellent shape, and never had
been. The box of Commission materials was heavy. Halfway across, he paused to
catch his breath, and then discovered he could not move. His feet were stuck.
The black mud that ran through the river was a thick gluey paste, and having
washed over the plank Scotti was on, it held his feet fast. Panic seized him.
Scotti looked up from his trap and saw Mailic leaping from plank to plank
ahead of him, closing fast on the reeds on the other side.
"Help!" Scotti cried. "I'm stuck!"
Mailic did not even turn around, but kept jumping. "I know, sir. You need to
lose weight."
Decumus Scotti knew he was a few pounds over, and had meant to start eating
less and exercising more, but embarking on a diet hardly seemed to promise
timely aid in his current predicament. No diet on Nirn would have helped him
just then. However, on reflection, Scotti realized that the Redguard intended
that he drop the box of documents, for Mailic was no longer carrying any of
the essential supplies he had had with him previously.
With a sigh, Scotti threw the box of Commission notes into the glop, and felt
the plank under him rise a quarter of an inch, just enough to free him from
the mud's clutches. With an agility born of extreme fear, Scotti began leaping
after Mailic, dropping onto every third plank, and springing up before the
river gripped him.
In forty-six leaps, Decumus Scotti crashed through the reeds onto the solid
ground behind Mailic, and found himself in Black Marsh. He could hear behind
him a slurping sound as the bridge, and his container of important and
official records of Commission affairs, was consumed by the rising flood of
dark filth, never to be seen again.
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(Search Code: LOLZ22)
~~Beggar~~
Reven
Item ID: 000243E1
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Eslaf Erol was the last of the litter of five born to the Queen of the
prosperous Nordic kingdom of Erolgard, Lahpyrcopa, and her husband, the King
of Erolgard, Ytluaf. During pregnancy, the Queen had been more than twice as
wide as she was tall, and the act of delivery took three months and six days
after it had begun. It is perhaps understandable that the Lahpyrcopa elected,
upon expelling Eslaf to frown, say, 'Good riddance,' and die.
Like many Nords, Ytluaf did not care very much for his wife and less for his
children. His subjects were puzzled, therefore, when he announced that he
would follow the ancient tradition of his people of Atmora of following his
beloved spouse to the grave. They had not thought they were particularly in
love, nor were they aware that such a tradition existed. Still, the simple
people were grateful, for the little royal drama alleviated their boredom,
which was and is a common problem in the more obscure parts of northern
Skyrim, particularly in wintertide.
He gathered his household staff and his five fat, bawling little heirs in
front of him, and divided his estate. To his son Ynohp, he gave his title; to
his son Laernu, he gave his land; to his son Suoibud, he gave his fortune; to
his daughter Laicifitra, he gave his army. Ytluaf's advisors had suggested he
keep the inheritance together for the good of the kingdom, but Ytluaf did not
particularly care for his advisors, or the kingdom, for that matter. Upon
making his announcement, he drew his dagger across his throat.
One of the nurses, who was rather shy, finally decided to speak as the King's
life ebbed away. 'Your highness, you forgot your fifth child, little Eslaf.'
Good Ytluaf groaned. It is somewhat hard to concentrate with blood gushing
from one's throat, after all. The King tried in vain to think of something to
bequeath, but there was nothing left.
Finally he sputtered, irritably, 'Eslaf should have taken something then' and
died.
That a babe but a few days old was expected to demand his rightful inheritance
was arguably unfair. But so Eslaf Erol was given his birthright with his
father's dying breath. He would have nothing, but what he had taken.
Since no one else would have him, the shy nurse, whose name was Drusba, took
the baby home. It was a decrepit little shack, and over the years that
followed, it became more and more decrepit. Unable to find work, Drusba sold
all of her furnishings to buy food for little Eslaf. By the time he was old
enough to walk and talk, she had sold the walls and the roof as well, so they
had nothing but a floor to call home. And if you've ever been to Skyrim, you
can appreciate that that is scarcely sufficient.
Drusba did not tell Eslaf the story of his birth, or that his brothers and
sister were leading quite nice lives with their inheritances, for, as we have
said, she was rather shy, and found it difficult to broach the subject. She
was so painfully shy, in fact, that whenever he asked any questions about
where he came from, Drusba would run away. That was more or less her answer to
everything, to flee.
In order to communicate with her at all, Eslaf learned how to run almost as
soon as he could walk. He couldn't keep up with his adopted mother at first,
but in time he learned to go toe-heel toe-heel if he anticipated a short but
fast sprint, and heel-toe heel-toe if it seemed Drusba was headed for a long
distance marathon flight. He never did get all the answers he needed from her,
but Eslaf did learn how to run.
The kingdom of Erolgard had, in the years that Eslaf was growing, become quite
a grim place. King Ynohp did not have a treasury, for Suoibud had been given
that; he did not have any property for income, for Laernu had been given that;
he did not have an army to protect the people, for Laicifitra had been given
that. Futhermore, as he was but a child, all decisions in the kingdom went
through Ynohp's rather corrupt council. It had become a bureaucratic
exploitative land of high taxes, rampant crime, and regular incursions from
neighboring kingdoms. Not a particular unusual situation for a kingdom of
Tamriel, but an unpleasant one nonetheless.
The time finally came when the taxcollector arrived to Drusba's hovel, such as
it was, to collect the only thing he could - the floor. Rather than protest,
the poor shy maid ran away, and Eslaf never saw her again.
Without a home or a mother, Eslaf did not know what to do. He had grown
accustomed to the cold open air in Drusba's shack, but he was hungry.
'May I have a piece of meat?' he asked the butcher down the street. 'I'm very
hungry.'
The man had known the boy for years, often spoke to his wife about how sorry
he felt for him, growing up in a home with no ceilings or walls. He smiled at
Eslaf and said, 'Go away, or I'll hit you.'
Eslaf hurriedly left the butcher and went to a nearby tavern. The tavernkeeper
had been a former valet in the king's court and knew that the boy was by right
a prince. Many times, he had seen the poor ragged lad in the streets, and
sighed at the way fate had treated him.
'May I have something to eat?' Eslaf asked this tavernkeeper. 'I'm very
hungry.'
'You're lucky I don't cook you up and eat you,' replied the tavernkeeper.
Eslaf hurriedly left the tavern. For the rest of the day, the boy approached
the good citizens of Erolgard, begging for food. One person had thrown
something at him, but it turned out to be an inedible rock.
As night fell, a raggedy man came up to Eslaf and, without saying a word,
handed him a piece of fruit and a piece of dried meat. The lad took it, wide-
eyed, and as he devoured it, he thanked the man very sweetly.
'If I see you begging on the streets tomorrow,' the man growled. 'I'll kill
you myself. There are only so many beggars we of the guild allow in any one
town, and you make it one too many. You're ruining business.'
It was a good thing Eslaf Erol knew how to run. He ran all night.
Eslaf Erol's story is continued in the book 'Thief.'
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(Search Code: LOLZ23)
~~A Dance in Fire, v3~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 000243DF
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Chapter 3
Mother Pascost disappeared into the sordid hole that was her tavern, and
emerged a moment later with a scrap of paper with Liodes Jurus's familiar
scrawl. Decumus Scotti held it up before a patch of sunlight that had found
its way through the massive boughs of the tree city, and read.
Sckotti,
So you made it to Falinnesti, Vallinwood! Congradulatens! Im sure you had
quit a adventure getting here. Unfortonitly, Im not here anymore as you
probaby guess. Theres a town down rivver called Athie Im at. Git a bote and
join me! Its ideal! I hope you brot a lot of contracks, cause these peple need
a lot of building done. They wer close to the war, you see, but not so close
they dont have any mony left to pay. Ha ha. Meat me down here as son as you
can.
-- Jurus
So, Scotti pondered, Jurus had left Falinesti and gone to some place called
Athie. Given his poor penmanship and ghastly spelling, it could equally well
be Athy, Aphy, Othry, Imthri, Urtha, or Krakamaka. The sensible thing to do,
Scotti knew, was to call this adventure over and try to find some way to get
back home to the Imperial City. He was no mercenary devoted to a life of
thrills: he was, or at least had been, a senior clerk at a successful private
building commission. Over the last few weeks, he had been robbed by the
Cathay-Raht, taken on a death march through the jungle by a gang of giggling
Bosmeri, half-starved to death, drugged with fermented pig's milk, nearly
slain by some kind of giant tick, and attacked by archers. He was filthy,
exhausted, and had, he counted, ten gold pieces to his name. Now the man whose
proposal brought him to the depths of misery was not even there. It was both
judicious and seemly to abandon the enterprise entirely.
And yet, a small but distinct voice in his head told him: You have been
chosen. You have no other choice but to see this through.
Scotti turned to the stout old woman, Mother Pascost, who had been watching
him curiously: "I was wondering if you knew of a village that was at the edge
of the recent conflict with Elsweyr. It's called something like Ath-ie?"
"You must mean Athay," she grinned. "My middle lad, Viglil, he manages a dairy
down there. Beautiful country, right on the river. Is that where your friend
went?"
"Yes," said Scotti. "Do you know the fastest way to get there?"
After a short conversation, an even shorter ride to Falinesti's roots by way
of the platforms, and a jog to the river bank, Scotti was negotiating
transport with a huge fair-haired Bosmer with a face like a pickled carp. He
called himself Captain Balfix, but even Scotti with his sheltered life could
recognize him for what he was. A retired pirate for hire, a smuggler for
certain, and probably much worse. His ship, which had clearly been stolen in
the distant past, was a bent old Imperial sloop.
"Fifty gold and we'll be in Athay in two days time," boomed Captain Balfix
expansively.
"I have ten, no, sorry, nine gold pieces," replied Scotti, and feeling the
need for explanation, added, "I had ten, but I gave one to the Platform
Ferryman to get me down here."
"Nine is just as fine," said the captain agreeably. "Truth be told, I was
going to Athay whether you paid me or not. Make yourself comfortable on the
boat, we'll be leaving in just a few minutes."
Decumus Scotti boarded the vessel, which sat low in the water of the river,
stacked high with crates and sacks that spilled out of the hold and galley and
onto the deck. Each was marked with stamps advertising the most innocuous
substances: copper scraps, lard, ink, High Rock meal (marked "For Cattle"),
tar, fish jelly. Scotti's imagination reeled picturing what sorts of illicit
imports were truly aboard.
It took more than those few minutes for Captain Balfix to haul in the rest of
his cargo, but in an hour, the anchor was up and they were sailing downriver
towards Athay. The green gray water barely rippled, only touched by the
fingers of the breeze. Lush plant life crowded the banks, obscuring from sight
all the animals that sang and roared at one another. Lulled by the serene
surroundings, Scotti drifted to sleep.
At night, he awoke and gratefully accepted some clean clothes and food from
Captain Balfix.
"Why are you going to Athay, if I may ask?" queried the Bosmer.
"I'm meeting a former colleague there. He asked me to come down from the
Imperial City where I worked for the Atrius Building Commission to negotiate
some contracts," Scotti took another bite of the dried sausages they were
sharing for dinner. "We're going to try to repair and refurbish whatever
bridges, roads, and other structures that got damaged in the recent war with
the Khajiiti."
"It's been a hard two years," the captain nodded his head. "Though I suppose
good for me and the likes of you and your friend. Trade routes cut off. Now
they think there's going to be war with the Summurset Isles, you heard that?"
Scotti shook his head.
"I've done my share of smuggling skooma down the coast, even helping some
revolutionary types escape the Mane's wrath, but now the wars've made me a
legitimate trader, a business-man. The first casualties of war is always the
corrupted."
Scotti said he was sorry to hear that, and they lapsed into silence, watching
the stars and moons' reflection on the still water. The next day, Scotti awoke
to find the captain wrapped up in his sail, torpid from alcohol, singing in a
low, slurred voice. When he saw Scotti rise, he offered his flagon of jagga.
"I learned my lesson during revelry at western cross."
The captain laughed, and then burst into tears, "I don't want to be
legitimate. Other pirates I used to know are still raping and stealing and
smuggling and selling nice folk like you into slavery. I swear to you, I never
thought the first time that I ran a real shipment of legal goods that my life
would turn out like this. Oh, I know, I could go back to it, but Baan Dar
knows not after all I've seen. I'm a ruined man."
Scotti helped the weeping mer out of the sail, murmuring words of reassurance.
Then he added, "Forgive me for changing the subject, but where are we?"
"Oh," moaned Captain Balfix miserably. "We made good time. Athay's right
around the bend in the river."
"Then it looks like Athay's on fire," said Scotti, pointing.
A great plume of smoke black as pitch was rising above the trees. As they
drifted around the bend, they next saw the flames, and then the blackened
skeletal remains of the village. Dying, blazing villagers leapt from rocks
into the river. A cacophony of wailing met their ears, and they could see,
roaming along the edges of the town, the figures of Khajiiti soldiers bearing
torches.
"Baan Dar bless me!" slurred the captain. "The war's back on!"
"Oh, no," whimpered Scotti.
The sloop drifted with the current toward the opposite shore away from the
fiery town. Scotti turned his attention there, and the sanctuary it offered.
Just a peaceful arbor, away from the horror. There was a shudder of leaves in
two of the trees and a dozen lithe Khajiit dropped to the ground, armed with
bows.
"They see us," hissed Scotti. "And they've got bows!"
"Well, of course they have bows," snarled Captain Balfix. "We Bosmer may have
invented the bloody things, but we didn't think to keep them secret, you
bloody bureaucrat."
"Now, they're setting their arrows on fire!"
"Yes, they do that sometimes."
"Captain, they're shooting at us! They're shooting at us with flaming arrows!"
"Ah, so they are," the captain agreed. "The aim here is to avoid being hit."
But hit they were, and very shortly thereafter. Even worse, the second volley
of arrows hit the supply of pitch, which ignited in a tremendous blue blaze.
Scotti grabbed Captain Balfix and they leapt overboard just before the ship
and all its cargo disintegrated. The shock of the cold water brought the
Bosmer into temporary sobriety. He called to Scotti, who was already swimming
as fast as he could toward the bend.
"Master Decumus, where do you think you're swimming to?"
"Back to Falinesti!" cried Scotti.
"It will take you days, and by the time you get there, everyone will know
about the attack on Athay! They'll never let anyone they don't know in! The
closest village downriver is Grenos, maybe they'll give us shelter!"
Scotti swam back to the captain and side-by-side they began paddling in the
middle of the river, past the burning residuum of the village. He thanked Mara
that he had learned to swim. Many a Cyrodiil did not, as largely land-locked
as the Imperial Province was. Had he been raised in Mir Corrup or Artemon, he
might have been doomed, but the Imperial City itself was encircled by water,
and every lad and lass there knew how to cross without a boat. Even those who
grew up to be clerks and not adventurers.
Captain Balfix's sobriety faded as he grew used to the water's temperature.
Even in wintertide, the Xylo River was fairly temperate and after a fashion,
even comfortable. The Bosmer's strokes were uneven, and he'd stray closer to
Scotti and then further away, pushing ahead and then falling behind.
Scotti looked to the shore to his right: the flames had caught the trees like
tinder. Behind them was an inferno, with which they were barely keeping pace.
To the shore on their left, all looked fair, until he saw a tremble in the
river-reeds, and then what caused it. A pride of the largest cats he had ever
seen. They were auburn-haired, green-eyed beasts with jaws and teeth to match
his wildest nightmares. And they were watching the two swimmers, and keeping
pace.
"Captain Balfix, we can't go to either that shore or the other one, or we'll
be parboiled or eaten," Scotti whispered. "Try to even your kicking and your
strokes. Breath like you would normally. If you're feeling tired, tell me, and
we'll float on our backs for a while."
Anyone who has had the experience of giving rational advice to a drunkard
would understand the hopelessness. Scotti kept pace with the captain, slowing
himself, quickening, drifting left and right, while the Bosmer moaned old
ditties from his pirate days. When he wasn't watching his companion, he
watched the cats on the shore. After a stretch, he turned to his right.
Another village had caught fire. Undoubtedly, it was Grenos. Scotti stared at
the blazing fury, awed by the sight of the destruction, and did not hear that
the captain had ceased to sing.
When he turned back, Captain Balfix was gone.
Scotti dove into the murky depths of the river over and over again. There was
nothing to be done. When he surfaced after his final search, he saw that the
giant cats had moved on, perhaps assuming that he too had drowned. He
continued his lonely swim downriver. A tributary, he noted, had formed a final
barrier, keeping the flames from spreading further. But there were no more
towns. After several hours, he began to ponder the wisdom of going ashore.
Which shore was the question.
He was spared the decision. Ahead of him was a rocky island with a bonfire. He
did not know if he were intruding on a party of Bosmeri or Khajiiti, only that
he could swim no more. With straining, aching muscles, he pulled himself onto
the rocks.
They were Bosmer refugees he gathered, even before they told him. Roasting
over the fire was the remains of one of the giant cats that had been stalking
him through the jungle on the opposite shore.
"Senche-Tiger," said one of the young warriors ravenously. "It's no animal --
it's as smart as any Cathay-Raht or Ohmes or any other bleeding Khajiiti. Pity
this one drowned. I would have gladly killed it. You'll like the meat, though.
Sweet, from all the sugar these asses eat."
Scotti did not know if he was capable of eating a creature as intelligent as a
man or mer, but he surprised himself, as he had done several times over the
last days. It was rich, succulent, and sweet, like sugared pork, but no
seasonings had been added. He surveyed the crowd as he ate. A sad lot, some
still weeping for lost family members. They were the survivors of both the
villages of Grenos and Athay, and war was on every person's lips. Why had the
Khajiiti attacked again? Why -- specifically directed at Scotti, as a Cyrodiil
-- why was the Emperor not enforcing peace in his provinces?
"I was to meet another Cyrodiil," he said to a Bosmer maiden who he understood
to be from Athay. "His name was Liodes Jurus. I don't suppose you know what
might have happened to him."
"I don't know your friend, but there were many Cyrodiils in Athay when the
fire came," said the girl. "Some of them, I think, left quickly. They were
going to Vindisi, inland, in the jungle. I am going there tomorrow, so are
many of us. If you wish, you may come as well."
Decumus Scotti nodded solemnly. He made himself as comfortable as he could in
the stony ground of the river island, and somehow, after much effort, he fell
asleep. But he did not sleep well.
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(Search Code: LOLZ24)
~~The Ransom of Zarek~~
Marobar Sul
Item ID: 000243DE
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Jalemmil stood in her garden and read the letter her servant had brought to
her. The bouquet of joss roses in her hand fell to the ground. For a moment it
was as if all birds had ceased to sing and a cloud had passed over the sky.
Her carefully cultivated and structured haven seemed to flood over with
darkness.
"We have thy son," it read. "We will be in touch with thee shortly with our
ransom demands."
Zarek had never made it as far as Akgun after all. One of the brigands on the
road, Orcs probably, or accursed Dunmer, must have seen his well-appointed
carriage, and taken him hostage. Jalemmil clutched at a post for support,
wondering if her boy had been hurt. He was but a student, not the sort to
fight against well-armed men, but had they beaten him? It was more than a
mother's heart could bear to imagine.
"Don't tell me they sent the ransom note so quickly," called a family voice,
and a familiar face appeared through the hedge. It was Zarek. Jalemmil hurried
to embrace her boy, tears running down her face.
"What happened?" she cried. "I thought thou had been kidnapped."
"I was," said Zarek. "Three huge soaring Nords attacked by carriage on the
Frimvorn Pass. Brothers, as I learned, named Mathais, Ulin, and Koorg. Thou
should have seen these men, mother. Each one of them would have had trouble
fitting through the front door, I can tell thee."
"What happened?" Jalemmil repeated. "Were thou rescued?"
"I thought about waiting for that, but I knew they'd send off a ransom note
and I know how thou does worry. So I remembered what my mentor at Akgun always
said about remaining calm, observing thy surroundings, and looking for thy
opponent's weakness," Zarek grinned. "It took a while, though, because these
fellows were truly monsters. And then, when I listened to them, bragging to
one another, I realized that vanity was their weakness."
"What did thou do?"
"They had me chained at their camp in the woods not far from Cael, on a high
knoll over-looking a wide river. I heard one of them, Koorg, telling the
others that it would take the better part of an hour to swim across the river
and back. They were nodding in agreement, when I spoke up.
"'I could swim that river and back in thirty minutes,' I said.
"'Impossible,' said Koorg. 'I can swim faster than a little whelp like thee.'
"So it was agreed that we would dive off the cliff, swim to the center island,
and return. As we went to our respective rocks, Koorg took it upon himself to
lecture me about all the fine points of swimming. The importance of
synchronized movements of the arms and legs for maximum speed. How essential
it was to breathe after only third or fourth stroke, not too often to slow
thyself down, but not too often to lose one's air. I nodded and agreed to all
his fine points. Then we dove off the cliffs. I made it to the island and back
in a little over an hour, but Koorg never returned. He had dashed his brains
at the rocks at the base of the cliff. I had noticed the telltale undulations
of underwater rocks, and had taken the diving rock on the right."
"But thou returned?" asked Jalemmil, astounded. "Was that not then when thou
escaped?"
"It was too risky to escape then," said Zarek. "They could have easily caught
me again, and I wasn't keen to be blamed for Koorg's disappearance. I said I
did not know what happened to him, and after some searching, they decided he
had forgotten about the race and had swum ashore to hunt for food. They could
not see how I could have had anything to do with his disappearance, as fully
visible as I was throughout my swim. The two brothers began making camp along
the rocky cliff-edge, picking an ideal location so that I would not be able to
escape.
"One of the brothers, Mathais, began commenting on the quality of the soil and
the gradual incline of the rock that circled around the bay below. Ideal, he
said, for a foot race. I expressed my ignorance of the sport, and he was keen
to give me details of the proper technique for running a race. He made absurd
faces, showing how one must breathe in through the nose and out through the
mouth; how to bend one's knees to the proper angle on the rise; the importance
of sure foot placement. Most important, he explained, was that the runner keep
an aggressive but not too strenuous pace if one intends to win. It is fine to
run in second place through the race, he said, provided one has the willpower
and strength to pull out in the end.
"I was an enthusiastic student, and Mathais decided that we ought to run a
quick race around the edge of the bay before night fell. Ulin told us to bring
back some firewood when we came back. We began at once down the path, skirting
the cliff below. I followed his advice about breath, gait, and foot placement,
but I ran with all my power right from the start. Despite his much longer
legs, I was a few paces ahead as we wound the first corner.
"With his eyes on my back, Mathais did not see the gape in the rock that I
jumped over. He plummeted over the cliff before he had a chance to cry out. I
spent a few minutes gathering some twigs before I returned to Ulin at camp."
"Now thou were just showing off," frowned Jalemmil. "Surely that would have
been a good time to escape."
"Thou might think so," agreed Zarek. "But thou had to see the topography -- a
few large trees, and then nothing but shrubs. Ulin would have noticed my
absence and caught up with me in no time, and I would have had a hard time
explaining Mathais's absence. However, the brief forage around the area
allowed me to observe some of the trees close up, and I could formulate my
final plan.
"When I got back to camp with a few twigs, I told Ulin that Mathais was slow
coming along, dragging a large dead tree behind him. Ulin scoffed at his
brother's strength, saying it would take him time to pull up a live tree by
the roots and drop it on the bonfire. I expressed reasonable doubt.
"'I'll show thee,' he said, ripping up a ten foot tall specimen effortlessly.
"'But that's scarcely a sapling,' I objected. 'I thought thou could rip up a
tree.' His eyes followed mine to a magnificent, heavy-looking one at the edge
of the clearing. Ulin grabbed it and began to shake it with a tremendous force
to loosen its roots from the dirt. With that, he loosened the hive from the
uppermost branches, dropping it down onto his head.
"That was when I made my escape, mother," said Zarek, in conclusion, showing a
little schoolboy pride. "While Mathais and Koorg were at the base of the
cliff, and Ulin was flailing about, engulfed by a swarm."
Jalemmil embraced her son once again.
Publisher's Note
I was reluctant to publish the works of Marobar Sul, but when the
University of Gwylim Press asked me to edit this edition, I decided to use
this as an opportunity to set the record straight once and for all.
Scholars do not agree on the exact date of Marobar Sul's work, but it is
generally agreed that they were written by the playwright "Gor Felim," famous
for popular comedies and romances during the Interregnum between the fall of
the First Cyrodilic Empire and the rise of Tiber Septim. The current theory
holds that Felim heard a few genuine Dwemer tales and adapted them to the
stage in order to make money, along with rewritten versions of many of his own
plays.
Gor Felim created the persona of "Marobar Sul" who could translate the
Dwemer language in order to add some sort of validity to the work and make it
even more valuable to the gullible. Note that while "Marobar Sul" and his
works became the subject of heated controversy, there are no reliable records
of anyone actually meeting "Marobar Sul," nor was there anyone of that name
employed by the Mages Guild, the School of Julianos, or any other intellectual
institution.
In any case, the Dwemer in most of the tales of "Marobar Sul" bear little
resemblance to the fearsome, unfathomable race that frightened even the
Dunmer, Nords, and Redguards into submission and built ruins that even now
have yet to be understood.
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(Search Code: LOLZ25)
~~The Red Kitchen Reader~~
Simocles Quo
Item ID: 000243E0
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Though naturally modest, I must admit to some pleasure in being dubbed by our
Emperor's father, the late Pelagius IV, as "the finest connoisseur in
Tamriel." He was also good enough to appoint me the first, and to this day,
the only Master of Cuisine in the Imperial Court. Other Emperors, of course,
had master chefs and cooks in their staff, but only during the reign of
Pelagius was there someone of rarefied tastes to plan the menus and select the
finest produce to be served at court. His son Uriel requested that I continue
in that position, but I was forced to graciously decline the invitation,
because of age and poor health.
This book, however, is not intended to be autobiography. I have had a great
many adventures in my life as a knight of fine dining, but my intention for
this book is much more specific. Many times I have been asked, "What is the
best thing you ever ate?"
The answer to that is not a simple one. Much of the pleasure of a great meal
is not only in the food: it is in the setting, the company, the mood. Eat an
indifferently cooked roast or a simple stew with your one true love, and it is
a meal to be remembered. Have an excellent twelve-course feast with dull
company, while feeling slightly ill, and it will be forgotten, or remembered
only with distaste.
Sometimes meals are memorable for the experiences that come before them.
Fairly recently, in northern Skyrim, I had a bit of bad luck. I was with a
group of fishermen, observing their technique of capturing a very rare, very
delicious fish called Merringar. The fish is found only far from shore, so it
was a week's voyage out beyond civilization. Well, we found our school of
Merringar, but as the fishermen began spearing them, the blood in the water
attracted a family of Dreugh, who capsized the boat and everyone on it. I
managed to save myself, but the fishermen and all our supplies were lost.
Sailing is not, alas, a skill I have picked up over the years, and it took me
three weeks, with no provisions, to find my way back to the kingdom of
Solitude. I had managed to catch enough small fish to eat raw, but I was still
delirious from hunger and thirst. The first meal I had on shore, of Nordic
roast boar, Jazbay wine, and, yes, filet of Merringar would have been
excellent under any circumstances, but because of the threat of starvation I
had faced, it was divine beyond words.
Sometimes meals are even memorable for the experiences that follow them.
In a tavern in Falinesti, I was introduced to a simple peasant dish called
Kollopi, delicious little balls of flesh, thick with spices and juice, so
savory I asked the proprietress whence they came. Mother Pascost explained
that the Kollopi were an arboreal rodent that fed exclusively on the most
tender branches of the graht-oak, and I was fortunate enough to be in
Valenwood at the time of the annual harvest. I was invited to join with a
small colony of Imga monkeys, who alone could gather these succulent little
mice. Because they lived only on the slenderest branches of the trees, and
only on the ends of those same branches, the Imga had to climb beneath them
and jump up to "pick" the Kollopi from their perches. Imga are, of course,
naturally dexterous, but I was then relatively young and spry, and they let me
help them. While I could never jump as high they could, with practice, I found
that if I kept my head and upper body rigid, and launched off the ground with
a scissors-like kick, I could reach the Kollopi on the lowest branches of the
tree. I believe I gathered three Kollopi myself, though with considerable
effort.
To this day, I salivate at the thought of Kollopi, but my mind is on the image
of myself and several dozen Imgas leaping around beneath the shade of the
graht-oaks.
Then, of course, there are the rare meals memorable for what came before,
after, and during the meal, which brings me to the finest thing I ever ate,
the meal that began my lifelong obsession with excellent cuisine.
As a child growing up in Cheydinhal, I did not care for food at all. I
recognized the value of nutrition, for I was not a complete dullard, but I
cannot say that mealtime brought me any pleasure at all. Partly, of course,
this was the fault of my family's cook, who believed that spices were an
invention of the Daedra, and that good Imperials should like their food
boiled, textureless and flavorless. Though I think she was alone in assigning
a religious significance to this, my sampling of traditional Cyrodilic cuisine
suggests that the philosophy is regrettably common in my homeland.
Though I did not enjoy food per se, I was not a morose, unadventurous child in
other respects. I enjoyed the fights in the Arena, of course, and nothing made
me happier than wandering the streets of my town, with my imagination as my
only companion. It was on one such jaunt on a sunny Fredas in Mid Year that I
made a discovery that changed my heart and my life.
There were several old abandoned houses down the street from my own home, and
I often played around them, imagining them to be filled with desperate outlaws
or haunted by hundreds of evil spirits. I never had the nerve to go inside. In
fact, had I not that day seen some other children who had delighted in teasing
me in the past, I would never have gone in. But I needed a sanctuary, so I ran
into the closest one.
The house seemed to be as desolate on the inside as on the outside, further
proof that no one lived there, and had not for some time. When I heard
footsteps, I could only assume that the loathsome little urchins I hoped to
avoid had followed me in. I escaped to the basement, and from there, past a
broken-down wall that led to a well. I could still hear the footsteps above,
and I decided that I was still loath to confront my tormentors. Knocking aside
the rusty locks on the well, I slipped down below.
The well was dry, but I discovered it was far from empty. There was a sort of
a sub-basement to the house, three large rooms that were clean, furnished, and
evidently not abandoned at all. My senses told me someone was living in the
house, after all: not only my sense of sight, but my sense of smell. For one
of the rooms was a large red-painted kitchen, and spread out on the coals of
the oven was a roast, carved into small morsels. Passing a beautiful and
appropriate bas-relief of a mother carving a roast for her grateful children,
I beheld the kitchen and the wonders within.
Like I said, food had never interested me before, but I was transfixed, and
even now as I write this, words fail me in describing the rich aroma that hung
in the air. It was like nothing I had ever smelled in my family's kitchen, and
I was unable to stop myself from popping one of the steaming chunks of meat
into my mouth. The taste was magical, the flesh tender and sweet. Before I
knew it, I had eaten everything on the stove, and I learned at that very
second the truth that that food can and should be sublime.
After gorging myself and having my culinary epiphany, I was conflicted on what
to do. Part of me wanted to wait down in that red kitchen until the chef
returned, so I could ask him what his secret recipe was for the delicious
meat. Part of me recognized that I had stolen into someone's house and eaten
their dinner, and it would be wise to leave while I could. That was what I
did.
Time and again, I've tried to return to that strange, wonderful place, but
Cheydinhal has changed over time. Old houses have been reclaimed, and new
houses abandoned. I know what to look for on the inside of the house - the
well, the beautiful etching of a woman preparing to carve out a roast for her
children, the red kitchen itself - but I have never been able to find the
house again. After a while, as I grew older, I stopped trying. It is better as
it remains in my memory, the most perfect meal I ever ate.
The inspiration for my life that followed all was cooked up, together with
that fabulous meat, right there in the Red Kitchen.
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~~BLADE BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ26)
~~2920, Morning Star (V1)~~
Simocles Quo
Item ID: 000243E4
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1 Morning Star, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind
Almalexia lay in her bed of fur, dreaming. Not until the sun burned through
her window, infusing the light wood and flesh colors of her chamber in a milky
glow did she open her eyes. It was quiet and serene, a stunning reverse of the
flavor of her dreams, so full of blood and celebration. For a few moments, she
simply stared at the ceiling, trying to sort through her visions.
In the courtyard of her palace was a boiling pool which steamed in the
coolness of the winter morning. At the wave of her hand, it cleared and she
saw the face and form of her lover Vivec in his study to the north. She did
not want to speak right away: he looked so handsome in his dark red robes,
writing his poetry as he did every morning.
“Vivec,” she said, and he raised his head in a smile, looking at her face
across thousands of miles. “I have seen a vision of the end of the war.”
“After eighty years, I don't think anyone can imagine an end,” said Vivec with
a smile, but he grew serious, trusting Almalexia's prophecies. “Who will win?
Morrowind or the Cyrodilic Empire?”
“Without Sotha Sil in Morrowind, we will lose,” she replied.
“My intelligence tells me the Empire will strike us to the north in early
springtide, by First Seed at the latest. Could you go to Artaeum and convince
him to return?”
“I'll leave today,” she said, simply.
4 Morning Star, 2920
Gideon, Black Marsh
The Empress paced around her cell. Wintertide gave her wasteful energy, while
in the summer she would merely sit by her window and be grateful for each
breath of stale swamp wind that came to cool her. Across the room, her
unfinished tapestry of a dance at the Imperial Court seemed to mock her. She
ripped it from its frame, tearing the pieces apart as they drifted to the
floor.
Then she laughed at her own useless gesture of defiance. She would have plenty
of time to repair it and craft a hundred more. The Emperor had locked her up
in Castle Giovesse seven years ago, and would likely keep her here until he or
she died.
With a sigh, she pulled the cord to call her knight, Zuuk. He appeared at the
door within minutes, fully uniformed as befitted an Imperial Guard. Most of
the native Kothringi tribesmen of Black Marsh preferred to go about naked, but
Zuuk had taken a positive delight to fashion. His silver, reflective skin was
scarcely visible, only on his face, neck, and hands.
“Your Imperial Highness,” he said with a bow.
“Zuuk,” said Empress Tavia. “I'm bored. Lets discuss methods of assassinating
my husband today.”
14 Morning Star, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
The chimes proclaiming South Wind's Prayer echoed through the wide boulevards
and gardens of the Imperial City, calling all to their temples. The Emperor
Reman III always attended a service at the Temple of the One, while his son
and heir Prince Juilek found it more political to attend a service at a
different temple for each religious holiday. This year, it was at the
cathedral Benevolence of Mara.
The Benevolence's services were mercifully short, but it was not until well
after noon that the Emperor was able to return to the palace. By then, the
arena combatants were impatiently waiting for the start of the ceremony. The
crowd was far less restless, as the Potentate Versidue-Shaie had arranged for
a demonstration from a troupe of Khajiiti acrobats.
“Your religion is so much more convenient than mine,” said the Emperor to his
Potentate by way of an apology. “What is the first game?”
“A one-on-one battle between two able warriors,” said the Potentate, his scaly
skin catching the sun as he rose. “Armed befitting their culture.”
“Sounds good,” said the Emperor and clapped his hands. “Let the sport
commence!”
As soon as he saw the two warriors enter the arena to the roar of the crowd,
Emperor Reman III remembered that he had agreed to this several months before
and forgotten about it. One combatant was the Potentate's son, Savirien-
Chorak, a glistening ivory-yellow eel, gripping his katana and wakizashi with
his thin, deceptively weak looking arms. The other was the Emperor's son,
Prince Juilek, in ebony armor with a savage Orcish helm, shield and longsword
at his side.
“This will be fascinating to watch,” hissed the Potentate, a wide grin across
his narrow face. “I don't know if I've even seen a Cyrodiil fight an Akavir
like this. Usually it's army against army. At last we can settle which
philosophy is better -- to create armor to combat swords as your people do, or
to create swords to combat armor as mine do.”
No one in the crowd, aside from a few scattered Akaviri counselors and the
Potentate himself wanted Savirien-Chorak to win, but there was a collective
intake of breath at the sight of his graceful movements. His swords seemed to
be a part of him, a tail coming from his arms to match the one behind him. It
was a trick of counterbalance, allowing the young serpent man to roll up into
a circle and spin into the center of the ring in offensive position. The
Prince had to plod forward the less impressive traditional way.
As they sprang at each other, the crowd bellowed with delight. The Akaviri was
like a moon in orbit around the Prince, effortlessly springing over his
shoulder to attempt a blow from behind, but the Prince whirled around quickly
to block with his shield. His counter-strike met only air as his foe fell flat
to the ground and slithered between his legs, tripping him. The Prince fell to
the ground with a resounding crash.
Metal and air melted together as Savirien-Chorak rained strike after strike
upon the Prince, who blocked every one with his shield.
“We don't have shields in our culture,” murmured Versidue-Shaie to the
Emperor. “It seems strange to my boy, I imagine. In our country, if you don't
want to get hit, you move out of the way.”
When Savirien-Chorak was rearing back to begin another series of blinding
attacks, the Prince kicked at his tail, sending him falling back momentarily.
In an instant, he had rebounded, but the Prince was also back on his feet. The
two circled one another, until the snake man spun forward, katana extended.
The Prince saw his foe's plan, and blocked the katana with his longsword and
the wakizashi with his shield. Its short punching blade impaled itself in the
metal, and Savirien-Chorak was thrown off balance.
The Prince's longblade slashed across the Akavir's chest and the sudden,
intense pain caused him to drop both his weapons. It a moment, it was over.
Savirien-Chorak was prostate in the dust with the Prince's longsword at his
throat.
“The game's over!” shouted the Emperor, barely heard over the applause from
the stadium.
The Prince grinned and helped Savirien-Chorak up and over to a healer. The
Emperor clapped his Potentate on the back, feeling relieved. He had not
realized when the fight had begun how little chance he had given his son at
victory.
“He will make a fine warrior,” said Versidue-Shaie. “And a great emperor.”
“Just remember,” laughed the Emperor. “You Akaviri have a lot of showy moves,
but if just one of our strikes comes through, it's all over for you.”
“Oh, I'll remember that,” nodded the Potentate.
Reman thought about that comment for the rest of the games, and had trouble
fully enjoying himself. Could the Potentate be another enemy, just as the
Empress had turned out to be? The matter would bear watching.
21 Morning Star, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind
“Why don't you wear that green gown I gave you?” asked the Duke of Mournhold,
watching the young maiden put on her clothes.
“It doesn't fit,” smiled Turala. “And you know I like red.”
“It doesn't fit because you're getting fat,” laughed the Duke, pulling her
down on the bed, kissing her breasts and the pouch of her stomach. She laughed
at the tickles, but pulled herself up, wrapping her red robe around her.
“I'm round like a woman should be,” said Turala. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
“No,” said the Duke. “I must entertain Vivec tomorrow, and the next day the
Duke of Ebonheart is coming. Do you know, I never really appreciated Almalexia
and her political skills until she left?”
“It is the same with me,” smiled Turala. “You will only appreciate me when I'm
gone.”
“That's not true at all,” snorted the Duke. “I appreciate you now.”
Turala allowed the Duke one last kiss before she was out the door. She kept
thinking about what he said. Would he appreciate her more or less when he knew
that she was getting fat because she was carrying his child? Would he
appreciate her enough to marry her?
The Year Continues in Sun's Dawn
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(Search Code: LOLZ27)
~~Battle of Sancre Tor~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 00073A61
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In 2E852, allied Nord and Breton forces crossed the borders into Cyrodiil and
occupied the major passes and settlements in the Jerall Mountains. Making
their headquarters for the winter at Sancre Tor, the Nord-Breton allies dared
King Cuhlecain's new general, Talos, to assault them in their mountain
fastnesses.
When they learned that General Talos had mustered an army in the dead of
winter and was marching to assault Sancre Tor, they were elated. Sancre Tor
was impregnable, its citadel on high cliffs overlooking the lower city,
nestled in a high mountain basin with steep, unscalable cliffs in their rear.
The Cyrodilic army was small, poorly trained and outfitted, short on rations,
and unprepared for winter campaigning. As their ragged units assembled in the
lowlands beneath the citadel, the Nord-Breton allies confidently assumed that
their enemy had delivered himself into their trap.
The citadel was not only protected by an unscalable cliff in front and
unscalable heights in their rear, but the entrance to the citadel was
magically concealed under the appearance of a large mountain lake in the basin
beneath the heights. Accordingly, the Nord-Breton allies left on a small force
to defend the citadel, descending through lower passages to attack and
overwhelm the cold, hungry Cyrodilic forces before them. They expected to
defeat, overrun, and annihilate General Talos' army, leaving no one to oppose
their springtime descent into the Cyrodilic Heartlands.
Thus did General Talos lure the Nord-Breton allies to their doom.
Leaving a weak force in the lowlands to draw out the defenders, General Talos
approached the citadel of Sancre Tor from the rear, descending the supposedly
unscalable heights behind the citadel, and sneaking into the supposedly
magically concealed entrance to the inner citadel. This remarkable feat is
attributed to the agency of a single unnamed traitor, by tradition a Breton
turncoat sorcerer, who revealed both the existence of an obscure mountain
trail down the heights behind the citadel and the secret of the citadel
entrance concealed beneath its illusory lake surface.
While the Cyrodilic army in the lowlands fought a desperate defense against
the Nord-Breton sortie, General Talos and his men entered the citadel, swept
aside the sparse defense, captured the Nord-Breton nobles and generals, and
compelled them to surrender the citadel and their armies. The confused and
demoralized Nord captives, already suspicious of the scheming High Rock
sorcerer aristocracy and their overreaching dreams of Heartlands conquests,
deserted the alliance and swore loyalty to Tiber Septim. The Skyrim generals
joined their rank and file in Tiber Septim's army; the High Rock battlemage
command was summarily executed and the captive Bretons imprisoned or sold into
slavery.
Thus was the concerted allied invasion of Cyrodiil foiled, and General Talos'
army swelled by the hardened Nord veteran troops that played so crucial a role
in General Talos' succeeding campaigns which consolidated the Colovian and
Nibenean into the core of the Cyrodilic Empire, and which resulting in the
crowning of General Talos as Emperor Tiber Septim.
Historians marvel at Tiber Septim's tactical daring in assaulting a fortified
mountain citadel in the dead of winter against vastly superior numbers. Later
Tiber Septim attributed his unwavering resolve against overwhelming obstacles
to have been inspired by his divine vision of the Amulet of Kings in the Tomb
of Reman III.
The young Talos may indeed have been inspired by his belief that he was fated
to recover this ancient sacred symbol of the Covenant and to lead Tamriel to
the high civilization of the Third Empire. Nonetheless, this should in no way
reduce our admiration for the dash and genius of this defining military
triumph against impossible odds.
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(Search Code: LOLZ28)
~~Fire and Darkness~~
Ynir Gorming
Item ID: 000243E5
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"Brother, I still call you brother for we share our bonds of blood, tested but
unbroken by hatred. Even if I am murdered, which seems inevitable now, know
that, brother. You and I are not innocents, so our benedictions of mutual
enmity is not tragedy, but horror. This state of silent, shadowed war, of
secret poisons and sleeping men strangled in their beds, of the sudden arrow
and the artful dagger, has no end that I can see. No possibility for peace. I
see the shadows in the room move though the flame of my candle is steady. I
know the signs that I …"
This note was found where it had fallen beneath the floorboards of an
abandoned house in the Nordic village of Jallenheim in the 358th year of the
second era. It was said that a quiet cobbler lived in the house, whispered by
some to be a member of the dread Morag Tong, the assassin's guild outlawed
throughout Tamriel thirty-four years previously. The house itself was
perfectly in order, as if the cobbler had simply vanished. There was a single
drop of blood on the note.
The Dark Brotherhood had paid a call.
This note and others like it are rare. Both the Morag Tong and its hated
child, the Dark Brotherhood, are scrupulous about leaving no evidence behind —
their members know that to divulge secrets of their orders is a lethal
infraction. This obviously makes the job of the historian seeking to trace
their histories very difficult.
The Morag Tong, according to most scholars, had been a facet of the culture of
Morrowind almost since its beginning. After all, the history of Resdayn, the
ancient name of Morrowind, is rife with assassination, blood sacrifice, and
religious zealotry, hallmarks of the order. It is commonly said that the Morag
Tong then as now murdered for the glory of the Daedra Prince Mephala, but
common assumptions are rarely completely accurate. It is my contention that
the earliest form of the Tong additionally worshipped an even older and more
malevolent deity than Mephala. As terrifying as that Prince of Oblivion is,
they had and have reverence for a far greater evil.
Writs of assassination from the first era offer rare glimpses into the Morag
Tong's earliest philosophy. They are as matter of fact as current day writs,
but many contain snatches of poetry which have perplexed our scholars for
hundreds of years. "Lisping sibilant hisses,' 'Ether's sweet sway,' 'Rancid
kiss of passing sin,' and other strange, almost insane insertions into the
writs were codes for the name of the person to be assassinated, his or her
location, and the time at which death was to come. They were also direct
references to the divine spirit called Sithis.
Evidence of the Morag Tong's expertise in assassination seems scarcely
necessary. The few instances of someone escaping a murder attempt by them are
always remarkable and rare, proving that they were and are patient, capable
murderers who use their tools well. A fragment of a letter found among the
effects of a well-known armorer has been sealed in our vaults for some time.
It was likely penned by an unknown Tong assassin ordering weapons for his
order, and offers some illumination into what they looked for in their blades,
as well the mention of Vounoura, the island where the Tong sent its agents in
retirement —
'I congratulate you on your artistry, and the balance and heft of your
daggers. The knife blade is whisper thin, elegantly wrought, but inpractical.
It must have a bolder edge, for arteries, when cut, have a tendencies to self
seal, preventing adequate blood loss. I will be leaving Vounoura in two weeks
time to inspect your new tools, hoping they will be more satisfactory.'
The Morag Tong spread quietly throughout Tamriel in the early years of the
second era, worshipping Mephala and Sithis with blood, as they had always
done.
When the Morag Tong assassinated the Emperor Reman in the year 2920 of the
first era, and his successor, Potentate Versidae-Shae in the 324th year of the
second era, the assassins so long in the shadows were suddenly thrust into the
light. They had become brazen, drunk with murder, literally painting the words
'MORAG TONG' on the wall in the Potentate's blood.
The Morag Tong was instantly and unanimously outlawed in all corners of
Tamriel, with the exception of its home province of Morrowind. There they
continued to operate with the blessings of the Houses, apparently cutting off
all contact with their satellite brothers to the west. There they continue
their quasi-legal existence, accepting black writs and murdering with
impunity.
Most scholars believe that the birth of the Dark Brotherhood, the secular,
murder-for- profit order of assassins, was as a result of a religious schism
in the Morag Tong. Given the secrecy of both cults, it is difficult to divine
the exact nature of it, but certain logical assumptions can be made.
In order to exist, the Morag Tong must have appealed to the highest power in
Morrowind, which at that time, the Second Era, could only have been the
Tribunal of Almalexia, Sotha Sil, and Vivec. Mephala, whom the Tong worshipped
with Sithis, was said to have been the Anticipation of Vivec. Is it not
logical to assume that in exchange for toleration of their continued
existence, the Tong would have ceased their worship of Mephala in exchange for
the worship of Vivec?
The Morag Tong continues, as we know, to worship Sithis. The Dark Brotherhood
is not considered a religious order by most, merely a secular organization,
offering murder for gold. I have seen, however, proof positive in the form of
writs to the Brotherhood that Sithis is still revered above all.
So where, the reader, asks, is the cause for the schism? How could a silent
war have begun, when both groups are so close? Both assassin's guilds, after
all, worship Sithis. And yet, a figure emerges from history who should give
those with this assumption pause.
The Night Mother.
Who the Night Mother is, where she came from, what her functions are, no one
knows. Carlovac Townway in his generally well-researched historical fiction
2920: The Last Year of the First Era tries to make her the leader of the Morag
Tong. But she is never historically associated with the Tong, only the Dark
Brotherhood.
The Night Mother, my dear friend, is Mephala. The Dark Brotherhood of the
west, unfettered by the orders of the Tribunal, continue to worship Mephala.
They may not call her by her name, but the daedra of murder, sex, and secrets
is their leader still. And they did not, and still do not, to this day,
forgive their brethren for casting her aside.
The cobbler who met his end in the second era, who saw no end in the war
between the Brotherhood and the Tong, was correct. In the shadows of the
Empire, the Brothers of Death remain locked in combat, and they will likely
remain that way forever.
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(Search Code: LOLZ29)
~~Song of Hrormir~~
Item ID: 000243E6
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Hrormir
Son of Hrorgar
Summoned to the Court of Vjindak,
Son of Vjinmore, King of Evensnow.
"Mighty caster of magic,
I charge thee to go to Aelfendor,
For its hoary Warriors do threaten my Land
And bring forth their cousin Demons
To terrify my People."
Hrormir
Son of Hrorgar
Heard the Words of Vjindak Evensnow.
"By Icestaff,
Surely I would help thee
But I have already a Quest to drink
Twelve Flagons of Mead in one Hour,
And then to bed four Wenches,
Twice each.
So I must with grace decline."
The King he did not smile
At Hrormir and his jolly Spirit.
"By thine Honor
Must thou aidest my Cause
For must thou takest up the Sword
Of thy Companion Darfang
Who took the Quest and failed."
Hrormir laughed.
"Now I know thou jest.
My boon Mate Darfang wouldst not fail.
There be no finer Bladesman.
If thou chargest him, he wouldst not fall."
"I did not say he fell.
He joined the Dark Kings of Aelfendor
And by doing so dishonored
Himself and thee, his Friend."
Hrormir could not believe the Words,
And yet, he knew Eversnow
Didst not lie.
So for twenty Days and three rodeth he
To the Land of Night, the Kingdom of Fear,
Where the Peasants ever carried Candles
Knowing what Evil awaiteth them
Should they stray beyond the Glow.
The Sovereigncy of three Dark Kings:
Aelfendor.
There, Torch in Hand, didst Hrormir
Pass through haunted Countryside
And frightened Villages,
And through the black Gates
Of the blacker Castle of Aelfendor.
The three Dark Kings didst sneer
At the sight of mighty Hrormir
And summoned they their Champion
Darfang the Blade.
"My boon Companion!"
Hrormir called in the Hall of Night.
"I dare not trust my Eyes,
For then I wouldst believe
That thou hast joined with Evil,
And turned thy Way from Honor
And Brotherhood!"
"Hrormir!"
Darfang the Blade didst cry.
"If thou dost not go now,
One of us must die, for I hate thee!"
But Hrormir was battle ready,
And in the echoing Halls of Night
The Blade of Darfang
And the Staff of Hrormir
Didst strike again and yet again.
Mighty Warriors and Mages both,
The boon Companions now Foes,
Shook Mundus with their War.
They might have fought for a Year
If there were Sun in Aelfendor
To mark Time,
And either Hrormir or Darfang
May verily have won.
But Hrormir saweth through the Dark
The Tears in the Eyes of his former Friend,
And then he saweth the Shadow of Darfang
Wert not his own.
And so with Icestaff, he did strike
Not Darfang, but his Shadow, which cried.
"Hold, Mortal Man!"
The Shadow becameth the Hag,
Bent and twisted, in her Cloak and Hood.
From her faceless Shadows, she hissed.
"Mortal Man called Hrormir
The Soul of thy boon Companion
Is my Plaything,
But I will take thine in trade,
For though ye both have strong Arms,
Thou hast the more clever Mind
Which my Sons the Dark Kings need
For a Champion of Aelfendor."
Hrormir the brave didst not take a Breath
Or pause before he boldly said.
"Shadowy Hag, release Darfang,
And thou mayst use me as thou will."
The Hag didst laugh and freed Darfang.
"To save thine Honor this thou hast done,
But now thou must be without Honor
Mortal Man, as the Champion
Of the Dark Kings, my Heirs of Gray Maybe,
Thou must help them divide Aelfendor,
And love me,
Thy Shadowy Hag and thy Mistress well."
For his loss of Honor,
And his dear Friend's Sacrifice,
Noble Darfang prepared to take his Dagger
And plunge it in his good Heart,
But Hrormir stayed his Brother's Hand and whispered.
"No, boon Companion,
Wait for me at the Village Banquet Hall."
And then did Darfang the Blade leave the Castle
While Hrormir took the withered Claw
Of the Hag, and pressed it to his Lips.
"Shadowy Hag, to thee I pledge
To only honor thy black Words
To turn my back on Truth
To aid thy Dark Kings' Ambition
To divide their Inheritance fairly
To love thee
To think thee beautiful."
Then to the Chamber in the Heart of Night
Hrormir and the Hag did retire
Kissed he there her wrinkled Lips
And her wrinkled, sagging Breasts,
For ten Days and Nights and three did Hrormir
And his Icestaff
Battle thus.
Then Sweet Kynareth blew honeyed Winds
O'er the Hills and Forest Glens of Aelfendor,
And the Caress of warm blooded Dibella
Coaxed the Blossoms to wanton Display
So that Aelfendor became a Garden
Of all the Senses.
The frightened Servants of the Dark Kings
Woke to find there was naught to fear
And through the once dark Streets of the Village
Came the Cries of Celebration.
In the Banquet Hall of the Village
Hrormir and his boon Companion Darfang
Embraced and drank of rich Mead.
The Shadowy Hag too was smiling,
Sleeping still in her soft Bed,
Until the morning Sun touched her naked Face
And she awoke, and saw All,
And knew All saw her.
And she cried out:
"Mortal Man!"
Night fell fast upon the Land
As the Hag flew into the Banquet Hall
Casting blackest Darkness in her Wake
But all the Celebrants still could see
Her Anger
In her monstrous Face
And they shook with Fear.
The Hag had said the Kingdom was
To be divided among her Heirs.
But Aelfendor had been kept whole
While her Children divided,
Drawn and quartered.
Hrormir was mightily amused.
He swallowed his Laughter
In his Mead,
For none should laugh outright
At the Daedra Lord Nocturnal.
Without her gray Cowl of shadowed Night,
Her hideous Face forced the Moons
To hide themselves.
Hrormir the mighty did not quail.
"Wherest be thine Hood, shadowy hag?"
"Mortal Man hast taken it from me unaware.
When I awoke, my Face unmasked,
My Kingdom cast into the Light,
My Dark King Heirs in Pieces cast,
And here, my Champion smiles.
Yet in truth, thou kept thy Promise truly,
To never keep thy Promise true."
Hrormir
Son of Hrorgar
Bowed to the Hag, his Queen.
"And evermore,
'Til thou releaseth me, will I serve thee so."
"A clever Mind in a Champion
Is a much overvalued Trait."
The Hag released Hrormir's Soul
And he released her Hood.
And so in the Light of darkest Dark,
She left Aelfendor evermore.
And after drinking twelve Flagons of Mead,
And bedding four Wenches
Twice each,
Did Darfang return to Eversnow
With Hrormir
Son of Hrorgar.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ30)
~~Words and Philosophy~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 000243E3
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lady Allena Benoch, former master of the Valenwood Fighter's Guild and head of
the Emperor's personal guard in the Imperial City, has been leading a campaign
to reacquaint the soldiers of Tamriel with the sword. I met with her on three
different occasions for the purposes of this book. The first time was at her
suite in the palace, on the balcony overlooking the gardens below.
I was early for the interview, which had taken me nearly six months to
arrange, but she gently chided me for not being even earlier.
"I've had time to put up my defenses now," she said, her bright green eyes
smiling.
Lady Benoch is a Bosmer, a Wood Elf, and like her ancestors, took to the bow
in her early years. She excelled at the sport, and by the age of fourteen, she
had joined the hunting party of her tribe as a Jaqspur, a long distance
shooter. During the black year of 396, when the Parikh tribe began their
rampage through southeastern Valenwood with the aid of powers from the
Summurset Isle, Lady Benoch fought the futile battle to keep her tribe's land.
"I killed someone for the first time when I was sixteen," she says now. "I
don't remember it very well -- he or she was just a blur on the horizon where
I aimed my bow. It meant no more to me than shooting animals. I probably
killed a hundred people like that during that summer and fall. I didn't really
feel like a killer until that wintertide, when I learned what it was like to
look into a man's eyes as you spilled his blood.
"It was a scout from the Parikh tribe who surprised me while I was on camp
watch. We surprised each other, I suppose. I had my bow at my side, and I just
panicked, trying to string an arrow when he was half a yard away from me. It
was the only thing I knew to do. Of course, he struck first with his blade,
and I just fell back in shock.
"You always remember the mistakes of your first victim. His mistake was
assuming because he had drawn blood and I had fallen, that I was dead. I
rushed at him the moment he turned from me towards the sleeping camp of my
tribesmen. He was caught off guard, and I wrested his blade away from him.
"I don't know how many times I stabbed at him. By the time I stopped, when the
next watch came to relieve me, my arms were black and blue with strain, there
was not a solid piece of him left. I had literally cut him into pieces. You
see, I had no concept of how to fight or how much it took to kill a man."
Lady Benoch, aware of this deficiency in her education, began teaching herself
swordsmanship at once.
"You can't learn how to use a sword in Valenwood," she says. "Which isn't to
say Bosmer can't use blades, but we're largely self-taught. As much as it hurt
when my tribe found itself homeless, pushed to the north, it did have one good
aspect: it afforded me the opportunity to meet Redguards."
Studying all manners of weapon wielding under the tutelage of Warday A'kor,
Lady Benoch excelled. She became a freelance adventurer, traveling through the
wilds of southern Hammerfell and northern Valenwood, protecting caravans and
visiting dignitaries from the various dangers indigenous to the population.
Unfortunately, before we were able to pursue her story of her early years any
further, Lady Benoch was called away on urgent summons from the Emperor. Such
is often the case with the Imperial Guard, and in these troubled times,
perhaps, more so than in the past. When I tried to contact her for another
talk, her servants informed me than their mistress was in Skyrim. Another
month passed, and when I visited her suite, I was told she was in High Rock.
To her credit, Lady Benoch actually sought me out for our second interview on
Sun's Dusk of that year. I was in a tavern in the City called the Blood and
Rooster, when I felt her hand on my shoulder. She sat down at the rude table
and continued her tale as if it had never been interrupted.
She returned to the theme of her days as an adventurer, and told me about the
first time she ever felt confident with a sword.
"I owned at that time an enchanted daikatana, quite a good one, of daedric
metal. It wasn't an original Akaviri, not even of design. I didn't have that
kind of money, but it served my primary purpose of delivering as much damage
with as little effort on my part as possible. A'kor had taught me how to
fence, but when faced with a life or death situation, I always fell back on
the old overhand wallop.
"A pack of orcs had stolen some gold from a local chieftain in Meditea, and I
went looking for them in one of the ubiquitous dungeons that dot the
countryside in that region. There were the usual rats and giant spiders, and I
was enough of a veteran by then to dispatch them with relative ease. The
problem came when I found myself in a pitch black room, and all around me, I
heard the grunts of orcs nearing in.
"I waved my sword around me, connecting with nothing, hearing their footsteps
coming ever nearer. Somehow, I managed to hold back my fear and to remember
the simple exercises Master A'kor had taught me. I listened, stepped sideways,
swung, twisted, stepped forward, swung a circle, turned around, side-stepped,
swung.
"My instinct was right. The orcs had gathered in a circle around me, and when
I found a light, I saw that they were all dead.
"That's when I focused on my study of swordplay. I'm stupid enough to require
a near death experience to see the practical purposes, you see."
Lady Benoch spent the remainder of the interview, responding in her typically
blunt way to the veracity of various myths that surrounded her and her career.
It was true that she became the master of the Valenwood Fighter's Guild after
winning a duel with the former master, who was a stooge of the Imperial
Battlemage, the traitor Jagar Tharn. It was not true that she was the one
responsible for the Valenwood Guild's disintegration two years later
("Actually, the membership in the Valenwood chapter was healthy, but in
Tamriel overall the mood was not conducive for the continued existence of a
nonpartisan organization of freelance warriors.") It was true that she first
came to the Emperor's attention when she defended Queen Akorithi of Sentinel
from a Breton assassin. It was not true that the assassin was hired by someone
in the high court of Daggerfall ("At least," she says wryly, "That has never
been proven."). It was also true that she married her former servant Urken
after he had been in her service for eleven years ("No one knows how to keep
my weaponry honed like he does," she says. "It's a practical business. I
either had to give him a raise or marry him.").
The only story I asked her that she would neither admit nor refute was the one
about Calaxes, the Emperor's bastard. When I brought up the name, she
shrugged, professing no knowledge of the affair. I pressed on with the details
of the story. Calaxes, though not in line for succession, had been given the
Archbishopric of The One: a powerful position in the Imperial City, and indeed
over all Tamriel where that religion is honored. Whispering began immediately
that Calaxes believed that the Gods were angered with the secular governments
of Tamriel and the Emperor specifically. It was even said that Calaxes
advocated full-scale rebellion to establish a theocracy over the Empire.
It is certainly true, I pressed on, that the Emperor's relationship with
Calaxes had become very stormy, and that legislation had been passed to limit
the Church's authority. That is, up until the moment when Calaxes disappeared,
suddenly, without notice to his closest of friends. Many said that Lady Benoch
and the Imperial Guard assassinated the Archbishop Calaxes in the sacristy of
his church -- the date usually given was the 29th of Sun's Dusk 3E 498.
"Of course," responds Lady Benoch with one of her mysterious grins. "I don't
need to tell you that the Imperial Guard's position is as protectors of the
throne, not assassins."
"But surely, no one is more trusted that the Guard for such a sensitive
operation," I say, carefully.
Lady Benoch acknowledges that, but merely says that such details of her duties
must remain secret as a matter of Imperial security. Unfortunately, her
ladyship had to leave early the next morning, as the Emperor had business down
south -- of course, I couldn't be told more specifics. She promised to send me
word when she returned so we could continue our interview.
As it turned out, I had business of my own in the Summurset Isle, compiling a
book on the Psijic Order. It was therefore with surprise that I met her
ladyship three months later in Firsthold. We managed to get away from our
respective duties to complete our third and final interview, on a walk along
the Diceto, the great river that passes through the royal parks of the city.
Steering away from questions of her recent duties and assignments, which I
guessed rightly she was loath to answer, I returned to the subject of
swordfighting.
"Frandar Hunding," she says. "Lists thirty-eight grips, seven hundred and
fifty offensive and eighteen hundred defensive positions, and nearly nine
thousand moves essential to sword mastery. The average hack-and-slasher knows
one grip, which he uses primarily to keep from dropping his blade. He knows
one offensive position, facing his target, and one defensive position,
fleeing. Of the multitudinous rhythms and inflections of combat, he knows less
than one.
"The ways of the warrior were never meant to be the easiest path. The
archetype of the idiot fighter is as solidly ingrained as that of the
brilliant wizard and the shrewd thief, but it was not always so. The figure of
the philosopher swordsman, the blade-wielding artist are creatures of the
past, together with the swordsinger of the Redguards, who was said to be able
to create and wield a blade with but the power of his mind. The future of the
intelligent blade-wielder looks bleak in comparison to the glories of the
past."
Not wanting to end our interviews on a sour note, I pressed Lady Allena Benoch
for advice for young blade-swingers just beginning their careers.
"When confronted with a wizard," she says, throwing petals of Kanthleaf into
the Diceto. "Close the distance and hit 'im hard."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
~~BLOCK BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ31)
~~A Dance in Fire, v2~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 000243EA
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 2
It was a complete loss. The Cathay-Raht had stolen or destroyed almost every
item of value in the caravan in just a few minutes' time. Decumus Scotti's
wagonload of wood he had hoped to trade with the Bosmer had been set on fire
and then toppled off the bluff. His clothing and contracts were tattered and
ground into the mud of dirt mixed with spilt wine. All the pilgrims,
merchants, and adventurers in the group moaned and wept as they gathered the
remnants of their belongings by the rising sun of the dawn.
“I best not tell anyone that I managed to hold onto my notes for my
translation of the Mnoriad Pley Bar,” whispered the poet Gryf Mallon. “They'd
probably turn on me.”
Scotti politely declined the opportunity of telling Mallon just how little
value he himself placed on the man's property. Instead, he counted the coins
in his purse. Thirty-four gold pieces. Very little indeed for an entrepreneur
beginning a new business.
“Hoy!” came a cry from the wood. A small party of Bosmer emerged from the
thicket, clad in leather mail and bearing arms. “Friend or foe?”
“Neither,” growled the convoy head.
“You must be the Cyrodiils,” laughed the leader of the group, a tall skeleton-
thin youth with a sharp vulpine face. “We heard you were en route. Evidently,
so did our enemies.”
“I thought the war was over,” muttered one of the caravan's now ruined
merchants.
The Bosmer laughed again: “No act of war. Just a little border enterprise. You
are going on to Falinesti?”
“I'm not,” the convoy head shook his head. “As far as I'm concerned, my duty
is done. No more horses, no more caravan. Just a fat profit loss to me.”
The men and women crowded around the man, protesting, threatening, begging,
but he refused to step foot in Valenwood. If these were the new times of
peace, he said, he'd rather come back for the next war.
Scotti tried a different route and approached the Bosmer. He spoke with an
authoritative but friendly voice, the kind he used in negotiations with
peevish carpenters: “I don't suppose you'd consider escorting me to Falinesti.
I'm a representative for an important Imperial agency, the Atrius Building
Commission, here to help repair and alleviate some of the problems the war
with the Khajiit brought to your province. Patriotism --”
“Twenty gold pieces, and you must carry your own gear if you have any left,”
replied the Bosmer.
Scotti reflected that negotiations with peevish carpenters rarely went his way
either.
Six eager people had enough gold on them for payment. Among those without
funds was the poet, who appealed to Scotti for assistance.
“I'm sorry, Gryf, I only have fourteen gold left over. Not even enough for a
decent room when I get to Falinesti. I really would help you if I could,” said
Scotti, persuading himself that it was true.
The band of six and their Bosmer escorts began the descent down a rocky path
along the bluff. Within an hour's time, they were deep in the jungles of
Valenwood. A never-ending canopy of hues of browns and greens obscured the
sky. A millennia's worth of fallen leaves formed a deep, wormy sea of
putrefaction beneath their feet. Several miles were crossed wading through the
slime. For several more, they took a labyrinthian path across fallen branches
and the low-hanging boughs of giant trees.
All the while, hour after hour, the inexhaustible Bosmer host moved so fast,
the Cyrodiils struggled to keep from being left behind. A red-faced little
merchant with short legs took a bad step on a rotten branch and nearly fell.
His fellow provincials had to help him up. The Bosmer paused only a moment,
their eyes continually darting to the shadows in the trees above before moving
on at their usual expeditious pace.
“What are they so nervous about?” wheezed the merchant irritably. “More
Cathay-Raht?”
“Don't be ridiculous,” laughed the Bosmer unconvincingly. “Khajiiti this far
into Valenwood? In times of peace? They'd never dare.”
When the group passed high enough above the swamp that the smell was somewhat
dissipated, Scotti felt a sudden pang of hunger. He was used to four meals a
day in the Cyrodilic custom. Hours of nonstop exertion without food was not
part of his regimen as a comfortably paid clerk. He pondered, feeling somewhat
delirious, how long they had been trotting through the jungle. Twelve hours?
Twenty? A week? Time was meaningless. Sunlight was only sporadic through the
vegetative ceiling. Phosphorescent molds on the trees and in the muck below
provided the only regular illumination.
“Is it at all possible for us to rest and eat?” he hollered to his host up
ahead.
“We're near to Falinesti,” came the echoing reply. “Lots of food there.”
The path continued upward for several hours more across a clot of fallen logs,
rising up to the first and then the second boughs of the tree line. As they
rounded a long corner, the travelers found themselves midway up a waterfall
that fell a hundred feet or more. No one had the energy to complain as they
began pulling up the stacks of rock, agonizing foot by foot. The Bosmer
escorts disappeared into the mist, but Scotti kept climbing until there was no
more rock left. He wiped the sweat and river water from his eyes.
Falinesti spread across the horizon before him. Sprawling across both banks of
the river stood the mighty graht-oak city, with groves and orchards of lesser
trees crowding it like supplicants before their king. At a lesser scale, the
tree that formed the moving city would have been extraordinary: gnarled and
twisted with a gorgeous crown of gold and green, dripping with vines and
shining with sap. At a mile tall and half as wide, it was the most magnificent
thing Scotti had ever seen. If he had not been a starving man with the soul of
a clerk, he would have sung.
“There you are,” said the leader of the escorts. “Not too far a walk. You
should be glad it's wintertide. In summertide, the city's on the far south end
of the province.”
Scotti was lost as to how to proceed. The sight of the vertical metropolis
where people moved about like ants disoriented all his sensibilities.
“You wouldn't know of an inn called,” he paused for a moment, and then pulled
Jurus's letter from his pocket. “Something like 'Mother Paskos Tavern'?”
“Mother Pascost?” the lead Bosmer laughed his familiar contemptuous laugh.
“You won't want to stay there? Visitors always prefer the Aysia Hall in the
top boughs. It's expensive, but very nice.”
“I'm meeting someone at Mother Pascost's Tavern.”
“If you've made up your mind to go, take a lift to Havel Slump and ask for
directions there. Just don't get lost and fall asleep in the western cross.”
This apparently struck the youth's friends as a very witty jest, and so it was
with their laughter echoing behind him that Scotti crossed the writhing root
system to the base of Falinesti. The ground was littered with leaves and
refuse, and from moment to moment a glass or a bone would plummet from far
above, so he walked with his neck crooked to have warning. An intricate
network of platforms anchored to thick vines slipped up and down the slick
trunk of the city with perfect grace, manned by operators with arms as thick
as an ox's belly. Scotti approaches the nearest fellow at one of the
platforms, who was idly smoking from a glass pipe.
“I was wondering if you might take me to Havel Slump.”
The mer nodded and within a few minutes time, Scotti was two hundred feet in
the air at a crook between two mighty branches. Curled webs of moss stretched
unevenly across the fork, forming a sharing roof for several dozen small
buildings. There were only a few souls in the alley, but around the bend
ahead, he could hear the sound of music and people. Scotti tipped the
Falinesti Platform Ferryman a gold piece and asked for the location of Mother
Pascost's Tavern.
“Straight ahead of you, sir, but you won't find anyone there,” the Ferryman
explained, pointing in the direction of the noise. “Morndas everyone in Havel
Slump has revelry.”
Scotti walked carefully along the narrow street. Though the ground felt as
solid as the marble avenues of the Imperial City, there were slick cracks in
the bark that exposed fatal drops into the river. He took a moment to sit
down, to rest and get used to the view from the heights. It was a beautiful
day for certain, but it took Scotti only a few minutes of contemplation to
rise up in alarm. A jolly little raft anchored down stream below him had
distinctly moved several inches while he watched it. But it hadn't moved at
all. He had. Together with everything around him. It was no metaphor: the city
of Falinesti walked. And, considering its size, it moved quickly.
Scotti rose to his feet and into a cloud of smoke that drifted out from around
the bend. It was the most delicious roast he had ever smelled. The clerk
forgot his fear and ran.
The “revelry” as the Ferryman had termed it took place on an enormous platform
tied to the tree, wide enough to be a plaza in any other city. A fantastic
assortment of the most amazing people Scotti had ever seen were jammed
shoulder-to-shoulder together, many eating, many more drinking, and some
dancing to a lutist and singer perched on an offshoot above the crowd. They
were largely Bosmer, true natives clad in colorful leather and bones, with a
close minority of orcs. Whirling through the throng, dancing and bellowing at
one another were a hideous ape people. A few heads bobbing over the tops of
the crowd belonged not, as Scotti first assumed, to very tall people, but to a
family of centaurs.
“Care for some mutton?” queried a wizened old mer who roasted an enormous
beast on some red-hot rocks.
Scotti quickly paid him a gold piece and devoured the leg he was given. And
then another gold piece and another leg. The fellow chuckled when Scotti began
choking on a piece of gristle, and handed him a mug of a frothing white drink.
He drank it and felt a quiver run through his body as if he were being
tickled.
“What is that?” Scotti asked.
“Jagga. Fermented pig's milk. I can let you have a flagon of it and a bit more
mutton for another gold.”
Scotti agreed, paid, gobbled down the meat, and took the flagon with him as he
slipped into the crowd. His co-worker Liodes Jurus, the man who had told him
to come to Valenwood, was nowhere to be seen. When the flagon was a quarter
empty, Scotti stopped looking for Jurus. When it was half empty, he was
dancing with the group, oblivious to the broken planks and gaps in the
fencework. At three quarters empty, he was trading jokes with a group of
creatures whose language was completely alien to him. By the time the flagon
was completely drained, he was asleep, snoring, while the revelry continued on
all around his supine body.
The next morning, still asleep, Scotti had the sensation of someone kissing
him. He made a face to return the favor, but a pain like fire spread through
his chest and forced him to open his eyes. There was an insect the size of a
large calf sitting on him, crushing him, its spiky legs holding him down while
a central spiral-bladed vortex of a mouth tore through his shirt. He screamed
and thrashed but the beast was too strong. It had found its meal and it was
going to finish it.
It's over, thought Scotti wildly, I should have never left home. I could have
stayed in the City, and perhaps found work with Lord Vanech. I could have
begun again as a junior clerk and worked my way back up.
Suddenly the mouth released itself. The creature shivered once, expelled a
burst of yellow bile, and died.
“Got one!” cried a voice, not too distantly.
For a moment, Scotti lay still. His head throbbed and his chest burned. Out of
the corner of his eye he saw movement. Another of the horrible monsters was
scurried towards him. He scrambled, trying to push himself free, but before he
could come out, there was a sound of a bow cracking and an arrow pierced the
second insect.
“Good shot!” cried another voice. “Get the first one again! I just saw it move
a little!”
This time, Scotti felt the impact of the bolt hit the carcass. He cried out,
but he could hear how muffled his voice was by the beetle's body. Cautiously,
he tried sliding a foot out and rolling under, but the movement apparently had
the effect of convincing the archers that the creature still lived. A volley
of arrows was launched forth. Now the beast was sufficiently perforated so
pools of its blood, and likely the blood of its victims, began to seep out
onto Scotti's body.
When Scotti was a lad, before he grew too sophisticated for such sports, he
had often gone to the Imperial Arena for the competitions of war. He recalled
a great veteran of the fights, when asked, telling him his secret, “Whenever
I'm in doubt of what to do, and I have a shield, I stay behind it.”
Scotti followed that advice. After an hour, when he no longer heard arrows
being fired, he threw aside the remains of the bug and leapt as quickly as he
could to a stand. It was not a moment too soon. A gang of eight archers had
their bows pointing his direction, ready to fire. When they saw him, they
laughed.
“Didn't anyone ever tell you not to sleep in the western cross? How're we
going to exterminate all the hoarvors if you drunks keep feeding 'em?”
Scotti shook his head and walked back along the platform, round the bend, to
Havel Slump. He was bloodied and torn and tired and he had far too much
fermented pig's milk. All he wanted was a proper place to lie down. He stepped
into Mother Pascost's Tavern, a dank place, wet with sap, smelling of mildew.
“My name is Decumus Scotti,” he said. “I was hoping you have someone named
Jurus staying here.”
“Decumus Scotti?” pondered the fleshy proprietress, Mother Pascost herself.
“I've heard that name. Oh, you must be the fellow he left the note for. Let me
go see if I can find it.”
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(Search Code: LOLZ32)
~~Death Blow of Abernanit~~
Anonymous (annotated by Geocrates Varnus)
Item ID: 000243E8
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
With Explains by the sage Geocrates Varnus
Broken battlements and wrecked walls
Where worship of the Horror (1) once embraced.
The bites of fifty winters (2) frost and wind
Have cracked and pitted the unholy gates,
And brought down the cruel, obscene spire.
All is dust, all is nothing more than dust.
The blood has dried and screams have echoed out.
Framed by hills in the wildest, forelorn place
Of Morrowind
Sits the barren bones of Abernanit.
When thrice-blessed Rangidil (3) first saw Abernanit,
It burnished silver bright with power and permanence.
A dreadful place with dreadful men to guard it
With fever glassed eyes and strength through the Horror.
Rangidil saw the foes' number was far greater
Than the few Ordinators and Buoyant Armigers he led,
Watching from the hills above, the field and castle of death
While it stood, it damned the souls of the people
Of Morrowind.
Accursed, iniquitous castle Abernanit.
The alarum was sounded calling the holy warriors to battle
To answer villiany's shield with justice's spear,
To steel themselves to fight at the front and be brave.
Rangidil too grasped his shield and his thin ebon spear
And the clamor of battle began with a resounding crash
To shake the clouds down from the sky.
The shield wall was smashed and blood staunched
The ground of the field, a battle like no other
Of Morrowind
To destroy the evil of Abernanit.
The maniacal horde were skilled at arms, for certes,
But the three holy fists of Mother, Lord, and Wizard (4) pushed
The monster's army back in charge after charge.
Rangidil saw from above, urging the army to defend,
Dagoth Thras (5) himself in his pernicious tower spire,
And knew that only when the heart of evil was caught
Would the land e'er be truly saved.
He pledge then by the Temple and the Holy Tribunal
Of Morrowind
To take the tower of Abernanit.
In a violent push, the tower base was pierced,
But all efforts to fell the spire came to naught
As if all the strength of the Horror held that one tower.
The stairwell up was steep and so tight
That two warriors could not ascend it side by side.
So single-file the army clambered up and up
To take the tower room and end the reign
Of one of the cruellest petty tyrants in the annals
Of Morrowind,
Dagoth Thras of Abernanit.
They awaited a victory cry from the first to scale the tower
But silence only returned, and then the blood,
First only a rivulet and then a scarlet course
Poured down the steep stairwell, with the cry from above,
“Dagoth Thras is besting our army one by one!”
Rangidil called his army back, every Ordinator and
Buoyant Armiger, and he himself ascended the stairs,
Passing the bloody remains of the best warriors
Of Morrowind
To the tower room of Abernanit.
Like a raven of death on its aerie was Dagoth Thras
Holding bloody shield and bloody blade at the tower room door.
Every thrust of Rangidil's spear was blocked with ease;
Every slash of Rangidil's blade was deflected away;
Every blow of Rangidil's mace was met by the shield;
Every quick arrow shot could find no purchase
For the Monster's greatest power was in his dread blessing
That no weapon from no warrior found in all
Of Morrowind
Could pass the shield of Abernanit.
As hour passed hour, Rangidil came to understand
How his greatest warriors met their end with Dagoth Thras.
For he could exhaust them by blocking their attacks
And then, thus weakened, they were simply cut down.
The villain was patient and skilled with the shield
And Rangidil felt even his own mighty arms growing numb
While Dagoth Thras anticipated and blocked each cut
And Rangidil feared that without the blessing of the Divine Three
Of Morrowind
He'd die in the tower of Abernanit.
But he still poured down blows as he yelled,
“Foe! I am Rangidil, a prince of the True Temple,
And I've fought in many a battle, and many a warrior
Has tried to stop my blade and has failed.
Very few can anticipate which blow I'm planning,
And fewer, knowing that, know how to arrest the design,
Or have the the strength to absord all of my strikes.
There is no greater master of shield blocking in all
Of Morrowind
Than here in the castle Abernanit.
My foe, dark lord Dagoth Thras, before you slay me,
I beg you, tell me how you know how to block.”
Wickedly proud, Dagoth Thras heard Rangidil's plea,
And decided that before he gutted the Temple champion,
He would deign to give him some knowledge for the afterlife,
How his instinct and reflexes worked, and as he started
To explain, he realized that he did not how he did it,
And watched, puzzled, as Rangidil delivered what the tales
Of Morrowind
Called “The death blow of Abernanit.”
(1) “The Horror” refers to the daedra prince Mehrunes Dagon.
(2) “Fifty winters” suggests that the epic was written fifty years after the
Siege of Abernanit, which took place in 3E 150.
(3) “Thrice-blessed Rangidil” is Rangidil Ketil, born 2E 803, died 3E 195. He
was the commander of the Temple Ordinators, and “thrice-blessed” by being
blessed by the Tribunal of Gods.
(4) “Mother, Lord, and Wizard” refers to the Tribunal of Almalexia, Vivec, and
Sotha Sil.
(5) “Dagoth Thras” was a powerful daedra-worshipper of unknown origin who
declared himself the heir of the Sixth House, though there is little evidence
he descended from the vanished family.
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(Search Code: LOLZ33)
~~The Mirror~~
Berdier Wreans
Item ID: 000243E9
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The wind blew over the open plain, jostling the few trees within to move back
and forth with the irritation of it. A young man in bright green turban
approached the army and gave his chieftain's terms for peace to the commander.
He was refused. It was to be battle, the battle of Ain-Kolur.
So the chief Iymbez had decreed his open defiance and his horsemen were at war
once again. Many times the tribe had moved into territory that was not theirs
to occupy, and many times the diplomatic approach had failed. It had come to
this, at long last. It was just as well with Mindothrax. His allies may win or
lose, but he would always survive. Though he had occasionally been on the
losing side of a war, never once in all his thirty-four years had he lost in
hand-to-hand combat.
The two armies poured like dual frothing streams through the dust, and when
they met a clamor rang out, echoing into the hills. Blood, the first liquor
the clay had tasted in many a month, danced like powder. The high and low
battle cries of the rival tribes met in harmony as the armies dug into one
another's flesh. Mindothrax was in the element he loved.
After ten hours of fighting with no ground given, both commanders called a
mutual and honorable withdrawal from the field.
The camp was positioned in a high-walled garden of an old burial ground,
adorned by springtide blossoms. As Mindothrax toured the grounds, he was
reminded of his childhood home. It was a happy and a sad recollection, the
purity of childhood ambition, all of his schooling in the ways of battle, but
tinged with memories of his poor mother. A beautiful woman looking down at her
son with both pride and unspoken sorrow. She never talked about what troubled
her, but it came as no surprise to any when she took the walk across the moors
and was found days later, her throat slit open by her own hand.
The army itself was like a colony of ants, newly shaken. Within a half hour's
time after the end of the battle, they had reorganized as if by instinct. As
the medicos looked to the wounded, someone remarked, with a measure of
admiration and astonishment, “Look at Mindothrax. His hair isn't even out of
place.”
“He is a mighty swordsman,” said the attending physician.
“The sword is a greatly overvalued article,” said Mindothrax, nevertheless
pleased with the attention. “Warriors pay too much attention to striking and
not enough in defending strikes. The proper way to go into battle is to defend
yourself, and to hit your opponent only when the ideal moment arises.”
“I prefer a more straight-forward approach,” smiled one of the wounded. “It is
the way of the horse men.”
“If it is the way of the Bjoulsae tribes to fail, then I renounce my
heritage,” said Mindothrax, making a quick sign to the spirits that he was
being expressive not blasphemous. “Remember what the great blademaster Gaiden
Shinji said, 'The best techniques are passed on by the survivors.' I have been
in thirty-six battles, and I haven't a scar to show for them. That is because
I rely on my shield, and then my blade, in that order.”
“What is your secret?”
“Think of melee as a mirror. I look to my opponent's left arm when I am
striking with my right. If he is prepared to block my blow, I blow not. Why
exert undue force?” Mindothrax cocked an eyebrow, “But when I see his right
arm tense, my left arm goes to my shield. You see, it takes twice as much
power to send force than it does to deflect it. When your eye can recognize
whether your opponent is striking from above, or at angle, or in an uppercut
from below, you learn to pivot and place your shield just so to protect
yourself. I could block for hours if need be, but it only takes a few minutes,
or even seconds, for your opponent, used to battering, to leave a space open
for your own strike.”
“What was the longest you've ever had to defend yourself?” asked the wounded
man.
“I fought a man once for an hour's time,” said Mindothrax. “He was tireless
with his bludgeoning, never giving me a moment to do aught but block his
strikes. But finally, he took a moment too long in raising his cudgel and I
found my mark in his chest. He struck my shield a thousand times, and I struck
his heart but once. But that was enough.”
“So he was your greatest opponent?” asked the medico.
“Oh, indeed not,” said Mindothrax, turning his great shield so the silvery
metal reflected his own face. “There is he.”
The next day, the battle recommenced. Chief Iymbez had brought in
reinforcements from the islands to the south. To the horror and disgrace of
the tribe, mercenaries, renegade horsemen and even some Reachmen witches were
included in the war. As Mindothrax stared across the field at the armies
assembling, putting on his helmet and readying his shield and blade, he
thought again of his poor mother. What had tortured her so? Why had she never
been able to look at her son without grief?
Between sunrise and sundown, the battle raged. A bright blue-sky overhead
burned down on the combatants as they rushed against one another over and over
again. In every melee, Mindothrax prevailed. A foe with an ax rained a series
of strokes against his shield, but every one was deflected until at last
Mindothrax could best the warrior. A spear maiden nearly pierced the shield
with her first strike, but Mindothrax knew how to give with the blow, throwing
her off balance and leaving her open for his counterstrike. Finally, he met a
mercenary on the field, armed with shield and sword and a helm of golden
bronze. For an hour and a half they battled.
Mindothrax tried every trick he knew. When the mercenary tensed his left arm,
he held back his strike. When his opponent rose his sword, his shield rose too
and expertly blocked. For the first time in his life, he was battling another
defensive fighter. Stationary, reflective, with energy to battle for days if
need be. Occasionally, another warrior would enter into the fray, sometimes
from Mindothrax's army, sometimes from his opponent's. These distractions were
swiftly dispatched, and the champions returned to their fight.
As they fought, circling one another, matching block for blow and blow for
block, it dawned on Mindothrax that here at last he was fighting the perfect
mirror.
It became more a game, almost a dance, than a battle of blood. It was not
until Mindothrax missed his own step, striking too soon, throwing himself off
balance, that the promenade was ended. He saw, rather than felt, the
mercenary's blade rip across him from throat to chest. A good strike. The sort
he himself might have delivered.
Mindothrax fell to the ground, feeling his life passing. The mercenary stood
over him, prepared to give his worthy adversary the killing blow. It was a
strange, honorable deed for an outsider to do, and Mindothrax was greatly
moved. Across the battlefield, he heard someone call a name, similar to his
own.
“Jurrifax!”
The mercenary removed his helmet to answer the call. As he did so, Mindothrax
saw through the slits of his helmet his own reflection in the man. It was his
own close-set eyes, red and brown hair, thin and wide mouth, and blunt chin.
For a moment he marveled at the mirror, before the stranger turned back to him
and delivered the death stroke.
Jurrifax returned to his commander and was well paid for his part in the day's
victory. They retired for a hot meal under the stars in a garden by an old
cairn that had previously been occupied by their foes. The mercenary was
strangely quiet as he observed the land.
“Have you been here before, Jurrifax?” asked one of the tribesmen who had
hired him.
“I was born a horseman just like you. My mother sold me when I was just a
babe. I have always wondered how my life might have been different had I not
been bartered away. I might never have been a mercenary.”
“There are many things that decide our fate,” said the witch. “It is madness
to try to see how you might have taken this turn or that in the world. There
are none exactly like yourself, so it is foolish to compare.”
“But there is one,” said Jurrifax, looking to the stars. “My master, before he
set me free, said that my mother had twin sons when I was born. She could only
afford to raise but one child, but somewhere out there, there is a man just
like me. My brother. I hope to meet him.”
The witch saw the spirits before her and knew the truth that the twins had met
already. She remained silent and stared into the fire, banishing the thoughts
from her head, too wise to tell all.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ34)
~~The Warp in the West~~
Ulvius Tero
Item ID: 000243EC
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* Secret: For Your Eyes Only *
Let me offer my congratulations to Your Lordship for your recent appointment
as ambassador to the Court of Wayrest.
Your Lordship asked me for a review of existing Blades accounts from 3E 417
concerning 'The Warp in the West', and for a summary of the current state of
affairs there.
Since Your Lordship was in Black Marsh serving in the staff of Admiral
Sosorius at the time, you probably know of these events only from Imperial
proclamations and Chapel declarations, which identify this period as the
'Miracle of Peace'. During the 'Miracle of Peace', according to official
accounts, the formerly war-wracked Iliac Bay region was transformed overnight
from a patchwork of squabbling duchies and petty kingdoms into the peaceful
modern counties of Hammerfell, Sentinel, Wayrest, and Orsinium. The 'Miracle
of Peace', also known as the 'The Warp in the West', is celebrated as the
product of the miraculous interventions of Stendarr, Mara, and Akatosh to
transform this troublesome region into peaceful, well-governed Imperial
counties. The catastrophic destruction of landscape and property and the large
loss of life attending upon this miracle is understood to have been 'tragic,
and beyond mortal comprehension.'
In as much as this account confirms and validates the current borders of these
counties, and identifies the rulers and boundaries of these counties as
'ordained by the Nine', the 'Miracle of Peace' serves Imperial objectives of
peaceful consolidation of ancient petty states and sovereigns into manageable
Imperial jurisdictions. The other remarkable features of these events -- mass
disappearances, armies mysteriously transported hundreds of miles or
completely annihilated, titanic storms and celestial phenomena, apparent local
discontinuities of time -- fit comfortably into the notion that these events
are part of a vast, mysterious divine intervention.
However, this is only the public account of these events, and, as you may
suspect, it conflicts with many other accounts. In short, while this
explanation suits Imperial policy, it has little historical validity.
Your Lordship should know that the Blades have concluded there is no plausible
historical account of these events, and despairs that a plausible historical
account shall ever be produced. The Blades have concluded that a 'miracle'
occurred, insofar as the events are inexplicable, but the Blades strongly
doubt the miracle was of divine origin.
There is good reason to believe that the ruling families of the four modern
Iliac Bay counties had forewarning of the event. There is also some evidence
that some of these ruling families may have been directly or indirectly
responsible for the event. We do not know the exact sequence of actions that
produced the event, although we are confident that the 'Totem' artifact was
involved, and that a Blades agent was involved in employing that artifact. We
unfortunately lost contact with that agent immediately after the event; his
report might have gone some way to resolving the contradictory and paradoxical
accounts of the event.
The Blades have on file few reports from agents dating from the "Warp in the
West" period. Most of our agents were lost in the initial dislocations, and
others were lost in the confusion after the event. I present a few of these
reports to give you a general sense of their limitations, including the report
of your diplomatic predecessor, Lord Strale. You will have had access to other
private and rumored accounts of the period. I believe you will agree that
these documents raise more questions than they answer.
The Report of Hammerfell Agent 'Briarbird'
'I was on assignment in the Alik'r Desert, a few miles south of Bergama on the
9th of Frostfall. I was encamped, as it was still early morning, when I felt
the ground shake so violently, I was thrown to the ground. Dazed, I was aware
of a great roar of a sandstorm, which alarmed me, as I had been on a high dune
and had seen nothing like that on the horizon. It was on me before I was even
on my knees, burying me and my camp.
When I crawled my way out of the sand, I realized that I must make haste and
get to Bergama as soon as possible, as all my food and water had been swept
away. The sun was just rising as I began, like I said. When I reached Bergama,
it was nightfall. The town was in chaos, filled with the soldiers of Sentinel.
The Lord of Bergama's fortress was in ruins.
There had been an attack, but no one had seen it, only the invasion that
followed it. The soldiers of Queen Akorithi of Sentinel refused to be
interviewed about how they had accomplished this sneak attack, but I came to
learn that the whole of northern Hammerfell now belonged to them. Even
stranger, I discovered that my walk from sunrise to sundown had not taken me
not one day, but two. It was now the 11th day of the month, not the 10th. I
had lost a day somewhere, and so apparently had everyone else... except
Akorithi's soldiers, who somehow were aware of the correct date.
I since have concluded that they had received advance warning, and so were
better prepared to deal with the strange confusion of time and dates
associated with the Warp.'
The Report of High Rock Agent 'Graylady'
'I was, at the time of the Warp, undercover as a witch in the Skeffington
Coven of Phyrgias, in central High Rock. In order to give my report, I had
volunteered for an expedition to gather supplies, which would allow me the
freedom to reach my contact in Camlorn. I was traveling north-east along the
foothills of the Wrothgarian Mountains, on the 9th of Frostfall, when I felt a
great heat behind me, like a fire. I turned, but I regret to say I cannot tell
you what I saw. The healers tell me my eyes were burned out of my sockets.
I think I must have fallen into a state of semi-consciousness, for I
distinctly remember falling as the ground seemed to give way beneath me. Then
there was a series of explosions in the distance, to the south, and I heard
high whistling noises that were getting louder, coming closer. I had my shield
with me, and fortunately anticipated that volleys of some sort were falling
from the sky. Though I could not see them, I could hear them coming from a
distance away, and was able to use my shield to block them from striking me.
The assault stopped suddenly, and I could smell smoke. I learned later that
most of the forest of Ykalon and Phygias had caught fire, in an inferno that
started further south in Daenia and the Ilessan Hills. Fortunately, I kept my
bearings, and moved north, finally reaching a temple in the wilderness where
my wounds were healed, as well as they could be.
It was there I learned that there had been a three-way clash between
Daggerfall, Wayrest, and Orsinium not far from where I had been, and that the
land midway between their kingdoms had been decimated.'
The Report of Ambassador Lord Naigon Strale
'His Imperial Majesty had sent me on a delicate errand, the details of which I
cannot convey in this unsecure report, but my official capacity was to be the
Emperor's ambassador to the court of Wayrest. From there, I was to meet with
an old friend, Lady Brisienna, who was already in the vicinity. Forgoing any
attempt at stealth, I was on an Imperial barge, sailing westward on the
Bjoulsae, the morning of the 9th of Frostfall. I remember it was a slightly
chilly day, but the sky was very blue.
'We had just passed the delightful riverside village of Candlemass when the
captain sounded the alarum. There, in front of us, was a colossal wall of
water, at least thirty feet high. It smashed our barge to splinters before any
of us had a chance to react. I woke up on the shore, having been rescued by
one of my servants who had miraculously not lost consciousness. He and I and
one other man were the only survivors.
I thought at first that it was suspiciously similar to what happened to
another agent of ours in High Rock but a short time before, where a freak
storm had shipwrecked him in the Iliac Bay near Privateer's Hold. Furious and
determined to see if similar forces were at work, I began a quick march to
Wayrest.
The march, however, was not so terribly quick. The villages all along the
Bjoulsae were on fire, and battles raged between the orcs of Orsinium and the
soldiers of King Eadwyre in the formerly independent principality of Gauvadon,
just east of Wayrest. I am an accomplished mage, and quite able to defend
myself, but it took the better part of a week to make it those few miles to
Wayrest.
King Eadwyre and his queen Barenziah were celebrating their great victories
when I arrived. By then, I had gathered the barest facts of the matter, that
simultaneously there were seven great battles in the Iliac Bay, and no one
could describe them at all, only their bloodsoaked aftermath.
To summarize: on the 9th of Frostfall, there had been forty-four independent
kingdoms, counties, baronies, and dukedoms surrounding the Iliac Bay, if one
includes the unconquered territories of the Wrothgarian Mountains, the
Dragontail Mountains, the High Rock Sea Coast, the Isle of Balfiera, and the
Alik'r Desert. On the 11th of Frostfall, there were but four - Daggerfall,
Sentinel, Wayrest, and Orsinium - and all the points where they met lay in
ruins, as the armies continued to do battle.
I was determined to find the truth from the King, even if I had to be a most
undiplomatic diplomat to do it.
Eadwyre, though a generally jovial sort, had blustered, saying he did not want
to give out military secrets. The Queen, ever calm with those unreadable red
eyes of hers, told me, 'We do not know.'
I think it is safe to assume that Barenziah did not tell me everything, but
the facts of her story - which I later verified after pointed interviews in
Daggerfall, Sentinel, and Orsinium - was that they had learned that a certain
powerful, ancient weapon was going to be activated. I shan't give the name of
it here. Out of fear that it would be used against Wayrest, the King had
attempted to buy it from the young adventurer who had discovered its
wherebouts. Eadwyre believed, as it turns out quite rightly, that other powers
in the Bay had also attempted to win ownership of this device.
What happened then, as Barenziah said, 'We do not know.'
The morning of the 9th and the morning of the 11th somehow merged through some
sort of Warp in the West, and Wayrest found themselves at war. Their land had
expanded three-fold, but they were under attack by Daggerfall to the west,
Orsinium to the east, and Sentinel to the south. There had been no time to
understand what had happened, the King said. They had simply reacted, sending
their armies to defend their lands against these enemies whose kingdoms had
also gained great territorial advantage.
The battles continue on, now months later, as I return to the Imperial City to
make my report. What more do I have to say? They are bloody, violent clashes,
as is always the case with modern warfare, but I have been to the blackened,
desolate no-man's land between the four remaining kingdoms. No mortal army
caused that devastation.
I can say that the force that shook the Iliac Bay on the 10th of Frostfall 3E
417 was infinitesimally greater than the power these mighty kingdoms are
wielding today.
I can say that there were other strange events on that day which kept the
kingdoms from breaking free of the Empire, and accomplished likely more
besides.
And I can say there is nothing left of it - this power, this weapon - in the
Bay. The Warp that it created swallowed it up.'
Current Political Affairs in the Iliac Bay
Almost twenty years have passed, and the region, though transformed, has
stabilized. There are no more disputed territories, and the kingdoms of
Daggerfall, Wayrest, Sentinel, and Orsinium hold their new borders in relative
peace.
Wayrest spreads across the eastern coast of the Bay, stretching from the land
formerly called Anticlere to half of Gauvadon. Eadwyre has passed on to his
ancestors, leaving his kingdom in the hands of his daughter, Elysana, who has
two children by her royal consort, and seems likely to hold her father's
lands. Your Lordship may also choose to communicate directly with King Helseth
and Queen Barenziah in Mournhold. Their primary preoccupations are, of course,
with Morrowind's affairs, but they may still have useful observations upon
Wayrest's ruling families and political environment that may aid you in your
understanding of the court of Queen Elysana.
King Gortwog of Orsinium controls much of the Wrothgarian Mountains as well as
the profitable rivercoast of the Bjoulsae. He persists in his demands that
Orsinium be recognized as an Imperial province separate from High Rock. The
Elder Council treats Gortwog as a recognized king, and collects taxes directly
from Orsinium, but officially Orsinium remains a county of High Rock, though
technically it spans both the provinces of High Rock and Hammerfell.
Sentinel has gained the most land, sprawling across the entire southern Iliac
Bay from Abibon-Gora, beyond the Dragontail Mountains, to the edge of
Mournoth, Orsinium's territory. Queen Akorithi at her death left her enormous
kingdom to her only surviving son, Lhotun, who is now surely one of the most
powerful kings in Tamriel.
Daggerfall is still ruled by the Breton King Gothryd and the Redguard Queen
Aubk-I. Their land now encompasses all of western High Rock, from the border
they share with Wayrest at Anticlere to the east, to Ykalon to the north. They
have four children now, and are much beloved in their realm.
If there are other repercussions of the mysterious Warp in the West, they have
not yet come to our attention in the course of twenty years of observation.
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(Search Code: LOLZ35)
~~Warrior~~
Reven
Item ID: 000243EB
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is the third book in a four-book series. If you have not read the first
two books, 'Beggar' and 'Thief,' you would be well advised to do so.
Suoibud Erol did not know much of his past, nor did he care to.
As a child, he had lived in Erolgard, but the kingdom was very poor and taxes
were as a result very high. He was too young to manage his abundant
inheritance, but his servants, fearing that their master would be ruined,
moved him to Jallenheim. No one knew why that location was picked. Some old
maid, long dead now, had thought it was a good place to raise a child. No one
else had a better idea.
There may have been children with a more pampered, more spoiled existence than
young Suoibud, but that is doubtful. As he grew, he understood that he was
rich, but he had nothing else. No family, no social position, no security at
all. Loyalty, he found out on more than one occasion, cannot truly be bought.
Knowing that he had but one asset, a vast fortune, he was determined to
protect it, and, if possible, increase it.
Some otherwise perfectly nice people are greedy, but Suoibud was that rare
accident of nature or breeding who has no other interest but acquiring and
hoarding gold. He was willing to do anything to increase his fortune. Most
recently, he had begun secretly hiring mercenaries to attack desirable
properties, and then buying them when no one wanted to live there any more.
The attacks would then, of course, cease, and Suoibud would have profitable
land which he had purchased for a song. It had begun small with a few farms,
but recently he had begun a more ambitious campaign.
In north-central Skyrim, there is an area called The Aalto, which is of unique
geographical interest. It is a dormant volcanic valley surrounded on all sides
by glaciers, so the earth is hot from the volcano, but the constant water
drizzle and air is frigid. A grape called Jazbay grows there comfortably, and
everywhere else in Tamriel it withers and dies. The strange vineyard is a
privately owned, and the wine produced from it is thus rare and extremely
expensive. It is said that the Emperor needs the permission of the Imperial
Council to have a glass of it once a year.
In order to harass the owner of The Aalto into selling his land cheap, Suoibud
had to hire more than a few mercenaries. He had to hire the finest private
army in Skyrim.
Suoibud did not like spending money, but he had agreed to pay the general of
the army, a woman called Laicifitra, a gem the size of an apple. He had not
given it to her yet — payment was to be delivered on the success of the
mission — but he had trouble sleeping knowing that he was going to giving up
such a prize. He always slept during the day so he could watch his storehouse
by night, when he knew thieves were about.
That brings us up to this moment when, after a fitful sleep, Suoibud woke up
at about noon, and surprised a thief in his bedroom. The thief was Eslaf.
Eslaf had been contemplating a leap from the window, a hundred feet down, into
the branches of a tree beyond the walls of the fortified palace, and a tumble
into a stack of hay. Anyone who has ever attempted such a feat will testify
that it takes some concentration and nerve to do such a thing. When he saw
that the rich man sleeping in the room had awakened, both left him, and Eslaf
slipped behind a tall ornamental shield on display to wait for Suoibud to go
back to sleep.
Suoibud did not go back to sleep. He had heard nothing, but could feel someone
in the room with him. He stood up and began pacing the room.
Suoibud paced and paced, and gradually decided that he was imagining things.
No one was there. His fortune was safe and secure.
He was returning to his bed when he heard a clunk. Turning around, he saw the
gem, the one he was to give to Laicifitra on the floor by the Atmoran cavalry
shield. A hand reached out from behind the shield and grabbed it up.
'Thief!' Suoibud cried out, grabbing a jeweled Akaviri katana from the wall
and lunging at the shield.
The 'fight' between Eslaf and Suoibud will not go down in the annals of great
duels. Suoibud did not know how to use a sword, and Eslaf was no expert at
blocking with a shield. It was clumsy, it was awkward. Suoibud was furious,
but was psychologically incapable of using the sword in any way that could
damage its fine filligree, reducing its market value. Eslaf kept moving,
dragging the shield with him, trying to keep it between him and the blade,
which is, after all, the most essential part of any block.
Suoibud screamed in frustration as he struck at the shield, bumping its way
across the room. He even tried negotiating with the thief, explaining that the
gem was promised to a great warrior named Laicifitra, and if he would give it
back, Suoibud would happily give him something else in return. Eslaf was not a
genius, but he did not believe that.
By the time Suoibud's guards came to the bedroom in response to their master's
calls, he had succeeded in backing the shield into a window.
They fell on the shield, having considerable more expertise with their swords
than Suoibud did, but they discovered that there was no one behind it. Eslaf
had leapt out the window and escaped.
As he ran heavily through the streets of Jallenheim, making jingling noises
from the gold coins in his pockets, and feeling the huge gem chafe where he
had hidden it, Eslaf did not know where he should go next. He knew only that
he could never go back to that town, and he must avoid this warrior named
Laicifitra who had claims on the jewel.
Eslaf Erol's story is continued in the book 'King.'
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~~BLUNT BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ36)
~~The Importance of Where~~
Ancient Tales of the Dwemer, Part III
Marobar Sul
Item ID: 000243EE
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The chieftain of Othrobar gathered his wise men together and said, “Every
morning a tenfold of my flock are found butchered. What is the cause?”
Fangbith the Warleader said, “A Monster may be coming down from the Mountain
and devouring your flock.”
Ghorick the Healer said, “A strange new disease perhaps is to blame.”
Beran the Priest said, “We must sacrifice to the Goddess for her to save us.”
The wise men made sacrifices, and while they waited for their answers from the
Goddess, Fangbith went to Mentor Joltereg and said, “You taught me well how to
forge the cudgel of Zolia, and how to wield it in combat, but I must know now
when it is wise to use my skill. Do I wait for the Goddess to reply, or the
medicine to work, or do I hunt the Monster which I know is in the Mountain?”
“When is not important,” said Joltereg. “Where is all that is important.”
So Fangbith took his Zolic cudgel in hand and walked far through the dark
forest until he came to the base of the Great Mountain. There he met two
Monsters. One bloodied with the flesh of the chieftain of Othrobar's flock
fought him while its mate fled. Fangbith remembered what his master had taught
him, that “where” was all that was important.
He struck the Monster on each of its five vital points: head, groin, throat,
back, and chest. Five blows to the five points and the Monster was slain. It
was too heavy to carry with him, but still triumphant, Fangbith returned to
Othrobar.
“I say I have slain the Monster that ate your flock,” he cried.
“What proof have you that you have slain any Monster?” asked the chieftain.
“I say I have saved the flock with my medicine,” said Ghorick the Healer.
“I say The Goddess has saved the flock by my sacrifices,” said Beran the Priest.
Two mornings went by and the flocks were safe, but on the morning of the third
day, another tenfold of the chieftain's flock was found butchered. Ghorick the
Healer went to his study to find a new medicine. Beran the Priest prepared
more sacrifices. Fangbith took his Zolic cudgel in hand, again, and walked far
through the dark forest until he came to the base of the Great Mountain. There
he met the other Monster, bloodied with the flesh of the chieftain of
Othrobar's flock. They did battle, and again Fangbith remembered what his
master had taught him, that “where” was all that was important.
He struck the Monster five times on the head and it fled. Chasing it along the
mountain, he struck it five times in the groin and it fled. Running through
the forest, Fangbith overtook the Monster and struck it five times in the
throat and it fled. Entering into the fields of Othrobar, Fangbith overtook
the Monster and struck it five times in the back and it fled. At the foot of
the stronghold, the chieftain and his wise men emerged to the sound of the
Monster wailing. There they beheld the Monster that had slain the chieftain's
flock. Fangbith struck the Monster five times in the chest and it was slain.
A great feast was held in Fangbith's honor, and the flock of Othrobar was
never again slain. Joltereg embraced his student and said, “You have at last
learned the importance of where you strike your blows.”
Publisher's Note: This tale is another, which has an obvious origin among the
Ashlander tribes of Vvardenfell and is one of their oldest tales. "Marobar
Sul" merely changed the names of the character to sound more "Dwarven" and
resold it as part of his collection. The Great Mountain in the tale is clearly
"Red Mountain," despite its description of being forested. The Star-Fall and
later eruptions destroyed the vegetation on Red Mountain, giving it the wasted
appearance it has today.
This tale does have some scholarly interest, as it suggests a primitive
Ashlander culture, but it talks of living in "strongholds" much like the
ruined strongholds on Vvardenfell today. There are even references to a
stronghold of "Othrobar" somewhere between Vvardenfell and Skyrim, but few
strongholds outside of sparsely-settled Vvardenfell have survived to the
present. Scholars do not agree on who built these strongholds or when, but I
believe it is clear from this story and other evidence that the Ashlander
tribes used these strongholds in the ancient past instead of making camps of
wickwheat huts as they do today.
The play on words that forms the lesson of the fable -- that it is as
important to know where the monster should be slain, at the stronghold, as it
is to know where the monster must be struck on its body to be slain -- is
typical of many Ashlander tales. Riddles, even ones as simple as this one, are
loved by both the Ashlanders and the vanished Dwemer. Although the Dwemer are
usually portrayed as presenting the riddles, rather than being the ones who
solve it as in Ashlander tales.
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(Search Code: LOLZ37)
~~King~~
The final book in the adventures of Eslaf Erol.
Reven
Item ID: 000243F0
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Gentle reader, you will not understand a word of what follows unless you have
read and commited to memory the first three volumes in this series, 'Beggar,'
'Thief,' and 'Warrior,' which leads up to this, the conclusion. I encourage
you to seek them out at your favorite bookseller.
We last left Eslaf Erol fleeing for his life, which was a common enough
occurance for him. He had stolen a lot of gold, and one particularly large
gem, from a rich man in Jallenheim named Suoibud. The thief fled north,
spending the gold wildly, as thieves generally do, for all sorts of illicit
pleasures, which would no doubt disturb the gentleman or lady reading this, so
I will not go into detail.
The one thing he held onto was the gem.
He didn't keep it because of any particular attachment, but because he did not
know anyone rich enough to buy it from him. And so he found himself in the
ironic situation of being penniless and having in his possession a gem worth
millions.
'Will you give me a room, some bread, and a flagon of beer in exchange for
this?' he asked a tavernkeep in the little village of Kravenswold, which was
so far north, it was half situated on the Sea of Ghosts.
The tavernkeep looked at it suspiciously.
'It's just crystal,' Eslaf said quickly. 'But isn't it pretty?'
'Let me see that,' said a young armor-clad woman at the end of the bar.
Without waiting permission, she picked up the gem, studied it, and smiled not
very sweetly at Eslaf. 'Would you join me at my table?'
'I'm actually in a bit of a hurry,' replied Eslaf, holding out his hand for
the stone. 'Another time?'
'Out of respect for my friend, the tavernkeep here, my men and I leave our
weapons behind when we come in here,' the woman said casually, not handing the
gem back, but picking up a broom that was sitting against the bar. 'I can
assure you, however, that I can use this quite effectively as a blunt
instrument. Not a weapon, of course, but an instrument to stun, medicinally
crush a bone or two, and then - once it is on the inside ...'
'Which table?' asked Eslaf quickly.
The young woman led him to a large table in the back of the tavern where ten
of the biggest Nord brutes Eslaf had ever seen were sitting. They looked at
him with polite disinterest, as if he were a strange insect, worth briefly
studying before crushing.
'My name is Laicifitra,' she said, and Eslaf blinked. That was the name
Suoibud had uttered before Eslaf had made his escape. 'And these are my
lieutenants. I am the commander of a very large independent army of noble
knights. The very best in Skyrim. Most recently we were given a job to attack
a vineyard in The Aalto to force its owner, a man named Laernu, to sell to our
employer, a man named Suoibud. Our payment was to be a gem of surpassing size
and quality, quite famous and unmistakable.
'We did as we were asked, and when we went to Suoibud to collect our fee, he
told us he was unable to pay, due to a recent burglary. In the end, though, he
saw things our way, and paid us an amount of gold almost equal to the worth of
the prize jewel … It did not empty out his treasury entirely, but it meant he
was unable to buy the land in the Aalto after all. So we were not paid enough,
Suoibud has taken a heavy financial blow, and Laernu's prize crop of Jazbay
has been temporarily destroyed for naught,' Laicifitra took a long, slow drink
of her mead before continuing. 'Now, I wonder, could you tell me, how came you
in the possession of the gem we were promised?'
Eslaf did not answer at once.
Instead, he took a piece of bread from the plate of the savage bearded
barbarian on his left and ate it.
'I'm sorry,' he said, his mouth full. 'May I? Of course, I couldn't stop you
from taking the gem even if I wanted to, and as a matter of fact, I don't mind
at all. It's also useless to deny how it came into my possession. I stole it
from your employer. I certainly didn't mean you or your noble knights any harm
by it, but I can understand why the word of a thief is not suitable for one
such as yourself.'
'No,' replied Laicifitra, frowning, but her eyes showing amusement. 'Not
suitable at all.'
'But before you kill me,' Eslaf said, grabbing another piece of bread. 'Tell
me, how suitable is it for noble knights such as yourself to be paid twice for
one job? I have no honor myself, but I would have thought that since Suoibud
took a profit loss to pay you, and now you have the gem, your handsome profit
is not entirely honorable.'
Laicifitra picked up the broom and looked at Eslaf. Then she laughed, 'What is
your name, thief?'
'Eslaf,' said the thief.
'We will take the gem, as it was promised to us. But you are right. We should
not be paid twice for the same job. So,' said the warrior woman, putting down
the broomstick. 'You are our new employer. What would you have your own army
do for you?'
Many people could find quite a few good uses for their own army, but Eslaf was
not among them. He searched his brain, and finally it was decided that it was
a debt to be paid later. For all her brutality, Laicifitra was an simple
woman, raised, he learned, by the very army she commanded. Fighting and honor
were the only things she knew.
When Eslaf left Kravenswold, he had an army at his beck and call, but not a
coin to his name. He knew he would have to steal something soon.
As he wandered the woods, scrounging for food, he was beset with a strange
feeling of familiarity. These were the very woods he had been in as a child,
also starving, also scrounging. When he came out on the road, he found that he
had come back on the kingdom where he had been raised by the dear, stupid, shy
maid Drusba.
He was in Erolgard.
It had fallen even deeper into despair since his youth. The shops that had
refused him food were boarded up, abandoned. The only people left were hollow,
hopeless figures, so ravaged by taxation, despotism, and barbaric raids that
they were too weak to flee. Eslaf realized how lucky he was to have gotten out
in his youth.
There was, however, a castle and a king. Eslaf immediately made plans to raid
the treasury. As usual, he watched the place carefully, taking note of the
security and the habits of the guards. This took some time. In the end, he
realized there was no security and no guards.
He walked in the front door, and down the empty corridors to the treasury. It
was full of precisely nothing, except one man. He was Eslaf's age, but looked
much older.
'There's nothing to steal,' he said. 'Would that there was.'
King Ynohp, though prematurely aged, had the same white blond hair and blue
eyes like broken glass that Eslaf had. In fact, he resembled Suoibud and
Laicifitra as well. And though Eslaf had never met the ruined landlord of the
Aalto, Laernu, he looked him too. Not surprisingly, since they were
quintuplets.
'So, you have nothing?' asked Eslaf, gently.
'Nothing except my poor kingdom, curse it,' the King grumbled. 'Before I came
to the throne, it was powerful and rich, but I inherited none of that, only
the title. For my entire life, I've had responsibility thrust on my shoulders,
but never had the means to handle it properly. I look over the desolation
which is my birthright, and I hate it. If it were possible to steal a kingdom,
I would not lift a finger to stop you.'
It was, it turned out, quite possible to steal a kingdom. Eslaf became known
as Ynohp, a deception easily done given their physical similarities. The real
Ynohp, taking the name of Ylekilnu, happily left his demesne, becoming
eventually a simple worker in the vineyards of The Aalto. For the first time
free of responsibility, he fell into his new life with gusto, the years
melting off him.
The new Ynohp called in his favor with Laicifitra, using her army to restore
peace to the kingdom of Erolgard. Now that it was safe, business and commerce
began to return to the land, and Eslaf reduced the tyrannical taxes to
encourage it to grow. Upon hearing that, Suoibud, ever nervous about losing
his money, elected to return to the land of his birth. When he died years
later, out of greed, he had refused to name someone an heir, so the kingdom
received its entire fortune.
Eslaf used part of the gold to buy the vineyards of The Aalto, after hearing
great things of it from Ynohp.
And so it was that Erolgard was returned to its previous prosperity by the
fifth born child of King Ytluaf - Eslaf Erol, beggar, thief, warrior (of
sorts), and king.
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(Search Code: LOLZ38)
~~The Legendary Sancre Tor~~
Matera Chapel
Item ID: 00073A62
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During the Skyrim Conquests [1E 240 - 415], ambitious Highland earls, envious
of the conquests and wealth of their northern cousins in High Rock and
Morrowind, looked south over the ramparts of the Jerall Mountains for their
opportunities. The Jerall Mountains proved to be too great a barrier, and
northern Cyrodiil too poor a prize, to reward full scale Nord invasions.
However, Alessia hired many ambitious Nord and Breton warbands as mercenaries
with the promises of rich lands and trade concessions. Once settled among the
victorious Alessian Cyrodiils, the Nord and Breton warriors and battlemages
were quickly assimilated into the comfortable and prosperous Nibenean culture.
Alessia received the divine inspiration for her Slave Rebellion at Sancre Tor,
and here she founded her holy city. Sancre Tor's mines provided some wealth,
but the poor soils and harsh climate of the remote mountain site meant it must
be supplied with food and goods from the Heartlands. Further, located on one
of the few passes through the Jeralls, its fortunes were subject to the
instability of relations with Skyrim. When relations were good with Skyrim, it
prospered through trade and alliance. When relations were bad with Skyrim, it
was vulnerable to siege and occupation by the Nords.
With the decline of the Alessian Order [circa 1E2321], the seat of religious
rule of Cyrodiil moved south to the Imperial City, but Sancre Tor remained a
mountain fortress and major religious center until the rise of the Septim
Dynasty. In 2E852, the city was suffering under one of the periodic
occupations by Skyrim and High Rock invaders. King Cuhlecain sent his new
general, Talos, to recapture the city and expel the northern invaders. During
his siege, Sancre Tor was destroyed and abandoned. Realizing the strategic
weakness of the site, General Talos -- later Tiber Septim -- resolved to
abandon Sancre Tor, and during his reign, no effort was made to rebuild the
city or citadel.
Alessian historians asserted that Sancre Tor was magically concealed and
defended by the gods. Records of Sancre Tor's repeated defeats and occupations
by northern invaders gives the lie to this assertion. The entrance to the
citadel was indeed concealed by sorcery, and the citadel and its labyrinthine
subterranean complex were defended by magical traps and illusions, but their
secrets were betrayed to besieging Nords by the Breton enchanters who crafted
them.
One enduring feature of the legend of Sancre Tor is the ancient tombs of the
Reman emperors. Following the defeat of the Akaviri invaders, Sancre Tor
enjoyed a brief resurgence of wealth and culture under Reman Cyrodiil and his
descendants, Reman II and Reman III. Tracing his ancestry to St. Alessia, and
following the tradition that St. Alessia was buried in the catacombs beneath
Sancre Tor [1], Reman built splendid funerary precincts in the depths of the
ancient citadel underpassages. Here the last Reman emperor, Reman III, was
buried in his tomb with the Amulet of Kings.
During the Sack of Sancre Tor, General Talos is said to have recovered the
Amulet of Kings from the tomb of Reman III. Theologians ascribe the long
centuries of political and economic turmoil following the collapse of the
Reman dynasty to the loss of the Amulet of Kings, and associate the
renaissance of the Cyrodilic empire in the Third Era with Tiber Septim's
recovery of the Amulet from Reman III's tomb.
Sancre Tor has lain in ruins since the beginning of the Third Age, and the
surrounding region is virtually uninhabited. Now all communications with the
north are through the passes at Chorrol and Bruma, and Sancre Tor's citadel
and underpassages have become the refuge of various savage goblin tribes.
[1] The is a competing tradition that St. Alessia is buried on the site of the
Temple of the One in the Imperial City. The actual resting place of St.
Alessia is unknown.
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(Search Code: LOLZ39)
~~Mace Etiquette~~
Item ID: 00073A66
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Warriors sometimes make the mistake of thinking that there are no tactics with
a mace. They assume that the sword is all about skill and the mace is only
about strength and stamina. As a veteran instructor of mace tactics, I can
tell you they are wrong.
Wielding a mace properly is all about timing and momentum. Once the swing of
the mace has begun, stopping it or slowing it down is difficult. The fighter
is committed to not just the blow, but also the recoil. Begin your strike when
the opponent is leaning forward, hopefully off balance. It is completely
predictable that he will lean backward, so aim for a point behind his head. By
the time the mace gets there, his head will be in it's path.
The mace should be held at the ready, shoulder high. The windup should not
extend past the shoulders by more than a hand's width. When swinging, lead
with the elbow. As the elbow passes the height of your collarbone, extend the
forearm like a whip. The extra momentum will drive the mace faster and harder,
causing far more damage.
At the moment of impact, let the wrist loosen. The mace will bounce and hurt a
stiff wrist. Allow the recoil of the blow to drive the mace back into the
ready position, thereby preparing the warrior for a quicker second strike.
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(Search Code: LOLZ40)
~~Night Falls on Sentinel~~
Boali
Item ID: 000243EF
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No music played in the Nameless Tavern in Sentinel, and indeed there was very
little sound except for discreet, cautious murmurs of conversation, the soft
pad of the barmaid's feet on stone, and the delicate slurping of the regular
patrons, tongues lapping at their flagons, eyes focused on nothing at all. If
anyone were less otherwise occupied, the sight of the young Redguard woman in
a fine black velvet cape might have aroused surprise. Even suspicion. As it
were, the strange figure, out of place in an underground cellar so modest it
had no sign, blended into the shadows.
"Are you Jomic?"
The stout, middle-aged man with a face older than his years looked up and
nodded. He returned to his drink. The young woman took the seat next to him.
"My name is Haballa," she said and pulled out a small bag of gold, placing it
next to his mug.
"Sure it be," snarled Jomic, and met her eyes again. "Who d'you want dead?"
She did not turn away, but merely asked, "Is it safe to talk here?"
"No one cares about nobody else's problems but their own here. You could take
off your cuirass and dance bare-breasted on the table, and no one'd even
spit," the man smiled. "So who d'you want dead?"
"No one, actually," said Haballa. "The truth is, I only want someone ...
removed, for a while. Not harmed, you understand, and that's why I need a
professional. You come highly recommended."
"Who you been talking to?" asked Jomic dully, returning to his drink.
"A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend."
"One of them friends don't know what he's talking about," grumbled the man. "I
don't do that any more."
Haballa quietly took out another purse of gold and then another, placing them
at the man's elbow. He looked at her for a moment and then poured the gold out
and began counting. As he did, he asked, "Who d'you want removed?"
"Just a moment," smiled Haballa, shaking her head. "Before we talk details, I
want to know that you're a professional, and you won't harm this person very
much. And that you'll be discreet."
"You want discreet?" the man paused in his counting. "Awright, I'll tell you
about an old job of mine. It's been - by Arkay, I can hardly believe it - more
'n twenty years, and no one but me's alive who had anything to do with the
job. This is back afore the time of the War of Betony, remember that?"
"I was just a baby."
"'Course you was," Jomic smiled. "Everyone knows that King Lhotun had an older
brother Greklith what died, right? And then he's got his older sister Aubki,
what married that King fella in Daggerfall. But the truth's that he had two
elder brothers."
"Really?" Haballa's eyes glistened with interest.
"No lie," he chuckled. "Weedy, feeble fella called Arthago, the King and
Queen's first born. Anyhow, this prince was heir to the throne, which his
parents wasn't too thrilled about, but then the Queen she squeezed out two
more princes who looked a lot more fit. That's when me and my boys got hired
on, to make it look like the first prince got took off by the Underking or
some such story."
"I had no idea!" the young woman whispered.
"Of course you didn't, that's the point," Jomic shook his head. "Discretion,
like you said. We bagged the boy, dropped him off deep in an old ruin, and
that was that. No fuss. Just a couple fellas, a bag, and a club."
"That's what I'm interested in," said Haballa. "Technique. My... friend who
needs to be taken away is weak also, like this Prince. What is the club for?"
"It's a tool. So many things what was better in the past ain't around no more,
just 'cause people today prefer ease of use to what works right. Let me
explain: there're seventy-one prime pain centers in an average fella's body.
Elves and Khajiiti, being so sensitive and all, got three and four more
respectively. Argonians and Sloads, almost as many at fifty-two and sixty-
seven," Jomic used his short stubby finger to point out each region on
Haballa's body. "Six in your forehead, two in your brow, two on your nose,
seven in your throat, ten in your chest, nine in your abdomen, three on each
arm, twelve in your groin, four in your favored leg, five in the other."
"That's sixty-three," replied Haballa.
"No, it's not," growled Jomic.
"Yes, it is," the young lady cried back, indignant that her mathematical
skills were being question: "Six plus two plus two plus seven plus ten plus
nine plus three for one arm and three for the other plus twelve plus four plus
five. Sixty-three."
"I must've left some out," shrugged Jomic. "The important thing is that to
become skilled with a staff or club, you gotta be a master of these pain
centers. Done right, a light tap could kill, or knock out without so much as a
bruise."
"Fascinating," smiled Haballa. "And no one ever found out?"
"Why would they? The boy's parents, the King and Queen, they're both dead now.
The other children always thought their brother got carried off by the
Underking. That's what everyone thinks. And all my partners are dead."
"Of natural causes?"
"Ain't nothing natural that ever happens in the Bay, you know that. One fella
got sucked up by one of them Selenu. Another died a that same plague that took
the Queen and Prince Greklith. 'Nother fella got hisself beat up to death by a
burglar. You gotta keep low, outta sight, like me, if you wanna stay alive."
Jomic finished counting the coins. "You must want this fella out of the way
bad. Who is it?"
"It's better if I show you," said Haballa, standing up. Without a look back,
she strode out of the Nameless Tavern.
Jomic drained his beer and went out. The night was cool with an unrestrained
wind surging off the water of the Iliac Bay, sending leaves flying like
whirling shards. Haballa stepped out of the alleyway next to the tavern, and
gestured to him. As he approached her, the breeze blew open her cape,
revealing the armor beneath and the crest of the King of Sentinel.
The fat man stepped back to flee, but she was too fast. In a blur, he found
himself in the alley on his back, the woman's knee pressed firmly against his
throat.
"The King has spent years since he took the throne looking for you and your
collaborators, Jomic. His instructions to me what to do when I found you were
not specific, but you've given me an idea."
From her belt, Haballa removed a small sturdy cudgel.
A drunk stumbling out of the bar heard a whimpered moan accompanied by a soft
whisper coming from the darkness of the alley: "Let's keep better count this
time. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven..."
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~~CONJURATION BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ41)
~~2920, Frostfall (V10)~~
Carlovac Townway
Item ID: 000243F5
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10 Frostfall, 2920
Phrygias, High Rock
The creature before them blinked, senseless, its eyes glazed, mouth opening
and closing as if relearning its function. A thin glob of saliva burbled down
between its fangs, and hung suspended. Turala had never seen anything of its
kind before, reptilian and massive, perched on its hind legs like a man.
Mynistera applauded enthusiastically.
“My child,” she crowed. “You have come so far in so short a time. What were
you thinking when you summoned this daedroth?”
It took Turala a moment to recall whether she was thinking anything at all.
She was merely overwhelmed that she had reached out across the fabric of
reality into the realm of Oblivion, and plucked forth this loathsome creature,
conjuring it into the world by the power of her mind.
“I was thinking of the color red,” Turala said, concentrating. “The simplicity
and clarity of it. And then -- I desired, and spoke the charm. And this is
what I conjured up.”
“Desire is a powerful force for a young witch,” said Mynistera. “And it is
well matched in this instance. For this daedroth is nothing if not a simple
force of the spirits. Can you release your desire as easily?”
Turala closed her eyes and spoke the dismissal invocation. The monster faded
away like a painting in sunlight, still blinking confusedly. Mynistera
embraced her Dark Elf pupil, laughing with delight.
“I never would have believed it, a month and a day you've been with the coven,
and you're already far more advanced than most of the women here. There is
powerful blood in you, Turala, you touch spirits like you were touching a
lover. You'll be leading this coven one day -- I have seen it!”
Turala smiled. It was good to be complimented. The Duke of Mournhold had
praised her pretty face; and her family, before she had dishonored them,
praised her manners. Cassyr had been nothing more than a companion: his
compliments meant nothing. But with Mynistera, she felt she was home.
“You'll be leading the coven for many years yet, great sister,” said Turala.
“I certainly intend to. But the spirits, while marvelous companions and
faultless tellers of truth, are often hazy about the when and hows. You can't
blame them really. When and how mean so little to them,” Mynistera opened the
door to the shed, allowing the brisk autumn breeze in to dispel the bitter and
fetid smells of the daedroth. “Now, I need you to run an errand to Wayrest.
It's only a week's ride there, and a week's ride back. Bring Doryatha and
Celephyna with you. As much as we try to be self-sufficient, there are herbs
we can't grow here, and we seem to run through an enormous quantity of gems in
no time at all. It's important that the people of the city learn to recognize
you as one of the wise women of Skeffington coven. You'll find the benefits of
being notorious far outweigh the inconveniences.”
Turala did as she was bade. As she and her sisters climbed aboard their
horses, Mynistera brought her child, little five-month-old Bosriel to kiss her
mother good-bye. The witches were in love with the little Dunmer infant,
fathered by a wicked Duke, birthed by wild Ayleid elves in the forest heart of
the Empire. Turala knew her nursemaids would protect her child with their
lives. After many kisses and a farewell wave, the three young witches rode off
into the bright woods, under a covering of red, yellow, and orange.
12 Frostfall, 2920
Dwynnen, High Rock
For a Middas evening, the Least Loved Porcupine tavern was wildly crowded. A
roaring fire in the pit in the center of the room cast an almost sinister glow
on all the regulars, and made the abundance of bodies look like a punishment
tapestry inspired by the Arcturian Heresies. Cassyr took his usual place with
his cousin and ordered a flagon of ale.
“Have you been to see the Baron?” asked Palyth.
“Yes, he may have work for me in the palace of Urvaius,” said Cassyr proudly.
“But more than that I can't say. You understand, secrets of state and all
that. Why are there so many damned people here tonight?”
“A shipload of Dark Elves just came in to harbor. They've come from the war. I
was just waiting until you got here to introduce you as another veteran.”
Cassyr blushed, but regained his composure enough to ask: “What are they doing
here? Has there been a truce?”
“I don't know the full story,” said Palyth. “But apparently, the Emperor and
Vivec are in negotiations again. These fellas here have investments they were
keen to check on, and they figured things on the Bay were quiet enough. But
the only way we can get the full story is to talk to the chaps.”
With that, Palyth gripped his cousin's arm and pulled him to the other side of
the bar so suddenly, Cassyr would have had to struggle violently to resist.
The Dunmer travelers were spread out across four of the tables, laughing with
the locals. They were largely amiable young men, well-dressed, befitting
merchants, animated in gesture made more extravagant by liquor.
“Excuse me,” said Palyth, intruding on the conversation. “My shy cousin Cassyr
was in the war as well, fighting for the living god, Vivec.”
“The only Cassyr I ever heard of,” said one of the Dunmer drunkenly with a
wide, friendly smile, shaking Cassyr's free hand. “Was a Cassyr Whitley, who
Vivec said was the worst spy in history. We lost Ald Marak due to his bungling
intelligence work. For your sake, friend, I hope the two of you were never
confused.”
Cassyr smiled and listened as the lout told the story of his failure with
bountiful exaggerations which caused the table to roar with laughter. Several
eyes looked his way, but none of the locals sought to explain that the fool of
the tale was standing at attention. The eyes that stung the most were his
cousin's, the young man who had believed that he had returned to Dwynnen a
great hero. At some point, certainly, the Baron would hear about it, his
idiocy increasing manifold with each retelling.
With every fiber in his soul, Cassyr cursed the living god Vivec.
21 Frostfall, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
Corda, in a robe of blinding whiteness, a uniform of the priestesses of the
Hegathe Morwha conservatorium, arrived in the City just as the first winter
storm was passing. The clouds broke with sunlight, and the beauteous teenaged
Redguard girl appeared in the wide avenue with escort, riding toward the
Palace. While her sister was tall, thin, angular, and haughty, Corda was a
small, round-faced lass with wide brown eyes. The locals were quick to draw
comparisons.
“Not a month after Lady Rijja's execution,” muttered a housemaid, peering out
the window, and winking to her neighbor.
“And not a month out of the nunnery neither,” the other woman agreed, reveling
in the scandal. “This one's in for a ride. Her sister weren't no innocent, and
look where she ended up.”
24 Frostfall, 2920
Dwynnen, High Rock
Cassyr stood on the harbor and watched the early sleet fall on the water. It
was a pity, he thought, that he was prone to sea-sickness. There was nothing
for him now in Tamriel to the east or to the west. Vivec's tale of his poor
spycraft had spread to taverns everywhere. The Baron of Dwynnen had released
him from his contract. No doubt they were laughing about him in Daggerfall,
too, and Dawnstar, Lilmoth, Rimmen, Greenheart, probably in Akavir and Yokuda
for that matter. Perhaps it would be best to drop into the waves and sink. The
thought, however, did not stay long in his mind: it was not despair that
haunted him, but rage. Impotent fury that he could not assuage.
“Excuse me, sir,” said a voice behind him, making him jump. “I'm sorry to
disturb you, but I was wondering whether you could recommend an inexpensive
tavern for me to spend the night.”
It was a young man, a Nord, with a sack over his shoulder. Obviously, he had
just disembarked from one of the boats. For the first time in weeks, someone
was looking at Cassyr as something other than a colossal, famous idiot. He
could not help, black as his mood was, but be friendly.
“You've just arrived from Skyrim?” asked Cassyr.
“No, sir, that's where I'm going,” said the fellow. “I'm working my way home.
I've come up from Sentinel, and before that Stros M'kai, and before that
Woodhearth in Valenwood, and before that Artaeum in Summurset. Welleg's my
name.”
Cassyr introduced himself and shook Welleg's hand. “Did you say you came from
Artaeum? Are you a Psijic?”
“No, sir, not anymore,” the fellow shrugged. “I was expelled.”
“Do you know anything about summoning daedra? You see, I want to cast a curse
against a particularly powerful person, one might say a living god, and I
haven't had any luck. The Baron won't allow me in his sight, but the Baroness
has sympathy for me and allowed me the use of their Summoning Chambers.”
Cassyr spat. “I did all the rituals, made sacrifices, but nothing came of it.”
“That'd be because of Sotha Sil, my old master,” replied Welleg with some
bitterness. “The Daedra princes have agreed not to be summoned by any amateurs
at least until the war ends. Only the Psijics may counsel with the daedra, and
a few nomadic sorcerers and witches.”
“Witches, did you say?”
29 Frostfall, 2920
Phrygias, High Rock
Pale sunlight flickered behind the mist bathing the forest as Turala,
Doryatha, and Celephyna drove their horses on. The ground was wet with a thin
layer of frost, and laden down with goods, it was a slippery way over unpaved
hills. Turala tried to contain her excitement about coming back to the coven.
Wayrest had been an adventure, and she adored the looks of fear and respect
the cityfolk gave her. But for the last few days, all she could think of was
returning to her sisters and her child.
A bitter wind whipped her hair forward so she could see nothing but the path
ahead. She did not hear the rider approach to her side until he was almost
upon her. When she turned and saw Cassyr, she shouted with as much surprise as
pleasure at meeting an old friend. His face was pale and drawn, but she took
it to be merely from travel.
“What brings you back to Phrygias?” she smiled. “Were you not treated well in
Dwynnen?”
“Well enough,” said Cassyr. “I have need of the Skeffington coven.”
“Ride with us,” said Turala. “I'll bring you to Mynistera.”
The four continued on, and the witches regaled Cassyr with tales of Wayrest.
It was evident that it was also a rare treat for Doryatha and Celephyna to
leave Old Barbyn's Farm. They had been born there, as daughters and grand-
daughters of Skeffington witches. Ordinary High Rock city life was exotic to
them as it was to Turala. Cassyr said little, but smiled and nodded his head,
which was encouragement enough. Thankfully, none of the stories they had heard
were about his own stupidity. Or at the very least, they did not tell him.
Doryatha was in the midst of a tale she had heard in a tavern about a thief
who had been locked overnight in a pawnshop when they crossed over a familiar
hill. Suddenly, she halted in her story. The barn was supposed to be visible,
but it was not. The other three followed her gaze into the fog, and a moment
later, they rode as fast as they could towards what was once the site of the
Skeffington coven.
The fire had long since burned out. Nothing but ashes, skeletons, and broken
weaponry remained. Cassyr recognized at once the signs of an orc raid.
The witches fell from their horses, racing through the remains, wailing.
Celephyna found a tattered, bloody piece of cloth that she recognized from
Mynistera's cloak. She held it to her ashen face, sobbing. Turala screamed for
Bosriel, but the only reply was the high whistling wind through the ashes.
“Who did this?” she cried, tears streaking down her face. “I swear I'll
conjure up the very flames of Oblivion! What have they done with my baby?”
“I know who did it,” said Cassyr quietly, dropping from his horse and walking
towards her. “I've seen these weapons before. I fear I met the very fiends
responsible in Dwynnen, but I never thought they'd find you. This is the work
of assassins hired by the Duke of Mournhold.”
He paused. The lie came easily. Adopt and improvise. What's more, he could
tell instantly that she believed it. Her resentment over the cruelty the Duke
had shown her had quieted, but never disappeared. One look at her burning eyes
told him that she would summon the daedra and wreak his, and her, revenge upon
Morrowind. And what's more, he knew they'd listen.
And listen they did. For the power that is greater than desire is rage. Even
rage misplaced.
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(Search Code: LOLZ42)
~~2920, Hearth Fire (V9)~~
Carlovac Townway
Item ID: 000243F4
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2 Hearth Fire, 2920
Gideon, Black Marsh
The Empress Tavia lay across her bed, a hot late summer wind she could not
feel banging the shutters of her cell to and fro against the iron bars. Her
throat felt like it was on fire but still she sobbed, uncontrollably, wringing
her last tapestry in her hands. Her wailing echoed throughout the hollow halls
of Castle Giovese, stopping maids in their washing and guards in their
conversation. One of her women came up the narrow stairs to see her mistress,
but her chief guard Zuuk stood at the doorway and shook his head.
“She's just heard that her son is dead,” he said quietly.
5 Hearth Fire, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
“Your Imperial Majesty,” said the Potentate Versidue-Shaie through the door.
“You can open the door. I assure you, you're perfectly safe. No one wants to
kill you.”
“Mara's blood!” came the Emperor Reman III's voice, muffled, hysterical,
tinged with madness. “Someone assassinated the Prince, and he was holding my
shield! They could have thought he was me!”
“You're certainly correct, your Imperial Majesty,” replied the Potentate,
expunging any mocking qualities from his voice while his black-slitted eyes
rolled contemptuously. “And we must find and punish the evildoer responsible
for your son's death. But we cannot do it without you. You must be brave for
your Empire.”
There was no reply.
“At the very least, come out and sign the order for Lady Rijja's execution,”
called the Potentate. “Let us dispose of the one traitor and assassin we know
of.”
A brief pause, and then the sound of furniture scraping across the floor.
Reman opened the door just a crack, but the Potentate could see his angry,
fearful face, and the terrible mound of ripped tissue that used to be his
right eye. Despite the best healers in the Empire, it was still a ghastly
souvenir of the Lady Rijja's work in Thurzo Fortress.
“Hand me the order,” the Emperor snarled. “I'll sign it with pleasure.”
6 Hearth Fire, 2920
Gideon, Cyrodiil
The strange blue glow of the will o' the wisps, a combination, so she'd be
told, of swamp gas and spiritual energy, had always frightened Tavia as she
looked out her window. Now it seemed strangely comforting. Beyond the bog lay
the city of Gideon. It was funny, she thought, that she had never stepped foot
in its streets, though she had watched it ever day for seventeen years.
“Can you think of anything I've forgotten?” she asked, turning to look back on
the loyal Kothringi Zuuk.
“I know exactly what to do,” he said simply. He seemed to smile, but the
Empress realized that it was only her own face reflected in his silvery skin.
She was smiling, and she didn't even realize it.
“Make certain you aren't followed,” she warned. “I don't want my husband to
know where my gold's been hiding all these years. And do take your share of
it. You've been a good friend.”
The Empress Tavia stepped forward and dropped from sight into the mists. Zuuk
replaced the bars on the tower window, and threw a blanket over some pillows
on her bed. With any luck, they would not discover her body on the lawn until
morning, at which time he hoped to be halfway to Morrowind.
9 Hearth Fire, 2920
Phrygias, High Rock
The strange trees on all sides resembled knobby piles crowned with great
bursts of reds, yellows, and oranges, like insect mounds caught fire. The
Wrothgarian mountains were fading into the misty afternoon. Turala marveled at
the sight, so alien, so different from Morrowind, as she plodded the horse
forward into an open pasture. Behind her, head nodding against his chest,
Cassyr slept, cradling Bosriel. For a moment, Turala considered jumping the
low painted fence that crossed the field, but she thought better of it. Let
Cassyr sleep for a few more hours before giving him the reigns.
As the horse passed into the field, Turala saw the small green house on the
next hill, half-hidden in forest. So picturesque was the image, she felt
herself lull into a pleasant half-sleeping state. A blast of a horn brought
her back to reality with a shudder. Cassyr opened his eyes.
“Where are we?” he hissed.
“I don't know,” Turala stammered, wide-eyed. “What is that sound?”
“Orcs,” he whispered. “A hunting party. Head for the thicket quickly.”
Turala trotted the horse into the small collection of trees. Cassyr handed her
the child and dismounted. He began pulling their bags off next, throwing them
into the bushes. A sound started then, a distant rumbling of footfall, growing
louder and closer. Turala climbed off carefully and helped Cassyr unburden the
horse. All the while, Bosriel watched open-eyed. Turala sometimes worried that
her baby never cried. Now she was grateful for it. With the last of the
luggage off, Cassyr slapped the horse's rear, sending it galloping into the
field. Taking Turala's hand, he hunkered down in the bushes.
“With luck,” he murmured. “They'll think she's wild or belongs to the farm and
won't go looking for the rider.”
As he spoke, a horde of orcs surged into the field, blasting their horns.
Turala had seen orcs before, but never in such abundance, never with such
bestial confidence. Roaring with delight at the horse and its confused state,
they hastened past the timber where Cassyr, Turala, and Bosriel hid. The
wildflowers flew into the air at their stampede, powdering the air with seeds.
Turala tried to hold back a sneeze, and thought she succeeded. One of the orcs
heard something though, and brought another with him to investigate.
Cassyr quietly unsheathed his sword, mustering all the confidence he could.
His skills, such as they were, were in spying, not combat, but he vowed to
protect Turala and her babe for as long as he could. Perhaps he would slay
these two, he reasoned, but not before they cried out and brought the rest of
the horde.
Suddenly, something invisible swept through the bushes like a wind. The orcs
flew backwards, falling dead on their backs. Turala turned and saw a wrinkled
crone with bright red hair emerge from a nearby bush.
“I thought you were going to bring 'em right to me,” she whispered, smiling.
“Best come with me.”
The three followed the old woman through a deep crevasse of bramble bushes
that ran through the field toward the house on the hill. As they emerged on
the other side, the woman turned to look at the orcs feasting on the remains
of the horse, a blood-soaked orgy to the beat of multiple horns.
“That horse yours?” she asked. When Cassyr nodded, she laughed loudly. “That's
rich meat, that is. Those monsters'll have bellyaches and flatulence in the
morning. Serves 'em right.”
“Shouldn't we keep moving?” whispered Turala, unnerved by the woman's
laughter.
“They won't come up here,” she grinned, looking at Bosriel who smiled back.
“They're too afraid of us.”
Turala turned to Cassyr, who shook his head. “Witches. Am I correct in
assuming that this is Old Barbyn's Farm, the home of the Skeffington Coven?”
“You are, pet,” the old woman giggled girlishly, pleased to be so infamous. “I
am Mynista Skeffington.”
“What did you do to those orcs?” asked Turala. “Back there in the thicket?”
“Spirit fist right side the head,” Mynista said, continuing the climb up the
hill. Ahead of them was the farmhouse grounds, a well, a chicken coop, a pond,
women of all ages doing chores, the laughter of children at play. The old
woman turned and saw that Turala did not understand. “Don't you have witches
where you come from, child?”
“None that I know of,” she said.
“There are all sorts of wielders of magic in Tamriel,” she explained. “The
Psijics study magic like its their painful duty. The battlemages in the army
on the other end of the scale hurl spells like arrows. We witches commune and
conjure and celebrate. To fell those orcs, I merely whispered to the spirits
of the air, Amaro, Pina, Tallatha, the fingers of Kynareth, and the breath of
the world, with whom I have an intimate acquaintance, to smack those bastards
dead. You see, conjuration is not about might, or solving riddles, or
agonizing over musty old scrolls. It's about fostering relations. Being
friendly, you might say.”
“Well, we certainly appreciate you being friendly with us,” said Cassyr.
“As well you might,” coughed Mynista. “Your kind destroyed the orc homeland
two thousand years ago. Before that, they never came all the way up here and
bothered us. Now let's get you cleaned up and fed.”
With that, Mynista led them into the farm, and Turala met the family of the
Skeffington Coven.
11 Hearth Fire, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
Rijja had not even tried to sleep the night before, and she found the somber
music played during her execution to have a soporific effect. It was as if she
was willing herself to be unconscious before the ax stroke. Her eyes were
bound so she could not see her former lover, the Emperor, seated before her,
glaring with his one good eye. She could not see the Potentate Versidue-Shaie,
his coil neatly wrapped beneath him, a look of triumph in his golden face. She
could feel, numbly, the executioner's hand touch her back to steady her. She
flinched like a dreamer trying to awake.
The first blow caught the back of her head and she screamed. The next hacked
through her neck, and she was dead.
The Emperor turned to the Potentate wearily, “Now that's done. You said she
had a pretty sister in Hammerfell named Corda?”
18 Hearth Fire, 2920
Dwynnen, High Rock
The horse the witches had sold him was not as good as his old one, Cassyr
considered. Spirit worship and sacrifice and sisterhood might be all well and
good for conjuring spirits, but it tends to spoil beasts of burden. Still,
there was little to complain about. With the Dunmer woman and her child gone,
he had made excellent time. Ahead were the walls surrounding the city of his
homeland. Almost at once, he was set upon by his old friends and family.
“How went the war?” cried his cousin, running to the road. “Is it true that
Vivec signed a peace with the Prince, but the Emperor refuses to honor it?”
“That's not how it was, was it?” asked a friend, joining them. “I heard that
the Dunmer had the Prince murdered and then made up a story about a treaty,
but there's no evidence for it.”
“Isn't there anything interesting happening here?” Cassyr laughed. “I really
don't have the least interest in discussing the war or Vivec.”
“You missed the procession of the Lady Corda,” said his friend. “She came
across the bay with full entourage and then east to the Imperial City.”
“But that's nothing. What was Vivec like?” asked his cousin eagerly. “He
supposed to be a living god.”
“If Sheogorath steps down and they need another God of Madness, he'll do,”
said Cassyr haughtily.
“And the women?” asked the lad, who had only seen Dunmer ladies on very rare
occasions.
Cassyr merely smiled. Turala Skeffington flashed into his mind for an instant
before fading away. She would be happy with the coven, and her child would be
well cared for. But they were part of the past now, a place and a war he
wanted to forget forever. Dismounting his horse, he walked it into the city,
chatting of trivial gossip of life on the Iliac Bay.
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(Search Code: LOLZ43)
~~The Door of Oblivion~~
Seif-ij Hidja
Item ID: 000243F2
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'When thou enterest into Oblivion, Oblivion entereth into thee.'
-- Nai Tyrol-Llar
The greatest mage who ever lived was my master Morian Zenas. You have heard of
him as the author of the book 'On Oblivion,' the standard text for all on
matters Daedric. Despite many entreaties over the years, he refused to update
his classic book with his new discoveries and theories because he found that
the more one delves into these realms, the less certain one is. He did not
want conjecture, he wanted facts.
For decades before and after the publication of 'On Oblivion,' Zenas compiled
a vast personal library on the subject of Oblivion, the home of the Daedra. He
divided his time between this research and personal magickal growth, on the
assumption that should he succeed in finding a way into the dangerous world
beyond and behind ours, he would need much power to wander its dark paths.
Twelve years before Zenas began the journey he had prepared his life to make,
he hired me as his assistant. I possessed the three attributes he required for
the position: I was young and eager to help without question; I could read any
book once and memorize its contents; and, despite my youth, I was already a
Master of Conjuration.
Zenas too was a Master of Conjuration - indeed, a Master at all the known and
unknown Schools - but he did not want to rely on his ability alone in the most
perilous of his research. In an underground vault, he summoned Daedra to
interview them on their native land, and for that he needed another Conjurer
to make certain they came, were bound, and were sent away again without
incident.
I will never forget that vault, not for its look which was plain and
unadorned, but for what you couldn't see. There were scents that lingered long
after the summoned creatures had left, flowers and sulfur, sex and decay,
power and madness. They haunt me still to this very day.
Conjuration, for the layman unacquainted with its workings, connects the
caster's mind with that of the summoned. It is a tenuous link, meant only to
lure, hold, and dismiss, but in the hands of a Master, it can be much
stronger. The Psijics and Dwemer can (in the Dwemer's case, perhaps I should
say, could) connect with the minds of others, and converse miles apart - a
skill that is sometimes called telepathy.
Over the course of my employment, Zenas and I developed such a link between
one another. It was accidental, a result of two powerful Conjurers working
closely together, but we decided that it would be invaluable should he succeed
in traveling to Oblivion. Since the denizens of that land could be touched
even by the skills of an amateur Conjurer, it was possible we could continue
to communicate while he was there, so I could record his discoveries.
The 'Doors to Oblivion,' to use Morian Zenas's phrase, are not easily found,
and we exhausted many possibilities before we found one where we held the key.
The Psijics of Artaeum have a place they call The Dreaming Cave, where it is
said one can enter into the Daedric realms and return. Iachesis, Sotha Sil,
Nematigh, and many others have been recorded as using this means, but despite
many entreaties to the Order, we were denied its use. Celarus, the leader of
the Order, has told us it has been sealed off for the safety of all.
We had hopes of using the ruins of the Battlespire to access Oblivion. The
Weir Gate still stands, though the old proving grounds of the Imperial
Battlemages itself was shattered some years ago in Jagar Tharn's time. Sadly,
after an exhaustive search through the detritus, we had to conclude that when
it was destroyed, all access to the realms beyond, the Soul Cairn, the Shade
Perilous, and the Havoc Wellhead, had been broken. It was probably for the
good, but it frustrated our goal.
The reader may have heard of other Doors, and he may be assured we attempted
to find them all.
Some are pure legend, or at any rate, not traceable based on the information
left behind. There are references in lore to Marukh's Abyss, the Corryngton
Mirror, the Mantellan Crux, the Crossroads, the Mouth, a riddle of an
alchemical formula called Jacinth and Rising Sun, and many other places and
objects that are said to be Doors, but we could not find.
Some exist, but cannot be entered safely. The whirlpool in the Abecean called
the Maelstrom of Bal can make ships disappear, and may be a portal into
Oblivion, but the trauma of riding its waters would surely slay any who tried.
Likewise, we did not consider it worth the risk to leap from the Pillar of
Thras, a thousand foot tall spiral of coral, though we witnessed the
sacrifices the sloads made there. Some victims were killed by the fall, but
some, indeed, seemed to vanish before being dashed on the rocks. Since the
sload did not seem certain why some were taken and some died, we did not favor
the odds of the plunge.
The simplest and most maddeningly complex way to go to Oblivion was simply to
cease to be here, and begin to be there. Throughout history, there are
examples of mages who seemed to travel to the realms beyond ours seemingly at
will. Many of these voyagers are long dead, if they ever existed, but we were
able to find one still living. In a tower off Zafirbel Bay on the island of
Vvardenfell in the province of Morrowind there exists a very old, very
reclusive wizard named Divayth Fyr.
He was not easy to reach, and he was reluctant to share with Morian Zenas the
secret Door to Oblivion. Fortunately, my master's knowledge of lore impressed
Fyr, and he taught him the way. I would be breaking my promise to Zenas and
Fyr to explain the procedure here, and I would not divulge it even if I could.
If there is dangerous knowledge to be had, that is it. But I do not reveal too
much to say that Fyr's scheme relied on exploiting a series of portals to
various realms created by a Telvanni wizard long missing and presumed dead.
Against the disadvantage of this limited number of access points, we weighed
the relative reliability and security of passage, and considered ourselves
fortunate in our informant.
Morian Zenas then left this world to begin his exploration. I stayed at the
library to transcribe his information and help him with any research he
needed.
'Dust,' he whispered to me on the first day of his voyage. Despite the
inherent dreariness of the word, I could hear his excitement in his voice,
echoing in my mind. 'I can see from one end of the world to the other in a
million shades of gray. There is no sky or ground or air, only particles,
floating, falling, whirling about me. I must levitate and breathe by magickal
means …'
Zenas explored the nebulous land for some time, encountering vaporous
creatures and palaces of smoke. Though he never met the Prince, we concluded
that he was in Ashpit, said to be the home of Malacath, where anguish,
betrayal, and broken promises like ash filled the bitter air.
'The sky is on fire,' I heard him say as he moved on to the next realm. 'The
ground is sludge, but traversable. I see blackened ruins all around me, like a
war was fought here in the distant past. The air is freezing. I cast blooms of
warmth all around me, but it still feels like daggers of ice stabbing me in
all directions.'
This was Coldharbour, where Molag Bal was Prince. It appeared to Zenas as if
it were a future Nirn, under the King of Rape, desolate and barren, filled
with suffering. I could hear Morian Zenas weep at the images he saw, and
shiver at the sight of the Imperial Palace, spattered with blood and
excrement.
'Too much beauty,' Zenas gasped when he went to the next realm. 'I am half
blind. I see flowers and waterfalls, majestic trees, a city of silver, but it
is all a blur. The colors run like water. It's raining now, and the wind
smells like perfume. This surely is Moonshadow, where Azura dwells.'
Zenas was right, and astonishingly, he even had audience with the Queen of
Dusk and Dawn in her rose palace. She listened to his tale with a smile, and
told him of the coming of the Nevevarine. My master found Moonshadow so
lovely, he wished to stay there, half-blind, forever, but he knew he must move
on and complete his journey of discovery.
'I am in a storm,' he told me as he entered the next realm. He described the
landscape of dark twisted trees, howling spirits, and billowing mist, and I
thought he might have entered the Deadlands of Mehrunes Dagon. But then he
said quickly, 'No, I am no longer in a forest. There was a flash of lightning,
and now I am on a ship. The mast is tattered. The crew is slaughtered.
Something is coming through the waves … oh, gods … Wait, now, I am in a dank
dungeon, in a cell …'
He was not in the Deadlands, but Quagmire, the nightmare realm of Vaernima.
Every few minutes, there was a flash of lightning and reality shifted, always
to something more horrible and horrifying. A dark castle one moment, a den of
ravening beasts the next, a moonlit swamp, a coffin where he was buried alive.
Fear got the better of my master, and he quickly passed to the next realm.
I heard him laugh, 'I feel like I'm home now.'
Morian Zenas described to me an endless library, shelves stretching on in
every direction, stacks on top of stacks. Pages floated on a mystical wind
that he could not feel. Every book had a black cover with no title. He could
see no one, but felt the presence of ghosts moving through the stacks, rifling
through books, ever searching.
It was Apocrypha. The home of Hermaeus-Mora, where all forbidden knowledge can
be found. I felt a shudder in my mind, but I could not tell if it was my
master's or mine.
Morian Zenas never traveled to another realm that I know of.
Throughout his visits to the first four realms, my master spoke to me
constantly. Upon entering the Apocrypha, he became quieter, as he was lured
into the world of research and study, the passions that had controlled his
heart while on Nirn. I would frantically try to call to him, but he closed his
mind to me.
Then he would whisper, 'This cannot be …'
'No one would ever guess the truth …'
'I must learn more …'
'I see the world, a last illusion's shimmer, it is crumbling all around us …'
I would cry back to him, begging him to tell me what was happening, what he
was seeing, what he was learning. I even tried using Conjuration to summon him
as if he were a Daedra himself, but he refused to leave. Morian Zenas was
lost.
I last received a whisper from him six months ago. Before then, it had been
five years, and three before that. His thoughts are no longer intelligible in
any language. Perhaps he is still in Apocrypha, lost but happy, in a trap he
refuses to escape.
Perhaps he slipped between the stacks and passed into the Madhouse of
Sheogorath, losing his sanity forever.
I would save him if I could.
I would silence his whispers if I could.
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(Search Code: LOLZ44)
~~Liminal Bridges~~
Camilonwe of Alinor
Item ID: 00073A60
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Transliminal passage of quickened objects or entities without the persistent
agency of hyperagonal media is not possible, and even if possible, would
result in instantaneous retromission of the transported referents. Only a
transpontine circumpenetration of the limen will result in transits of greater
than infinitessimal duration.
Though other hyperagonal media may exist in theory, the only known
transliminal artifact capable of sustained transpontine circumpenetration is
the sigil stone. A sigil stone is a specimen of pre-Mythic quasi-crystalline
morpholith that has been transformed into an extra-dimensional artifact
through the arcane inscription of a daedric sigil. Though some common
morpholiths like soul gems may be found in nature, the exotic morpoliths used
to make sigil stones occur only in pocket voids of Oblivion, and cannot be
prospected or harvested without daedric assistance.
Therefore, since both the morpholiths and the daedric sigils required for
hyperagonal media cannot be obtained without traffic and commerce with Daedra
Lords, it is necessary that a transliminal mechanic cultivate a working
knowledge of conjuration — though purpose-built enchantments may be
substituted if the mechanic has sufficient invocatory skill. Traffic and
commerce with Daedra Lords is an esoteric but well-established practice, and
lies outside the compass of this treatise. (1)
Presuming a sigil stone has been acquired, the transliminal mechanic must
first prepare the morpholith to receive the daedric sigil.
Let the mechanic prepare a chamber, sealed against all daylight and
disturbances of the outer air, roofed and walled with white stone and floored
with black tiles. All surfaces of this chamber must be ritually purified with
a solution of void salts in ether solvent.
A foursquare table shall be placed in the center of the room, with a dish to
receive the morpholith. Four censers shall be prepared with incense compounded
from gorvix and harrada. On the equinox, the mechanic shall then place the
morpolith in the dish and intone the rites of the Book of Law, beginning at
dawn and continuing without cease until the sunset of the same day.
The mechanic may then present the purified morpholith to the Daedra Lord for
his inscription. Once inscribed with the Daedra Lord's sigil, the morpholith
becomes a true sigil stone, a powerful artifact that collects and stores
arcane power — similar in many respects to a charged soul gem, but of a much
greater magnitude. And it is this sigil stone that is required to provide the
tremendous arcane power necessary to sustain the enchantment that supports the
transpontine circumpenetration of the limen.
To open a gate to Oblivion, the mechanic must communicate directly, by spell
or enchantment, with the Daedra Lord who inscribed the sigil stone in
question. The Daedra Lord and the mechanic jointly invoke the conjurational
charter (2), and the mechanic activates the charged sigil stone, which is
immediately transported through the liminal barrier to the spot where its
sigil was inscribed, thus opening a temporary portal between Mundus and
Oblivion. This portal may only remain open for a brief period of time,
depending on the strength of the liminal barrier at the chosen spots, several
minutes being the longest ever reported, so the usefulness of such a gate is
quite limited.
1 — Interested students are invited to consult the works of Albrecht
Theophannes Bombidius and Galerion The Mystic for the fundaments of this
discipline.
2 — Recommended examples of the conjurational charter may be found in
Therion's Book of Most Arcane Covenants or Ralliballah's Eleven Ritual Forms.
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(Search Code: LOLZ45)
~~Mythic Dawn Commentaries 1~~
Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes Book One
The first book read by initiates to the Mythic Dawn cult.
This is Book One of Mythic Dawn Commentaries
The daedric title reads DAGON
Mankar Camoran
Item ID: 00022B04
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Greetings, novitiate, and know first a reassurance: Mankar Camoran was once
like you, asleep, unwise, protonymic. We mortals leave the dreaming-sleeve of
birth the same, unmantled save for the symbiosis with our mothers, thus to
practice and thus to rapprochement, until finally we might through new eyes
leave our hearths without need or fear that she remains behind. In this moment
we destroy her forever and enter the demesne of Lord Dagon.
Reader, this book is your door to that demesne, and though you be a destroyer
you must still submit to locks. Lord Dagon would only have those clever enough
to pause; all else the Aurbis claims in their fool running. Walk first. Heed.
The impatience you feel is your first slave to behead.
Enter as Lord Dagon has written: come slow and bring four keys. Know that then
you are royalty, a new breed of destroyer, whose garden shall flood with
flowers known and unknown, as it was in the mythic dawn. Thus shall you return
to your first primal wail and yet come out different. It shall this time be
neonymbiosis, master akin to Master, whose Mother is miasma.
Every quarter has known us, and none bore our passing except with trembling.
Perhaps you came to us through war, or study, or shadow, or the alignment of
certain snakes. Though each path matters in its kind, the prize is always
thus: welcome, novitiate, that you are here at all means that you have the
worthiness of kings. Seek thy pocket now, and look! There is the first key,
glinting with the light of a new dawn.
Night follows day, and so know that this primary insight shall fall alike unto
the turbulent evening sea where all faiths are tested. Again, a reassurance:
even the Usurper went under the Iliac before he rose up to claim his fleet.
Fear only for a second. Shaken belief is like water for a purpose: in the
garden of the Dawn we shall breathe whole realities.
Enter as Lord Dagon has written: come slow and bring four keys. Our Order is
based on the principles of his mighty razor: Novitiate, Questing Knight,
Chaplain, and Master. Let the evil ones burn in its light as if by the excess
of our vision. Then shalt our Knowledge go aright. However, recall that your
sight is yet narrow, and while you have the invitation, you have not the
address.
My own summons came through a book Lord Dagon wrote himself in the deserts of
rust and wounds. Its name is the 'Mysterium Xarxes', Aldmeretada aggregate,
forefather to the wife of all enigma. Each word is razor-fed and secret,
thinner than cataclysms, tarnished like red-drink. That I mention it at all is
testament to your new rank, my child. Your name is now cut into its weight.
Palace, hut, or cave, you have left all the fog worlds of conception behind.
Nu-mantia! Liberty! Rejoice in the promise of paradise!
Endlessly it shall form and reform around you, deeds as entities, all-systems
only an hour before they bloom to zero sums, flowering like vestments, divine
raiment worn to dance at Lord Dagon's golden feet. In his first arm, a storm,
his second the rush of plagued rain, the third all the tinder of Anu, and the
fourth the very eyes of Padhome. Feel uplifted in thine heart that you have
this first key, for it shall strike high and low into the wormrot of false
heavens.
Roaring I wandered until I grew hoarse with the gospel. I had read the
mysteries of Lord Dagon and feeling anew went mad with the overflow. My words
found no purchase until I became hidden. These were not words for the common
of Tamriel, whose clergy long ago feigned the very existence of the Dawn.
Learn from my mistake; know that humility was Mankar Camoran's original
wisdom. Come slow, and bring four keys.
Offering myself to that daybreak allowed the girdle of grace to contain me.
When my voice returned, it spoke with another tongue. After three nights I
could speak fire.
Red-drink, razor-fed, I had glimpsed the path unto the garden, and knew that
to inform others of its harbor I had to first drown myself in search's sea.
Know ye that I have found my fleet, and that you are the flagship of my hope.
Greetings, novitiate, Mankar Camoran was once you, asleep, unwise, protonymic,
but Am No More. Now I sit and wait to feast with thee on all the worlds of
this cosmos. Nu-mantia! Liberty!
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(Search Code: LOLZ46)
~~The Warrior's Charge~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 000243F6
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An old poem of the Redguards
The star sung far-flung tales
Wreathed in the silver of Yokuda fair,
Of a Warrior who, arrayed in hue sails
His charges through the serpent's snare
And the Lord of runes, so bored so soon,
Leaves the ship for an evening's dare,
Perchance to wake, the coiled snake,
To take its shirt of scales to wear
And the Lady East, who e'ery beast,
Asleep or a'prowl can rouse a scare,
Screams as her eye, alight in the sky
A worm no goodly sight can bear
And the mailed Steed, ajoins the deed
Not to be undone from his worthy share,
Rides the night, towards scale bright,
Leaving the seasoned Warrior's care
Then the serpent rose, and made stead to close,
The targets lay plain and there,
But the Warrior's blade the Snake unmade,
And the charges wander no more, they swear
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~~DESTRUCTION BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ47)
~~The Art of War Magic~~
Zurin Arctus, with Commentary By Other Learned Masters
Item ID: 000243FA
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Chapter 3: Dispositions
Master Arctus said:
1. The moment to prepare your offense is the moment the enemy becomes
vulnerable to attack.
* Leros Chael: Knowledge of the enemy mage's mind is of the foremost
importance. Once you know his mind, you will know his weaknesses.
* Sedd Mar: Master Arctus advised Tiber Septim before the battle of
Five Bridges not to commit his reserves until the enemy was victorious. Tiber
Septim said, “If the enemy is already victorious, what use committing the
reserve?” To which Master Arctus replied, “Only in victory will the enemy be
vulnerable to defeat.” Tiber Septim went on to rout an enemy army twice the
size of his.
2. The enemy's vulnerability may be his strongest point; your weakness may
enable you to strike the decisive blow.
* Marandro Ur: In the wars between the Nords and the Chimer, the
Nord shamans invariably used their mastery of the winds to call down storms
before battle to confuse and dismay the Chimer warriors. One day, a clever
Chimer sorcerer conjured up an ice demon and commanded him to hide in the
rocks near the rear of the Chimer army. When the Nords called down the storms
as usual, the Chimer warriors began to waver. But the ice demon rose up as the
storm struck, and the Chimer turned in fear from what they believed was a Nord
demon and charged into the enemy line, less afraid of the storm than of the
demon. The Nords, expecting the Chimer to flee as usual, were caught off guard
when the Chimer attacked out of the midst of the storm. The Chimer were
victorious that day.
3. When planning a campaign, take account of both the arcane and the
mundane. The skillful battlemage ensures that they are in balance; a weight
lifted by one hand is heavier than two weights lifted by both hands.
4. When the arcane and mundane are in balance, the army will move
effortlessly, like a swinging door on well-oiled hinges. When they are out of
balance, the army will be like a three-legged dog, with one leg always
dragging in the dust.
5. Thus when the army strikes a blow, it will be like a thunderclap out of
a cloudless sky. The best victories are those unforeseen by the enemy, but
obvious to everyone afterwards.
6. The skillful battlemage ensures that the enemy is already defeated
before the battle begins. A close-fought battle is to be avoided; the fortunes
of war may turn aside the most powerful sorcery, and courage may undo the
best-laid plans. Instead, win your victory ahead of time. When the enemy knows
he is defeated before the battle begins, you may not need to fight.
7. Victory in battle is only the least kind of victory. Victory without
battle is the acme of skill.
8. Conserving your power is another key to victory. Putting forth your
strength to win a battle is no demonstration of skill. This is what we call
tactics, the least form of the art of war magic.
* Thulidden dir'Tharkun: By 'tactics', Master Arctus includes all
the common battle magics. These are only the first steps in an understanding
of war magic. Any hedge mage can burn up his enemies with fire. Destroying the
enemy is the last resort of the skillful battlemage.
9. The battle is only a leaf on the tree; if a leaf falls, does the tree
die? But when a branch is lopped off, the tree is weakened; when the trunk is
girdled, the tree is doomed.
10. If you plan your dispositions well, your victories will seem easy and
you will win no acclaim. If you plan your dispositions poorly, your victories
will seem difficult, and your fame will be widespread.
* Marandro Sul: Those commonly believed to be the greatest
practitioners of war magic are almost always those with the least skill. The
true masters are not known to the multitude.
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(Search Code: LOLZ48)
~~The Horrors of Castle Xyr~~
Baloth-Kul
Item ID: 000243F7
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A One Act Play
Dramatis Personae
Clavides, Captain of the Imperial Guard. Cyrodilic.
Anara, a Dunmer maid.
Ullis, a Lieutenant of the Imperial Guard. Argonian.
Zollassa, a young Argonian mage
Act I
Late evening. The play opens in the interior Great Entrance Hall of a
castle in Scath Anud, replete with fine furnishings and tapestries. Torches
provide the only illumination. In the center of the foyer is a great iron
door, the main entrance to the castle. The staircase up to the landing above
is next to this door. On stage left is the door to the library, which is
currently closed. On stage right is a huge suit of armor, twenty feet tall,
nearly touching the ceiling of the room. Though no one can be seen, there is
the sound of a woman singing coming from the library door.
A loud thumping knock on the iron front door stops the woman's singing.
The door to the library opens and ANARA, a common-looking maid, comes out and
hurries to open the front door. CLAVIDES, a handsome man in Imperial garb
stands there.
ANARA: Good evening to you, serjo.
CLAVIDES: Good evening. Is your master at home?
ANARA: No, serjo, it's only me here. My master Sedura Kena Telvanni Hordalf
Xyr is at his winter estate. Is there something I can do for you?
CLAVIDES: Possibly. Would you mind if I came in?
ANARA: Not at all, serjo. Please. May I offer you some flin?
Clavides comes into the Hall and looks around.
CLAVIDES: No thank you. What's your name?
ANARA: Anara, serjo.
CLAVIDES: Anara, when did your master leave Scath Anud?
ANARA: More than a fortnight ago. That's why it's only me in the castle,
serjo. All the other servants and slaves who tend to his lordship travel with
him. Is there something wrong?
CLAVIDES: Yes, there is. Do you know an ashlander by the name of Sul-Kharifa?
ANARA: No, serjo. I don't know no one by that name.
CLAVIDES: Then you aren't likely to now. He's dead. He was found a few hours
ago dying of frostbite in the ashlands. He was hysterical, nearly
incomprehensible, but among his last words were “castle” and “Xyr.”
ANARA: Dying of frostbite in summertide in the ashlands? B'vek, that's
strange. I suppose it's possible that my master knew this man, but being an
ashlander and my master being of the House of Telvanni, well, if you'll pardon
me for being flippant, serjo, I don't think they coulda been friends.
CLAVIDES: That is your master's library? Would you mind if I looked in?
ANARA: Please, serjo, go wherever you want. We got nothing to hide. We're
loyal Imperial subjects.
CLAVIDES: As, I hear, are all Telvanni.
(Note from the playwright: this line should be delivered without sarcasm.
Trust the audience to laugh -- it never fails, regardless of the politics of
the locals.)
Clavides enters the library and looks over the books.
CLAVIDES: The library needs dusting.
ANARA: Yes, serjo. I was just doing that when you knocked at the door.
CLAVIDES: I'm grateful for that. If you had finished, I wouldn't notice the
space in the dust where a rather large book has recently been removed. Your
master is a wizard, it seems.
ANARA: No, serjo. I mean, he studies a lot, but he don't cast no spells, if
that's what you mean by wizard. He's a kena, went to college and everything.
You know, now that I think about it, I know what happened to that book. One of
the other kenas from the college been round yesterday, and borrowed a couple
of books. He's a friend of the master, so I thought it'd be all fine.
CLAVIDES: This kena, was his name Warvim?
ANARA: Coulda been. I don't remember.
CLAVIDES: There is a suspected necromancer at the college named Kena Warvim we
arrested last night. We don't know what he was doing at the college, but it
was something illegal, that's for certain. Was that the kena who borrowed the
book? A little fellow, a cripple with a withered leg?
ANARA: No, serjo, it weren't the kena from yesterday. He was a big fella who
could walk, so I noticed.
CLAVIDES: I'm going to have a look around the rest of the house, if you don't
mind.
Clavides goes up the stairs, and delivers the following dialogue from the
landing and the rooms above. Anara continues straightening up the downstairs,
moving a high-backed bench in front of the armor to scrub the floor.
ANARA: Can I ask, serjo, what you're looking for? Maybe I could help you.
CLAVIDES: Are these all the rooms in the castle? No secret passages?
ANARA (laughing): Oh, serjo, what would Sedura Kena Telvanni Hordalf Xyr want
with secret passages?
CLAVIDES (looking at the armor): Your master is a big man.
ANARA (laughing): Oh, serjo, don't tease. That's giant armor, just for
decoration. My master slew that giant ten years ago, and kind of keeps it for
a souvenir.
CLAVIDES: That's right, I remember hearing something about that when I first
took my post here. It was someone named Xyr who killed the giant, but I didn't
think the first name was Hordalf. Memory fades I'm afraid. What was the
giant's name?
ANARA: I'm afraid I don't remember, serjo.
CLAVIDES: I do. It was Torfang. “I got out of Torfang's Shield.”
ANARA: I don't understand, serjo. Torfang's shield?
Clavides runs down the stairs, and examines the armor.
CLAVIDES: Sul-Kharifa said something about getting out of Torfang's shield. I
thought he was just raving, out of his mind.
ANARA: But he ain't got a shield, serjo.
Clavides pushes the high-backed bench out of the way, revealing the large
mounted shield at the base of the armor.
CLAVIDES: Yes, he does. You covered it up with that bench.
ANARA: I didn't do it on purpose, serjo! I was just cleaning! I see that armor
ever day, serjo, and b'vek I swear I ain't never noticed the shield before!
CLAVIDES: It's fine, Anara, I believe you.
Clavides pushes on the shield and it pulls back to reveal a tunnel down.
CLAVIDES: It appears that Sedura Kena Telvanni Hordalf Xyr does have a need
for a secret passage. Could you get me a torch?
ANARA: B'vek, I ain't never seen that before!
Anara takes a torch from the wall, and hands it to Clavides. Clavides
enters the tunnel.
CLAVIDES: Wait here.
Anara watches Clavides disappear down the tunnel. She appears agitated,
and finally runs for the front door. When she opens it, ULLIS, an Argonian
lieutenant in the Imperial guard is standing at the entrance. She screams.
ULLIS: I'm sorry to frighten you.
ANARA: Not now! Go away!
ULLIS: I'm afraid the Captain wouldn't like that, miss.
ANARA: You're ... with the Captain? Blessed mother.
Clavides comes out of the tunnel, white-faced. It takes him a few moments
to speak.
ULLIS: Captain? What's down there?
CLAVIDES (to Anara): Did you know your master's a necromancer? That your
cellar is filled with bodies?
Anara faints. Ullis carries her to the bench and lays her down.
ULLIS: Let me see, serjo.
CLAVIDES: You'll see soon enough. We're going to need every soldier from the
post here to cart away all the corpses. Ullis, I've seen enough battles, but
I've never seen anything like this. No two are alike. Khajiiti, sload, dunmer,
cyrodiil, breton, nord, burned alive, poisoned, electrified, melted, torn
apart, turned inside out, ripped to shreds and sewn back up together.
ULLIS: You think the ashlander escaped, that's what happened?
CLAVIDES: I don't know. Why would someone do something like this, Ullis?
There is a knock on the door. Clavides answers it. A young Argonian woman,
ZOLLASSA, is standing, holding a package and a letter.
ZOLLASSA: Good morning, you're not Lord Xyr, are you?
CLAVIDES: No. What do you have there?
ZOLLASSA: A letter and a package I'm supposed to deliver to him. Will he be
back shortly?
CLAVIDES: I don't believe so. Who gave you the package to deliver?
ZOLLASSA: My teacher at the college, Kema Warvim. He has a bad leg, so he
asked me to bring these to his lordship. Actually, to tell you the truth, I
was supposed to deliver them last night, but I was busy.
ULLIS: Greetings, sistre. We'll give the package to his lordship when we see
him.
ZOLLASSA: Ah, hail, brothre. I had heard there was a handsome Argonian in
Scath Anud. Unfortunately, I promised Kema Warvim that I'd deliver the package
directly to his lordship's hands. I'm already late, I can't just --
CLAVIDES: We're Imperial Guard, miss. We will take the package and the letter.
Zollassa reluctantly hands Clavides the letter and the package. She turns
to go.
ULLIS: You're at the college, if we need to see you?
ZOLLASSA: Yes. Fare tidings, brothre.
ULLIS: Goodnight, sistre.
Clavides opens the package as Zollassa exits. It is a book with many loose
sheets.
CLAVIDES: It appears we've found the missing book. Delivered to our very
hands.
Clavides begins to read the book, silently to himself.
ULLIS (to himself, very pleased): Another Argonian in Scath Anud. And a pretty
one, at that. I hope we weren't too rude to her. I'm tired of all these women
with their smooth, wet skin, it would be wonderful if we could meet when I'm
off duty.
While Ullis talks, he opens the letter and reads it.
ULLIS (continued): She looks like she's from the south, like me. You know,
Argonians from northern Black Marsh are... much... less...
Ullis continues reading, transfixed by the letter. Clavides skips to the
back of the book, and reads the last sentences.
CLAVIDES (reading): In black ink “The Khajiiti male showed surprisingly little
fortitude to a simple lightning spell, but I've had interesting physiological
results with a medium-level acid spell cast slowly over several days.” In red
ink on the margins, “Yes, I see. Was the acid spell cast uniformly over the
entire body of the subject?” In black ink “The Nord female was subjected to
sixteen hours of a frost spell which eventually crystalized her into a state
of suspended animation, from which she eventually expired. Not so the Nord
male, nor the Ashlander male who lapsed into their comas much earlier, but
then recovered. The Ashlander then tried to escape, but I restrained him. The
Nord then had an interesting chemical overreaction to a simple fire spell and
expired. See the accompanying illustration.” In red ink, “Yes, I see. The
pattern of boils and lesions suggest some sort of internal incineration
perhaps caused by the combination of a short burst of flame following a longer
session with frost. It's such a shame I can't come to see the experiment
personally, but I compliment you on your excellent notation.” In black ink,
“Thank you for the suggestion about slowly poisoning my maid Anara. The
dosages you've suggested have had fascinating results, eroding her memory very
subtly. I intend to increase it expotentially and see how long it is before
she notices. Speaking of which, it is a pity that I haven't any Argonian
subjects, but the slave-traders promise me some healthy specimens in the
autumn. I should like to test their metabolism in comparison to elves and
humans. It's my theory that a medium-level lightning spell cast in a
continuous wave on an Argonian wouldn't be lethal for several hours at least,
similiar to my results with the Cyrodilic female and, of course, the giant.”
In red ink, “It'd be a shame to wait until autumn to see.”
ULLIS (reading the letter): In red ink, “Here is your Argonian. Please let me
know the results.” It's signed “Kema Warvim.”
CLAVIDES: By Kynareth, this isn't necromancy. It's Destruction. Kema Warvim
and Kena Telvanni Hordalf Xyr haven't been experimenting with death, but with
the limits of magical torture.
ULLIS: The letter isn't addressed to Kena Telvanni Hordalf Xyr. It's addressed
to Sedura Iachilla Xyr. His wife, do you think?
CLAVIDES: Iachilla. That was the Telvanni of the Xyr family who I heard about
in connection with the giant slaying. We'd best get the maid out of here.
She'll need to go to a healer.
Clavides wakes up Anara. She appears disoriented.
ANARA: What's happening? Who are you?
CLAVIDES: Don't worry, everything is going to be fine. We're going to take you
to a healer.
ULLIS: Do you need a coat, Iachilla?
ANARA: Thank you, no, I'm not cold --
Anara/Iachilla stops, realizing that she's been caught. Clavides and Ullis
unsheathe their blades.
CLAVIDES: You have black ink on your fingers, your ladyship.
ULLIS: And when you saw me at the door, you thought I was the Argonian your
friend Warvim sent over. That's why you said, “Not now. Go away.”
ANARA/IACHILLA: You're much more observant than Anara. She never did
understand what was happening, even when I tripled the poison spell and she
expired in what I observed as considerable agony.
ULLIS: What were you going to use on me first, lightning or fire?
ANANA/IACHILLA: Lightning. I find fire to be too unpredictable.
As she speaks, the flames in the torchs extinguish. The stage is utterly
dark.
There is the sound of a struggle, swords clanging. Suddenly a bolt of
lightning flashes out, and there is silence. From the darkness, Anana/Iachilla
speaks.
ANANA/IACHILLA: Fascinating.
There are several more flashes of lightning as the curtain closes.
THE END.
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(Search Code: LOLZ49)
~~A Hypothetical Treachery~
Anthil Morvir
Item ID: 000243F9
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Dramatis Personae
Malvasian: A High Elf battlemage
Inzoliah: A Dark Elf battlemage
Dolcettus: A Cyrodiil healer
Schiavas: An Argonian barbarian
A Ghost
Some bandits
Scene: Eldenwood
As the curtain rises, we see the misty labyrinthian landscape of the legendary
Eldengrove of Valenwood. All around we hear wolves howling. A bloodied
reptilian figure, SCHIAVAS, breaks through the branches of one of the trees
and surveys the area.
SCHIAVAS: It's clear.
INZOLIAH, a beautiful Dark Elf mage, climbs down from the tree, helped by the
barbarian. There is the sound of footsteps nearby. Schiavas readies his sword
and Inzoliah prepares to cast a spell. Nothing comes out.
INZOLIAH: You're bleeding. You should have Dolcettus heal that for you.
SCHIAVAS: He's still drained from all the spells he had to cast down in the
caves. I'm fine. If we get out of this and no one needs it more, I'll take the
last potion of healing. Where's Malvasian?
MALVASIAN, a High Elf battlemage, and DOLCETTUS, a Cyrodiil healer, emerge
from the tree, carrying a heavy chest between the two of them. They awkwardly
try to get down from the tree, carrying their loot.
MALVASIAN: Here I am, though why I'm carrying the heavy load is beyond me. I
always thought that the advantage of dungeon delving with a great barbarian
was that he carried all the loot.
SCHIAVAS: If I carried that, my hands would be too full to fight. And tell me
if I'm wrong, but not one of the three of you has enough magicka reserved to
make it out of here alive. Not after you electrified and blasted all those
homunculuses down below ground.
DOLCETTUS: Homunculi.
SCHIAVAS: Don't worry, I'm not going to do what you think I'm going to do.
INZOLIAH (innocently): What's that?
SCHIAVAS: Kill you all and take the Ebony Mail for myself. Admit it -- you
thought I had that in mind.
DOLCETTUS: What a perfectly horrible thought. I never thought anyone, no
matter how vile and degenerate --
INZOLIAH: Why not?
MALVASIAN: He needs porters, like he said. He can't carry the chest and fight
off the inhabitants of Eldengrove both.
DOLCETTUS: By Stendarr, of all the mean, conniving, typically Argonian --
INZOLIAH: And why do you need me alive?
SCHIAVAS: I don't necessarily. Except that you're prettier than the other two,
for a smoothskin that is. And if something comes after us, it might go for you
first.
There is a noise in some bushes nearby.
SCHIAVAS: Go check that out.
INZOLIAH: It's probably a wolf. These woods are filled with them. You check it
out.
SCHIAVAS: You have a choice, Inzoliah. Go and you might live. Stay here, and
you definitely won't.
Inzoliah considers and then goes to the bushes.
SCHIAVAS (to Malvasian and Dolcettus): The king of Silvenar will pay good
money for the Mail, and we can divide it more nicely between three than four.
INZOLIAH: You're so right.
Inzoliah suddenly levitates up to the top of the stage. A semi-transparent
Ghost appears from the bush and rushes at the next person, who happens to be
Schiavas. As the barbarian screams and thrashes at it with his sword, it
levels blasts of whirling gas at him. He crumbles to the ground. It turns next
to Dolcettus, the healer, and as the Ghost focuses its feasting chill on the
hapless Dolcettus, Malvasian casts a ball of flame at it that causes it to
vaporize into the misty air.
Inzoliah floats back down to the ground as Malvasian examines the bodies of
Dolcettus and Schiavas, who are both white-faced from the draining power of
the ghost.
MALVASIAN: You had some magicka reserved after all.
INZOLIAH: So did you. Are they dead?
Malvasian takes the potion of healing from Dolcettus's pack.
MALVASIAN: Yes. Fortunately, the potion of healing wasn't broken when he fell.
Well, I guess this leaves just the two of us to collect the reward.
INZOLIAH: We can't get out of this place without each other. Like it or not.
The two battlemages pick up the chest and begin plodding carefully through the
undergrowth, pausing from time to time at the sound of footsteps or other
eerie noises.
MALVASIAN: Let me make sure I understand. You have a little bit of magicka
left, so you elected to use it to make Schiavas the ghost's target, forcing me
to use most of my limited reserve to destroy the creature so I wouldn't be
more powerful than you. That's first-rate thinking.
INZOLIAH: Thank you. It's only logical. Do you have enough power to cast any
other spells?
MALVASIAN: Naturally. An experienced battlemage always knows a few minor but
highly effective spells for just such a trial. I take it you, too, have a few
tricks up your sleeve?
INZOLIAH: Of course, like you said.
They pause for a moment before continuing as a fearful wail pierces the air.
When it dies away, they slowly trudge on.
INZOLIAH: Just as an intellectual exercise, I wonder what spell you would cast
at me if we made it out of here without any more combat.
MALVASIAN: I hope you're not implying that I would dream of killing you so I
would keep the treasure all to myself.
INZOLIAH: Of course not, nor would I do that to you. It is merely an
intellectual exercise.
MALVASIAN: Well, in that case, purely as an intellectual exercise, I would
probably cast a leech spell on you, to take away your life force and heal
myself. After all, there are brigands on the road between here and Silvenar,
and a wounded battlemage with a valuable artifact would make a tempting
target. I'd hate to survive Eldengrove merely to die in the open.
INZOLIAH: That's a well-reasoned response. As for myself, again, not saying I
would ever do this, but I think a simple, sudden electrical bolt would serve
my purposes admirably. I agree about the danger of brigands, but don't forget,
we also have a potion of healing. I could easily slay you and heal myself to
full capacity.
MALVASIAN: Very true. It would end up a question then of whose spell was more
effective at that instant. If our spells counteracted one another and I
leeched your life energy only to be crippled by your lightning bolt, then we
could both be killed. Or so near death that a mere potion of healing would
scarcely help either one of us, let alone both. How ironic it would be if two
scheming battlemages, not saying we are scheming but for the purpose of this
intellectual exercise, were left on the brink of death, completely drained of
magicka, with one healing potion to choose from. Who would get it then?
INZOLIAH: Logically, whoever drank it first, which in this case would be you
since you're holding it. Now, what if one of us were injured, but not killed?
MALVASIAN: Logic would dictate that a scheming battlemage would take the
potion, leaving the injured party to the mercy of the elements, I suppose.
INZOLIAH: That does seem most sensible. But suppose that the battlemages,
while certainly scheming types, had a certain respect for one another. Perhaps
in that case, the victorious one might, for instance, put the potion up a tree
near his or her gravely wounded victim. Then when the wounded party had enough
magicka replenished, he or she would be able to levitate to the tree branches
and recover the potion. By that time, the victorious battlemage would have
already collected the reward.
They pause for a moment at the sound of something in the bushes nearby.
Carefully, they climb across the branches of a tree to bypass it.
MALVASIAN: I understand what you're saying, but it seems out of character for
our hypothetic scheming battlemage to allow his or her victim to live.
INZOLIAH: Perhaps. But it's been my observation that most scheming battlemages
enjoy the feeling of having bested someone in combat, and having that person
alive to live with the humiliation.
MALVASIAN: These hypothetical scheming battlemages sound ... (excitedly)
Daylight! Do you see it?
The two scurry across the branch dropping behind a bush, so we can no longer
see them. We can, however, see the shimmering halo of sunlight.
MALVASIAN (behind the tall bush): We made it.
INZOLIAH (likewise, behind the tall bush): Indeed.
There is a sudden explosion of electrical energy and a wild howling aura of
red light, and then silence. After a few moment's pause, we hear someone
climbing up the tree. It is Malvasian, putting the potion high up in the
bough. He chuckles as he climbs back down and the curtain drops.
Epilogue.
The curtain rises on a road to Silvenar. A gang of bandits have surrounded
Malvasian, who is propped up on his staff, barely able to stand. They pull his
chest away from him with ease.
BANDIT #1: What have we got here? Don't you know it ain't safe to be out on
the road, all sick like you are? Why don't we help you with your load?
MALVASIAN (weakly): Please ... Let me be ...
BANDIT #2: Go on, spellcaster, fight us for it!
MALVASIAN: I can't ... too weak ...
Suddenly, Inzoliah flies in, casting lightning bolts from her fingers at the
bandits, who quickly scramble away. She lands on the ground and picks up the
chest. Malvasian collapses, dying.
MALVASIAN: Hypothetically, what if ... a battlemage cast a spell on another
which didn't harm him at once, but ... drained his life force and his magicka,
bit by bit, so he wouldn't know at the time, but ... feel confident enough to
leave the potion of healing behind?
INZOLIAH: A most treacherous battlemage she'd be.
MALVASIAN: And ... hypothetically ... would she be likely to help her fallen
foe ... so that she could enjoy the humiliation of him continuing ... to live?
INZOLIAH: From my experience, hypothetically, no. She doesn't sound like a
fool.
As Inzoliah lugs the chest off toward Silvenar, and Malvasian expires on the
stage, we drop the curtain.
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(Search Code: LOLZ50)
~~Mystery of Talara, v3~~
Anthil Morvir
Item ID: 00243FB
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gnorbooth was leaving his favorite pub in Camlorn, The Breaking Branch, when
he heard someone calling his name. His was not the sort of a name that could
be mistaken for another. He turned and saw Lord Eryl, the Royal Battlemage
from the palace, emerge from the darkness of the alley.
"Milord," said Gnorbooth with a pleasant smile.
"I'm surprised to see you out this evening, Gnorbooth," grinned Lord Eryl with
a most unpleasant smile. "I have not seen you and your master very much since
the millennial celebration, but I understand you've been very busy. What I've
been wondering is what you've been busy doing."
"Protecting the Imperial interests in Camlorn is busy work, milord. But I
cannot imagine you would be interested in the minutiae of the ambassador's
appointments."
"But I am," said the battlemage. "Especially as the ambassador has begun
acting most mysteriously, most undiplomatically lately. And I understand that
he has taken one of the whores from the Flower Festival into his house. I
believe her name is Gyna?"
Gnorbooth shrugged: "He's in love, I would imagine, milord. It can make men
act very strangely, as I'm sure you've heard before."
"She is a most comely wench," laughed Lord Eryl. "Have you noticed how much
she resembles the late Princess Talara?"
"I have only been in Camlorn for fifteen years, milord. I never saw her late
majesty."
"Now I could understand it if he had taken to writing poetry, but what man in
love spends his days in the kitchens of the palace, talking to old servants?
That hardly sounds like molten passion to me, even based on my limited
experience." Lord Eryl rolled his eyes. "And what is this business he has now
in - oh, what is the name of that village?"
"Umbington?" replied Gnorbooth, and immediately wished he hadn't. Lord Eryl
was too canny an actor to reveal it, but Gnorbooth knew at the pit of his
stomach that the battlemage did not even know Lord Strale had left the
capitol. He had to get away to let the ambassador know, but there was still a
game to be carefully played. "He's not leaving for there until tomorrow. I
believe it's just to put a stamp on some deed that needs the Imperial seal."
"Is that all? How tedious for the poor fellow. I suppose I'll see him when he
returns then," Lord Eryl bowed. "Thank you for being so informative. Farewell."
The moment the royal battlemage turned the corner, Gnorbooth leapt onto his
horse. He had drunk one or two ales too many, but he knew he must find his way
to Umbington before Lord Eryl's agents did. He galloped east out of the
capitol, hoping there were signs along the road.
Seated in a tavern that smelled of mildew and sour beer, Lord Strale marveled
at how the Emperor's agent Lady Brisienna always found the most public of
places for her most private of conferences. It was harvest time in Umbington,
and all of the field hands were drinking away their meager wages in the
noisiest of fashions. He was dressed appropriately for the venue, rough
trousers and a simple peasant's vest, but he still felt conspicuous. In
comparison to his two female companions, he certainly was. The woman to his
right was used to frequenting the low places of Daggerfall as a common
prostitute. Lady Brisienna to his left was even more clearly in her element.
"By what name would you prefer I call you?" Lady Brisienna asked solicitously.
"I am used to the name Gyna, though that may have to change," was her reply.
"Of course, it may not. Gyna the Whore may be the name writ on my grave."
"I will see to it that there is no attempt on your life like that the Flower
Festival," Lord Strale frowned. "But without the Emperor's help, I won't be
able to protect you forever. The only permanent solution is to capture those
who would do you harm and then to raise you to your proper station."
"Do you believe my story?" Gyna turned to Lady Brisienna.
"I have been the Emperor's chief agent in High Rock for many years now, and I
have heard few stranger tales. If your friend the ambassador hadn't
investigated and discovered what he has, I would have dismissed you outright
as a madwoman," Brisienna laughed, forcing a smile onto Gyna's face to match.
"But now, yes, I do believe you. Perhaps that makes me the madwoman."
"Will you help us?" asked Lord Strale simply.
"It is a tricky business interfering in the affairs of the provincial
kingdoms," Lady Brisienna looked into the depths of her mug thoughtfully.
"Unless there is a threat to the Empire itself, we find it is best not to
meddle. What we have in your case is a very messy assassination that happened
twenty years ago, and its aftermath. If His Imperial Majesty involved itself
in every bloody hiccup in the succession in each of his thousand vassal
kingdoms, he would never accomplish anything for the greater good of Tamriel."
"I understand," murmured Gyna. "When I remembered everything, who I was and
what happened to me, I resolved to do nothing about it. In fact, I was leaving
Camlorn and going back home to Daggerfall when I saw Lord Strale again. He was
the one who began this quest to resolve this, not me. And when he brought me
back, I only wanted to see my cousin to tell her who I was, but he forbade
me."
"It would have been too dangerous," growled Strale. "We still don't know yet
the depths of the conspiracy. Perhaps we never will."
"I'm sorry, I always find myself giving long explanations to short questions.
When Lord Strale asked if I would help, I should have begun by saying 'yes,'"
Lady Brisienna laughed at the change in Lord Strale and Gyna's expressions. "I
will help you, of course. But for this to turn out well, you must accomplish
two things to the Emperor's satisfaction. First, you must prove with absolute
certainty who is the power behind this plot you've uncovered. You must get
someone to confess."
"And secondly," said Lord Strale, nodding. "We must prove that this is a
matter worthy of His Imperial Majesty's consideration, and not merely a minor
local concern."
Lord Strale, Lady Brisienna, and the woman who called herself Gyna discussed
how to accomplish their goals for a few hours more. When it was agreed what
had to be done, Lady Brisienna took her leave to find her ally Proseccus.
Strale and Gyna set off to the west, toward Camlorn. It was not long after
beginning their ride through the woods that they heard the sound of galloping
hoof beats far up ahead. Lord Strale unsheathed his sword and signaled for
Gyna to position her horse behind him.
At that moment, they were attacked on all sides. It was an ambush. Eight men,
armed with axes, had been lying in wait.
Lord Strale quickly yanked Gyna from her horse, pulling her behind him. He
made a brief, deft motion with his hands. A ring of flame materialized around
them, and rushed outward, striking their assailants. The men roared in pain
and dropped to their knees. Lord Strale jumped the horse over the closest one,
and galloped at full speed westward.
"I thought you were an ambassador not a mage!" laughed Gyna.
"I still believe there are times for diplomacy," replied Lord Strale.
The horse and rider they had heard before met them on the road. It was
Gnorbooth. "Milord, it's the royal battlemage! He found out you two were in
Umbington!"
"With considerable ease, I might add," Lord Eryl's voice boomed out of the
woods. Gnorbooth, Gyna, and Lord Strale scanned the dark trees, but they
showed nothing. The battlemage's voice seemed to emanate from everywhere and
nowhere.
"I'm sorry, milord," groaned Gnorbooth. "I tried to warn you as soon as I
could."
"In your next life, perhaps you'll remember not to trust your plans to a
drunkard!" laughed Lord Eryl. He had them in his sight, and the spell was
unleashed.
Gnorbooth saw him first, by the light of the ball of fire that leapt from his
fingertips. Later, Lord Eryl was to wonder to himself what the fool had
intended to do. Perhaps he was rushing forward to pull Lord Strale out of the
path. Perhaps he was trying to flee the path of destruction, and had simply
moved left when he should have moved right. Perhaps, as unlikely as it seemed,
he was willing to sacrifice himself to save his master. Whatever the reason,
the result was the same.
He got in the way.
There was an explosion of energy that filled the night, and an echoing boom
that shook birds from the trees for a mile around. On the few square feet
where Gnorbooth and his horse had stood was nothing but black glass. They had
been reduced to less than vapor. Gyna and Lord Strale were thrown back. Their
horse, when it recovered its senses, galloped away as fast as it could. In the
lingering glowing aura of the spell's detonation, Lord Strale looked straight
into the woods and into the wide eyes of the battlemage.
"Damn," said Lord Eryl and began to run. The ambassador jumped to his feet and
pursued.
"That was an expensive use of magicka, even for you," said Lord Strale as he
ran. "Don't you know well enough not to use ranged spells unless you are
certain your target won't be blocked?"
"I never thought - that idiot -" Lord Eryl was struck from behind and knocked
to the wet forest floor before he had a chance to finish his lamentation.
"It doesn't matter what you thought," said Lord Strale calmly, flipping the
battlemage around and pinning his arms to the ground with his knees. "I'm not
a battlemage, but I knew enough not to use my entire reserve on your little
ambush. Perhaps it's a matter of philosophy, as a government agent, I feel
inclined toward conservatism."
"What are you going to do?" whimpered Lord Eryl.
"Gnorbooth was a good man, one of the best, and so I'm going to hurt you quite
a lot," the ambassador made a slight movement and his hands began to glow
brightly. "That's a certainty. How much more I'm going to hurt you after that
depends on what you tell me. I want to hear about the former Duke of Oloine."
"What do you want to know?" Lord Eryl screamed.
"Let's start with everything," replied Lord Strale with perfect patience.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ51)
~~Mythic Dawn Commentaries 2~~
Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes Book Two
The second book read by initiates to the Mythic Dawn cult.
This is Book Two of Mythic Dawn Commentaries
The daedric title reads ALTADOON
Mankar Camoran
Item ID: 00022B05
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Whosoever findeth this document, I call him brother.
Answers are liberations, where the slaves of Malbioge that came to know
Numantia cast down their jailer king, Maztiak, which the Xarxes Mysterium
calls the Arkayn. Maztiak, whose carcass was dragged through the streets by
his own bone-walkers and whose flesh was opened on rocks thereon and those
angels who loved him no longer did drink from his honeyed ichors screaming
"Let all know free will and do as they will!"
Your coming was foretold, my brother, by the Lord Dagon in his book of razors.
You are to come as Idols drop away from you one by one. You are exalted in
eyes that have not yet set on you; you, swain to well-travelled to shatterer
of mantles. You, brother, are to sit with me in Paradise and be released of
all unknowns. Indeed, I shall show you His book and its foul-and-many-
feathered rubric so that you can put into symbols what you already know: the
sphere of destruction is but the milk of the unenslaved. I fault not your
stumbling, for they are expected and given grace by the Oils. I crave not your
downfalls, though without them you might surpass me even in the coming Earth
of all infinities. Lord Dagon wishes you no ills but the momentous. And as He
wants, you must want, and so learn from the pages of God this: the Ritual of
Want:
Whisper to earth and earth, where the meddlers take no stones except to blood,
as blood IS blood, and to the cracking of bone, as bone IS bone, and so to
crack and answer and fall before the one and one, I call you Dragon as brother
and king.
Hides of dreugh: 7 and 7, draught of Oil, 1 and 1, circles drawn by wet
Dibellites: three concentric and let their lower blood fall where it may, a
birth watched by blackbirds: Hearthfire 1st. Incant the following when your
hearing becomes blurred:
Enraptured, he who finally goes unrecorded.
Recorded, the slaves that without knowing turn the Wheel.
Enslaved, all the children of the Aurbis As It Is."
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(Search Code: LOLZ52)
~~Response to Bero's Speech~~
Malviser, Battlemage
Item ID: 000243F8
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On the 14th of Last Seed, an illusionist by the name of Berevar Bero gave a
very ignorant speech at the Chantry of Julianos in the Imperial City. As
ignorant speeches are hardly uncommon, there was no reason to respond to it.
Unfortunately, he has since had the speech privately printed as "Bero's Speech
to the Battlemages," and it's received some small, undeserved attention in
academic circles. Let us put his misconceptions to rest.
Bero began his lecture with an occasionally factual account of famous
Battlemages from Zurin Arctus, Tiber Septim's Imperial Battlemage, to Jagar
Tharn, Uriel Septim VII's Imperial Battlemage. His intent was to show that
where it matters, the Battlemage relies on other Schools of Magicka, not the
School of Destruction which is supposedly a Battlemage's particular forte.
Allow me first to dispute these so-called historical facts.
Zurin Arctus did not create the golem Numidium by spells of Mysticism and
Conjuration as Bero alleges. The truth is that we don't know how Numidium was
created or if it was a golem or atronach in any traditional sense of those
words. Uriel V's Battlemage Hethoth was not an Imperial Battlemage — he was
simply a sorcerer in the employ of the Empire, thus which spells he cast in
the various battles on Akavir are irrelevant, not to mention heresay. Bero
calls Empress Morihatha's Battlemage Welloc "an accomplished diplomat" but not
"a powerful student of the School of Destruction." I congratulate Bero on
correctly identifying an Imperial Battlemage, but there are many written
examples of Welloc's skill in the School of Destruction. The sage Celarus, for
example, wrote extensively about Welloc casting the Vampiric Cloud on the
rebellious army of Blackrose, causing their strength and skill to pass on to
their opponents. What is this, but an impressive example of the School of
Destruction?
Bero rather pathetically includes Jagar Tharn in his list of underachieving
Battlemages. To use an insane traitor as example of rational behavior is an
untenable position. What would Bero prefer? That Tharn used the School of
Destruction to destroy Tamriel by a more traditional means?
Bero uses his misrepresentation of history as the basis for his argument. Even
if he had found four excellent examples from history of Battlemages casting
spells outside their School — and he didn't — he would only have anecdotal
evidence, which isn't enough to support an argument. I could easily find four
examples of illusionists casting healing spells, or nightblades teleporting.
There is a time and a place for everything.
Bero's argument, built on this shaky ground, is that the School of Destruction
is not a true school. He calls it "narrow and shallow" as an avenue of study,
and its students impatient, with megalomaniac tendencies. How can one respond
to this? Someone who knows nothing about casting a spell of Destruction
criticizing the School for being too simple? Summarizing the School of
Destruction as learning how to do the "maximum amount of damage in the minimum
amount of time" is clearly absurd, and he expounds on his ignorance by listing
all the complicated factors studied in his own School of Illusion.
Allow me in response to list the factors studied in the School of Destruction.
The means of delivering the spell matters more in the School of Destruction
than any other school, whether it is cast at a touch, at a range, in
concentric circles, or cast once to be triggered later. What forces must be
reigned in to cast the spell: fire, lightning, or frost? And what are the
advantages and dangers of each? What are the responses from different targets
from the assault of different spells of destruction? What are the possible
defenses and how may they be assailed? What environmental factors must be
taken into consideration? What are the advantages of a spell of delayed
damage? Bero suggests that the School of Destruction cannot be subtle, yet he
forgets about all the Curses that fall under the mantle of the school,
sometimes affecting generation after generation in subtle yet sublime ways.
The School of Alteration is a distinct and separate entity from the School of
Destruction, and Bero's argument that they should be merged into one is
patently ludicrous. He insists — again, a man who knows nothing about the
Schools of Alteration and Destruction, is the one insisting this — that
"damage" is part of the changing of reality dealt with by the spells of
Alteration. The implication is that Levitation, to list a spell of Alteration,
is a close cousin of Shock Bolt, a spell of Destruction. It would make as much
sense to say that the School of Alteration, being all about the actuality of
change, should absorb the School of Illusion, being all about the appearance
of change.
It certainly isn't a coincidence that a master of the School of Illusion cast
this attack on the School of Destruction. Illusion is, after all, all about
masking the truth.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
~~HAND TO HAND BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ53)
~~Ahzirr Traajijazeri~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 000243FE
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is an absurd book. But like all things Khajiiti, as the expression goes,
"gzalzi vaberzarita maaszi", or "absurdity has become necessity." Much of what
I have to say has probably never been written before, and if it has, no one
has read it. The Imperials feel that everything must be written down for
posterity, but every Khajiiti kitten born in Elsweyr knows his history, he
drinks it in with his mother's milk.
Fairly recently, however, our struggles to win back our homeland from the
rapacious Count of Leyawiin have attracted sympathetic persons, even
Imperials, who wish to join our cause, but, it seems, do not understand our
ways. Our enemies, of course, do not understand us either, but that is as we
wish it, a weapon in our arsenal. Our non-Khajiiti friends, however, should
know who we are, why we are, and what we are doing.
The Khajiit mind is not engineered for self-reflection. We simply do what we
do, and let the world be damned. To put into words and rationalize our
philosophy is foreign, and I cannot guarantee that even after reading this,
you will understand us. Grasp this simple truth -- "q'zi no vano thzina
ualizz" -- "When I contradict myself, I am telling the truth."
We are the Renrijra Krin. "The Mercenary's Grin¸" "The Laugh of the
Landless," and "The Smiling Scum" would all be fair translations. It is a
derogatory expression, but it is amusing so we have adopted it.
We have anger in our hearts, but not on our faces. We fight for Elsweyr, but
we do not ally ourselves with the Mane, who symbolizes our land. We believe in
justice, but do not follow laws.
"Q'zi no vano thzina ualizz."
These are not rules, for there is no word for "rules" in Ta'agra. Call them
our "thjizzrini" -- "foolish concepts."
1. "Vaba Do'Shurh'do": "It Is Good To Be Brave"
We are struggling against impossible odds, against the very Empire of Tamriel.
Our cause is the noblest cause of all: defense of home. If we fail, we betray
our past and our future. Our dead are "Ri'sallidad", which may be interpreted
as "martyrs" in the truest, best sense of that word which is so often misused.
We honor their sacrifice and, beneath our smiles, mourn them deeply.
Our bravery most obviously shows in the smile that is the "Krin" part of our
name. This does not mean that we walk about grinning like the idiotic
baboonish Imga of Valenwood. We simply are entertained by adversary. We find
an equal, fair fight tiresome in the extreme. We confidently smile because we
know our victory in the end is assured. And we know our smiles drive our
enemies insane.
2. "Vaba Maaszi Lhajiito": "It Is Necessary To Run Away"
We are struggling against impossible odds, against the very Empire of Tamriel.
Honor is madness. Yes, we loved the Renrijra Krin who died in brave battle
against the forces of the Empire, but I guarantee you that each of those
Ri'sallidad had an escape route he or she failed to use, and died saying,
"Damn."
When the great Senche-Raht comes to the Saimisil Steppes, he will find himself
unable to hunt, unable to sleep, as the tiny Alfiq leap onto his back, biting
him, and running off before he has a chance to turn his great body to face
them. Eventually, though he may stubbornly hope to catch the Alfiq, the
Senche-Raht always leaves. They are our cousins, the Alfiq, and we have
adopted their strategy against the great tiger of Leyawiin.
Do not ally yourself with the Renrij if you yearn to be part of a mighty army,
marching resolutely forth, for whom retreat is anathema. We will laugh at your
suicidal idiocy as we slip into the reeds of the river, and watch the
inevitable slaughter.
3. "Fusozay Var Var": "Enjoy Life"
Life is short. If you have not made love recently, please, put down this book,
and take care of that with all haste. Find a wanton lass or a frisky lad, or
several, in whatever combination your wise loins direct, and do not under any
circumstances play hard to get. Our struggle against the colossal forces of
oppression can wait.
Good. Welcome back.
We Renrijra Krin live and fight together, and know that Leyawiin and the
Empire will not give way very soon, likely not in our lifetimes. In the time
we have, we do not want our closest comrades to be dour, dull, colorless,
sober, and virginal. If we did, we would have joined the Emperor's Blades.
Do not begrudge us our lewd jokes, our bawdy, drunken nights, our moonsugar.
They are the pleasures that Leyawiin denies us, and so we take our good humor
very seriously.
4. "Fusozay Var Dar": "Kill Without Qualm"
Life is short. Very short, as many have learned when they have crossed the
Renrijra Krin.
We fight dirty. If an enemy is facing us, we might consider our options, and
even slip away if his sword looks too big. If his back is to us, however, I
personally favor knocking him down, and then jumping on his neck where the
bones snap with a gratifying crunch. Of course, it is up to you and your
personal style.
5. "Ahzirr Durrarriss": "We Give Freely To The People"
Let us not forget our purpose. We are fighting for our families, the Khajiiti
driven from the rich, fertile shores of Lake Makapi and the River Malapi,
where they and their ancestors lived since time immemorial. It is our battle,
but their tragedy. We must show them, lest they are swayed by other rhetoric,
that we are fighting for them.
The Mane, The Emperor, and The Count can give speeches, pass laws, and, living
life in the open, explain their positions and philosophies to their people to
stave off the inevitable revolution. Extralegal entities, such as the Renrijra
Krin, must make our actions count for our words. This means more than fighting
the good fight, and having a laugh at our befuddled adversaries. It means
engaging and seducing the people. Ours is not a military war, it is a
political war. If the people rise up against our oppressors, they will
retreat, and we will win.
Give to these people, whenever possible, gold, moonsugar, and our strong arms,
and though they hide, their hearts will be with us.
6. "Ahzirr Traajijazeri": "We Justly Take By Force"
Let us not forget our purpose. We are thieves and thugs, smugglers and
saboteurs. If we cannot take a farm, we burn it to the ground. If the
Imperials garrisoned in a glorious ancient stronghold, beloved by our
ancestors, will not yield, we tear the structure apart. If the only way to
rescue the land from the Leyawiin misappropriation is to make it uninhabitable
by all, so be it.
We want our life and our home back as it was twenty years ago, but if that is
not realistic, then we will accept a different simple, pragmatic goal.
Revenge. With a smile.
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(Search Code: LOLZ54)
~~Immortal Blood~~
Anonymous
Item ID: 000243FC
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The moons and stars were hidden from sight, making that particular quiet night
especially dark. The town guard had to carry torches to make their rounds; but
the man who came to call at my chapel carried no light with him. I came to
learn that Movarth Piquine could see in the dark almost as well as the light —
an excellent talent, considering his interests were exclusively nocturnal.
One of my acolytes brought him to me, and from the look of him, I at first
thought he was in need of healing. He was pale to the point of opalescence
with a face that looked like it had once been very handsome before some
unspeakable suffering. The dark circles under his eyes bespoke exhaustion, but
the eyes themselves were alert, intense, almost insane.
He quickly dismissed my notion that he himself was ill, though he did want to
discuss a specific disease.
"Vampirism," he said, and then paused at my quizzical look. "I was told that
you were someone I should seek out for help understanding it."
"Who told you that?" I asked with a smile.
"Tissina Gray."
I immediately remembered her. A brave, beautiful knight who had needed my
assistance separating fact from fiction on the subject of the vampire. It had
been two years, and I had never heard whether my advice had proved effective.
"You've spoken to her? How is her ladyship?" I asked.
"Dead," Movarth replied coldly, and then, responding to my shock, he added to
perhaps soften the blow. "She said your advice was invaluable, at least for
the one vampire. When last I talked to her, she was tracking another. It
killed her."
"Then the advice I gave her was not enough," I sighed. "Why do you think it
would be enough for you?"
"I was a teacher once myself, years ago," he said. "Not in a university. A
trainer in the Fighters Guild. But I know that if a student doesn't ask the
right questions, the teacher cannot be responsible for his failure. I intend
to ask you the right questions."
And that he did. For hours, he asked questions and I answered what I could,
but he never volunteered any information about himself. He never smiled. He
only studied me with those intense eyes of his, commiting every word I said to
memory.
Finally, I turned the questioning around. "You said you were a trainer at the
Fighters Guild. Are you on an assignment for them?"
"No," he said curtly, and finally I could detect some weariness in those
feverish eyes of his. "I would like to continue this tomorrow night, if I
could. I need to get some sleep and absorb this."
"You sleep during the day," I smiled.
To my surprise, he returned the smile, though it was more of a grimace. "When
tracking your prey, you adapt their habits."
The next day, he did return with more questions, these ones very specific. He
wanted to know about the vampires of eastern Skyrim. I told him about the most
powerful tribe, the Volkihar, paranoid and cruel, whose very breath could
freeze their victims' blood in the veins. I explained to him how they lived
beneath the ice of remote and haunted lakes, never venturing into the world of
men except to feed.
Movarth Piquine listened carefully, and asked more questions into the night,
until at last he was ready to leave.
"I will not see you for a few days," he said. "But I will return, and tell you
how helpful your information has been."
True to his word, the man returned to my chapel shortly after midnight four
days later. There was a fresh scar on his cheek, but he was smiling that grim
but satisfied smile of his.
"Your advice helped me very much," he said. "But you should know that the
Volkihar have an additional ability you didn't mention. They can reach through
the ice of their lakes without breaking it. It was quite a nasty surprise,
being grabbed from below without any warning."
"How remarkable," I said with a laugh. "And terrifying. You're lucky you
survived."
"I don't believe in luck. I believe in knowledge and training. Your
information helped me, and my skill at melee combat sealed the bloodsucker's
fate. I've never believed in weaponry of any kind. Too many unknowns. Even the
best swordsmith has created a flawed blade, but you know what your body is
capable of. I know I can land a thousand blows without losing my balance,
provided I get the first strike."
"The first strike?" I murmured. "So you must never be surprised."
"That is why I came to you," said Movarth. "You know more than anyone alive
about these monsters, in all their cursed varieties across the land. Now you
must tell me about the vampires of northern Valenwood."
I did as he asked, and once again, his questions taxed my knowledge. There
were many tribes to cover. The Bonsamu who were indistinguishable from Bosmer
except when seen by candlelight. The Keerilth who could disintegrate into
mist. The Yekef who swallowed men whole. The dread Telboth who preyed on
children, eventually taking their place in the family, waiting patiently for
years before murdering them all in their unnatural hunger.
Once again, he bade me farewell, promising to return in a few weeks, and once
again, he returned as he said, just after midnight. This time, Movarth had no
fresh scars, but he again had new information.
"You were wrong about the Keerilth being unable to vaporize when pushed
underwater," he said, patting my shoulder fondly. "Fortunately, they cannot
travel far in their mist form, and I was able to track it down."
"It must have surprised it fearfully. Your field knowledge is becoming
impressive," I said. "I should have had an acolyte like you decades ago."
"Now, tell me," he said. "Of the vampires of Cyrodiil."
I told him what I could. There was but one tribe in Cyrodiil, a powerful clan
who had ousted all other competitors, much like the Imperials themselves had
done. Their true name was unknown, lost in history, but they were experts at
concealment. If they kept themselves well-fed, they were indistinguishable
from living persons. They were cultured, more civilized than the vampires of
the provinces, preferring to feed on victims while they were asleep, unaware.
"They will be difficult to surprise," Movarth frowned. "But I will seek one
out, and tell you what I learn. And then you will tell me of the vampires of
High Rock, and Hammerfell, and Elsweyr, and Black Marsh, and Morrowind, and
the Sumurset Isles, yes?"
I nodded, knowing then that this was a man on an eternal quest. He wouldn't be
satisfied with but the barest hint of how things were. He needed to know it
all.
He did not return for a month, and on the night that he did, I could see his
frustration and despair, though there were no lights burning in my chapel.
"I failed," he said, as I lit a candle. "You were right. I could not find a
single one."
I brought the light up to my face and smiled. He was surprised, even stunned
by the pallor of my flesh, the dark hunger in my ageless eyes, and the teeth.
Oh, yes, I think the teeth definitely surprised the man who could not afford
to be surprised.
"I haven't fed in seventy-two hours," I explained, as I fell on him. He did
not land the first blow or the last.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ55)
~~Master Zoaraym's Tale~~
Tavi Dromio
Item ID: 00024400
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
“I think the greatest warrior who ever lived had to be Vilus Nommenus,”
offered Xiomara. “Name one other warrior who conquered more territory.”
“Tiber Septim obviously,” said Hallgerd.
“He wasn't a warrior, he was an administrator, a politician,” said Garaz. “And
besides, acreage conquered can't be final means of determining the best
warrior. How about skill with a blade?”
“There are other weapons than blades,” objected Xiomara. “Why not skill with
an axe or a bow? Who was the greatest master of all weaponry?”
“I can't think of one greatest master of all weaponry,” said Hallgerd.
“Balaxes of Agia Nero in Black Marsh was the greatest wielder of a lance.
Ernse Llervu of the Ashlands is the greatest master of the club I've ever
seen. The greatest master of the katana is probably an Akaviri warlord we've
never heard of. As far as archery goes --”
“Pelinal Whitestrake supposedly conquered all of Tamriel by himself,”
interrupted Xiomara.
“That was before the First Era,” said Garaz. “It's probably mostly myth. But
there are all sorts of great warriors of the modern eras. The Camoran Usurper?
The unknown hero who brought together the Staff of Chaos and defeated Jagar
Tharn?”
“We can't declare an unknown champion as the greatest warrior. What about
Nandor Beraid, the Empress Katariah's champion?” suggested Xiomara. “They said
he could use any weapon ever invented.”
“But what happened to him?” smiled Garaz. “He was drowned in the Sea of Ghosts
because he couldn't get his armor off. Call me overly particular, but I think
the greatest warrior in the world should know how to take armor off.”
“It's kinda hard to judge ability to wear armor as a skill,” said Xiomara.
“Either you have basic functionality in a suit of armor or you don't.”
“That's not true,” said Hallgerd. “There are masters in that as well, people
who can do things while wearing armor better than we can out of armor. Have
you ever heard of Hlaalu Pasoroth, the King's great grandfather?”
Xiomara and Garaz admitted that they had not.
“This was hundreds and hundreds of years ago, and Pasoroth was the ruler of a
great estate which he had won by right of being the greatest warrior in the
land. It's been said, and truly, that much of the House's current power is
based on Pasoroth's earnings as a warrior. Every week he held games at his
castle, pitting his skill against the champions of the neighboring estates,
and every week, he won something. His great skill wasn't in the use of
weaponry, though he was decent enough with an axe and a long sword, but in his
ability to move quickly and with great agility wearing a full suit of heavy
mail. There were some who said that he moved faster while wearing armor than
he did out of it.
“Some months before this story begins, he had won the daughter of one of his
neighbors, a beautiful creature named Mena who he had made his wife. He loved
her very much, but he was intensely jealous, and with good reason. She wasn't
very pleased with his husbandly skills, and the only reason Mena never strayed
was because Pasoroth kept a close eye on her. She was, to put it kindly,
naturally amorous and resentful of her position as a prize. Wherever he went,
he always brought her with him. At the games, she was placed in a special box
so that he could see her even while he competed.
“But his real competition, though he didn't know it, was from a handsome young
armorer he also had won at one of his competitions. Mena had noticed him, and
the armorer, whose name was Taren, had certainly noticed her.”
“This has all the makings of a dirty joke, Hallgerd,” said Xiomara, with a
smile.
“I swear that it's entirely true,” said Hallgerd. “The problem facing the
lovers was, of course, that they could never be alone. Perhaps because of
this, it became a burning obsession to both of them. Taren decided that the
best time for them to consummate their love was during the games. Mena feigned
illness, so she didn't have to stay in the box, but Pasoroth visited the
sickroom every few minutes between fights, so Taren and Mena could never get
together. The sound of Pasoroth's armor clunking up the stairs to visit his
sick wife gave Taren the idea.
“He crafted his lord a new suit of armor, strong, and bright, and beautifully
decorated. For his purposes, Taren rubbed the leg joints with luca dust so the
more he sweated and the more he moved them, the more they'd stick together.
After a little while, Taren figured, Pasoroth wouldn't be able to walk very
quickly, and wouldn't have enough time in between fights to visit his wife.
But just in case, Taren also added bells to the legs which rung loudly when
they moved, so the couple would be able to hear him coming in plenty of time.
“When the games commenced the following week, Mena feigned illness again and
Taren presented his lord with the new armor. Pasoroth was delighted with it,
as Taren hoped he would be, and donned it for his first fight. Taren then
stole upstairs to Mena's bedchamber.
“All was silent outside as the two began to make love. Suddenly, Mena noticed
a peculiar expression on Taren's face and before she had a chance to ask him
about it, his head fell off at the neck. Pasoroth was standing behind him with
his axe in hand.”
“How did he get upstairs so quickly, with his leg joints gummed up? And didn't
they hear the bells ringing?” asked Garaz.
“Well, you see, when Pasoroth realized he couldn't walk on his legs very
quickly, he walked on his hands.”
“I don't believe it,” laughed Xiomara.
“What happened next?” asked Garaz. “Did Pasoroth kill Mena also?”
“No one knows exactly what happened next,” said Hallgerd. “Pasoroth didn't
return for the next game, nor for the next. Finally, at the fourth game, he
returned to fight, and Mena appeared in the box to watch. She didn't appear to
be sick anymore. In fact, she was smiling and had a light flush to her face.”
“They did it?” cried Xiomara.
“I don't have all the salacious details, except that after the battle, it took
ten squires thirteen hours to get Pasoroth's armor off because of all the luca
dust mixed with sweat.”
“I don't understand, you mean, he didn't take his armor off when they -- but
how?”
“Like I said,” replied Hallgerd. “This is a story about someone who was more
agile and accomplished in his armor than out of it.”
“Now, that's skill,” said Garaz.
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(Search Code: LOLZ56)
~~Way of the Exposed Palm~~
Item ID: 00073A6A
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Untrained pugiliists are known to make a club of the hand and beat on their
opponents like a drum. It is a truly uncouth way to victory. The way of the
exposed palm is far more sophisticated and far more deadly.
Consider this question. A man is struck in the chest by the flat of a plate.
There is a small bruise but he is otherwise unharmed. Now break the plate and
strike him in the chest with a shard using the same force. Now the man is dead
or grievously wounded. How can this be? How can a small object harm more than
a larger?
This essential point is the first finger of the way of the exposed palm. The
five part way is concentration, reaction, equiplibrium, speed, breath control.
To master unarmed combat all five digits must be mastered.
The parable of the man and the plate is concentration. All of the blow is
concentrateded into a small point. Therefore it is more potent. To strike with
just the thumb can be more deadly that to strike with the whole fist. However,
only the highly trained fighter can do this.
The second aspect of concentration is the mental discipline to think hard
about what is being done. Distractions are ignored as the will maintains the
ultimate goal. The truly deadly fighter can even block out his own pain in
this manner.
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(Search Code: LOLZ57)
~~The Wolf Queen, V2~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 000243FD
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From the pen of the first century third era sage Montocai:
3E 82:
A year after the wedding of his 14-year-old granddaughter the Princess Potema
to King Mantiarco of the Nordic kingdom of Solitude, the Emperor Uriel Septim
II passed on. His son Pelagius Septim II was made emperor, and he faced a
greatly depleted treasury, thanks to his father's poor management.
As the new Queen of Solitude, Potema faced opposition from the old Nordic
houses, who viewed her as an outsider. Mantiarco had been widowed, and his
former queen was loved. She had left him a son, Prince Bathorgh, who was two
years older than his stepmother, and loved her not. But the king loved his
queen, and suffered with her through miscarriage after miscarriage, until her
29th year, when she bore him a son.
3E 97:
"You must do something to help the pain!" Potema cried, baring her teeth. The
healer Kelmeth immediately thought of a she-wolf in labor, but he put the
image from his mind. Her enemies called her the Wolf Queen for certes, but not
because of any physical resemblance.
"Your Majesty, there is no injury for me to heal. The pain you feel is natural
and helpful for the birth," he was going to add more words of consolation, but
he had to break off to duck the mirror she flung at him.
"I'm not a pignosed peasant girl!" She snarled, "I am the Queen of Solitude,
daughter of the Emperor! Summon the daedra! I'll trade the soul of every last
subject of mine for a little comfort!"
"My Lady," said the healer nervously, drawing the curtains and blotting out
the cold morning sun. "It is not wise to make such offers even in jest. The
eyes of Oblivion are forever watching for just such a rash interjection."
"What would you know of Oblivion, healer?" she growled, but her voice was
calmer, quieter. The pain had relaxed. "Would you fetch me that mirror I
hurled at you?"
"Are you going to throw it again, your Majesty?" said the healer with a taut
smile, obeying her.
"Very likely," she said, looking at her reflection. "And next time I won't
miss. But I do look a fright. Is Lord Vhokken still waiting for me in the
hall?"
"Yes, your Majesty."
"Well, tell him I just need to fix my hair and I'll be with him. And leave us.
I'll howl for you when the pain returns."
"Yes, your Majesty."
A few minutes later, Lord Vhokken was shown into the chamber. He was an
enormous bald man whose friends and enemies called Mount Vhokken, and when he
spoke it was with the low grumble of thunder. The Queen was one of the very
few people Vhokken knew who was not the least bit intimidated by him, and he
offered her a smile.
"My queen, how are you feeling?" he asked.
"Damned. But you're looking like Springtide has come to Mount Vhokken. I take
it from your merry disposition that you've been made warchief."
"Only temporarily, while your husband the King investigates whether there is
evidence behind the rumors of treason on the part of my predecessor Lord
Thone."
"If you've planted it as I've instructed, he'll find it," Potema smiled,
propping herself up in the bed. "Tell me, is Prince Bathorgh still in the
city?"
"What a question, your highness," laughed the mountain. "It's the Tournament
of Stamina today, you know the prince would never miss that. The fellow
invents new strategies of self-defense every year to show off during the
games. Don't you recall last year, where he entered the ring unarmored and
after twenty minutes of fending off six bladesmen, left the games without a
scratch? He dedicated that bout to his late mother, Queen Amodetha."
"Yes, I recall."
"He's no friend to me or you, your highness, but you must give the man his due
respect. He moves like lightning. You wouldn't think it of him, but he always
seems to use his awkwardness to his advantage, to throw his opponents off.
Some say he learned the style from the orcs to the south. They say he learned
from them how to anticipate a foe's attack by some sort of supernatural
power."
"There's nothing supernatural about it," said the Queen, quietly. "He gets it
from his father."
"Mantiarco never moved like that," Vhokken chuckled.
"I never said he did," said Potema. Her eyes closed and her teeth gritted
together. "The pain's returning. You must fetch the healer, but first, I must
ask you one other thing -- has the new summer palace construction begun?"
"I think so, your Highness."
"Do not think!" she cried, gripping the sheets, biting her lips so a stream of
blood dripped down her chin. "Do! Make certain that the construction begins at
once, today! Your future, my future, and the future of this child depend on
it! Go!"
Four hours later, King Mantiarco entered the room to see his son. His queen
smiled weakly as he gave her a kiss on the forehead. When she handed him the
child, a tear ran down his face. Another one quickly followed, and then
another.
"My Lord," she said fondly. "I know you're sentimental, but really!"
"It's not only the child, though he is beautiful, with all the fair features
of his mother," Mantiarco turned to his wife, sadly, his aged features twisted
in agony. "My dear wife, there is trouble at the palace. In truth, this birth
is the only thing that keeps this day from being the darkest in my reign."
"What is it? Something at the tournament?" Potema pulled herself up in bed.
"Something with Bathorgh?"
"No, it's isn't the tournament, but it does relate to Bathorgh. I shouldn't
worry you at a time like this. You need your rest."
"My husband, tell me!"
"I wanted to surprise you with a gift after the birth of our child, so I had
the old summer palace completely renovated. It's a beautiful place, or at
least it was. I thought you might like it. Truth to tell, it was Lord Vhokken
idea. It used to be Amodetha's favorite place." Bitterness crept into the
king's voice. "Now I've learned why."
"What have you learned?" asked Potema quietly.
"Amodetha deceived me there, with my trusted warchief, Lord Thone. There were
letters between them, the most perverse things you've ever read. And that's
not the worst of it."
"No?"
"The dates on the letters correspond with the time of Bathorgh's birth. The
boy I raised and loved as a son," Mantiarco's voice choked up with emotion.
"He was Thone's child, not mine."
"My darling," said Potema, almost feeling sorry for the old man. She wrapped
her arms around his neck, as he heaved his sobs down on her and their child.
"Henceforth," he said quietly. "Bathorgh is no longer my heir. He will be
banished from the kingdom. This child you have borne me today will grow to
rule Solitude."
"And perhaps more," said Potema. "He is the Emperor's grandson as well."
"We will name him Mantiarco the Second."
"My darling, I would love that," said Potema, kissing the king's tear-streaked
face. "But may I suggest Uriel, after my grandfather the Emperor, who brought
us together in marriage?"
King Mantiarco smiled at his wife and nodded his head. There was a knock at
the door.
"My liege," said Mount Vhokken. "His highness Prince Bathorgh has finished the
tournament and awaits you to present his award. He has successfully withstood
attacks by nine archers and the giant scorpion we brought in from Hammerfell.
The crowd is roaring his name. They are calling him The Man Who Cannot Be
Hit."
"I will see him," said King Mantiarco sadly, and left the chamber.
"Oh he can be hit, all right," said Potema wearily. "But it does take some
doing."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
~~HEAVY ARMOR BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ58)
~~2920, MidYear (v6)~~
Carlovac Townway
Item ID: 00024402
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2 Mid Year, 2920
Balmora, Morrowind
“The Imperial army is gathered to the south,” said Cassyr. “They are a two
weeks march from Ald Iuval and Lake Coronati, heavily armored.”
Vivec nodded. Ald Iuval and its sister city on the other side of the lake Ald
Malak were strategically important fortresses. He had been expecting a move
against them for some time. His captain pulled down a map of southwestern
Morrowind from the wall and smoothed it out, fighting a gentle summer sea
breeze wafting in from the open window.
“They were heavily armored, you say?” asked the captain.
“Yes, sir,” said Cassyr. “They were camped out near Bethal Gray in the
Heartland, and I saw nothing but Ebony, Dwarven, and Daedric armor, fine
weaponry, and siege equipment.”
“How about spellcasters and boats?” asked Vivec.
“A horde of battlemages,” replied Cassyr. “But no boats.”
“As heavily armored as they are, it will take them at least two weeks, like
you said, to get from Bethal Gray to Lake Coronati,” Vivec studied the map
carefully. “They'd be dragged down in the bogs if they then tried to circle
around to Ald Marak from the north, so they must be planning to cross the
straits here and take Ald Iuval. Then they'd proceed around the lake to the
east and take Ald Marak from the south.”
“They'll be vulnerable along the straits,” said the captain. “Provided we
strike when they are more than halfway across and can't retreat back to the
Heartland.”
“Your intelligence has once again served us well,” said Vivec, smiling to
Cassyr. “We will beat back the Imperial aggressors yet again.”
3 Mid Year, 2920
Bethal Gray, Cyrodiil
“Will you be returning back this way after your victory?” asked Lord Bethal.
Prince Juilek barely paid the man any attention. He was focused on the army
packing its camp. It was a cool morning in the forest, but there were no
clouds. All the makings of a hot afternoon march, particularly in such heavy
armor.
“If we return shortly, it will be because of defeat,” said the Prince. He
could see down in the meadow, the Potentate Versidue-Shaie paying his
lordship's steward for the use of the village's food, wine, and whores. An
army was an expensive thing, for certes.
“My Prince,” said Lord Bethal with concern. “Is your army beginning a march
due east? That will just lead you to the shores of Lake Coronati. You'll want
to go south-east to get to the straits.”
“You just make certain your merchants get their share of our gold,” said the
Prince with a grin. “Let me worry about my army's direction.”
16 Mid Year, 2920
Lake Coronati, Morrowind
Vivec stared across the blue expanse of the lake, seeing his reflection and
the reflection of his army in the cool blue waters. What he did not see was
the Imperial Army's reflection. They must have reached the straits by now,
barring any mishaps in the forest. Tall feather-thin lake trees blocked much
of his view of the straits, but an army, particularly one clan in slow-moving
heavy armor could not move invisibly, silently.
“Let me see the map again,” he called to his captain. “Is there no other way
they could approach?”
“We have sentries posted in the swamps to the north in case they're fool
enough to go there and be bogged under,” said the captain. “We would at least
hear about it. But there is no other way across the lake except through the
straits.”
Vivec looked down again at his reflection, which seemed to be distorting his
image, mocking him. Then he looked back on the map.
“Spy,” said Vivec, calling Cassyr over. “When you said the army had a horde of
battlemages, what made you so certain they were battlemages?”
“They were wearing gray robes with mystical insignia on them,” explained
Cassyr. “I figured they were mages, and why else would such a vast number
travel with the army? They couldn't have all been healers.”
“You fool!” roared Vivec. “They're mystics schooled in the art of Alteration.
They've cast a spell of water breathing on the entire army.”
Vivec ran to a new vantage point where he could see the north. Across the
lake, though it was but a small shadow on the horizon, they could see gouts of
flame from the assault on Ald Marak. Vivec bellowed with fury and his captain
got to work at once redirecting the army to circle the lake and defend the
castle.
“Return to Dwynnen,” said Vivec flatly to Cassyr before he rode off to join
the battle. “Your services are no longer needed nor wanted.”
It was already too late when the Morrowind army neared Ald Marak. It had been
taken by the Imperial Army.
19 Mid Year, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
The Potentate arrived in the Imperial City amid great fanfare, the streets
lined with men and women cheering him as the symbol of the taking of Ald
Marak. Truth be told, a greater number would have turned out had the Prince
returned, and the Versidue-Shaie knew it. Still, it pleased him to no end.
Never before had citizens of Tamriel cheered the arrival of an Akaviri into
their land.
The Emperor Reman III greeted him with a warm embrace, and then tore into the
letter he had brought from the Prince.
“I don't understand,” he said at last, still joyous but equally confused. “You
went under the lake?”
“Ald Marak is a very well-fortified fortress,” explained the Potentate. “As, I
might add, the army of Morrowind has rediscovered, now that they are on the
outside. To take it, we had to attack by surprise and with our soldiery in the
sturdiest of armor. By casting the spell that allowed us to breathe
underwater, we were able to travel faster than Vivec would have guessed, the
weight of the armor made less by the aquatic surroundings, and attack from the
waterbound west side of the fortress where their defenses were at their
weakest.”
“Brilliant!” the Emperor crowed. “You are a wonderous tactician, Versidue-
Shaie! If your fathers had been as good at this as you are, Tamriel would be
Akaviri domain!”
The Potentate had not planned to take credit for Prince Juilek's design, but
on the Emperor's reference to his people's fiasco of an invasion two hundred
and sixteen years ago, he made up his mind. He smiled modestly and soaked up
the praise.
21 Mid Year, 2920
Ald Marak, Morrowind
Savirien-Chorak slithered to the wall and watched through the arrow slit the
Morrowind army retreating back to the forestland between the swamps and the
castle grounds. It seemed like the idea opportunity to strike. Perhaps the
forests could be burned and the army within them. Perhaps with Vivec in their
enemies' hands, the army would allow them possession of Ald Iuval as well. He
suggested these ideas to the Prince.
“What you seem to be forgetting,” laughed Prince Juilek. “Is that I gave my
word that no harm to the army or to their commanders during the truce
negotiations. Do you not have honor during warfare on Akavir?”
“My Prince, I was born here in Tamriel, I have never been to my people's
home,” replied the snake man. “But even so, your ways are strange to me. You
expected no quarter and I gave you none when we fought in the Imperial Arena
five months ago.”
“That was a game,” replied the Prince, before nodding to his steward to let
the Dunmer battle chief in.
Juilek had never seen Vivec before, but he had heard he was a living god. What
came before him was but a man. A powerfully built man, handsome, with an
intelligent face, but a man nonetheless. The Prince was pleased: a man he
could speak with, but not a god.
“Greetings, my worthy adversary,” said Vivec. “We seem to be at an impasse.”
“Not necessarily,” said the Prince. “You don't want to give us Morrowind, and
I can't fault you for that. But I must have your coastline to protect the
Empire from overseas aggressions, and certain key strategic border castles,
such as this one, as well as Ald Umbeil, Tel Aruhn, Ald Lambasi, and Tel
Mothrivra.”
“And in return?” asked Vivec.
“In return?” laughed Savirien-Chorak. “You forget we are the victors here, not
you.”
“In return,” said Prince Juilek carefully. “There will be no Imperial attacks
on Morrowind, unless in return to an attack by you. You will be protected from
invaders by the Imperial navy. And your land may expand by taking certain
estates in Black Marsh, whichever you choose, provided they are not needed by
the Empire.”
“A reasonable offer,” said Vivec after a pause. “You must forgive me, I am
unused to Cyrodiils who offer something in return for what they take. May I
have a few days to decide?”
“We will meet again in a week's time,” said the Prince, smiling. “In the
meantime, if your army provokes no attacks on mine, we are at peace.”
Vivec left the Prince's chamber, feeling that Almalexia was right. The war was
at an end. This Prince would make an excellent Emperor.
The Year is Continued in Sun's Height.
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(Search Code: LOLZ59)
~~Chimarvamidium~~
Marobar Sul
Item ID: 00024403
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After many battles, it was clear who would win the War. The Chimer had great
skills in magick and bladery, but against the armored battalions of the
Dwemer, clad in the finest shielding wrought by Jnaggo, there was little hope
of their ever winning. In the interests of keeping some measure of peace in
the Land, Sthovin the Warlord agreed to a truce with Karenithil Barif the
Beast. In exchange for the Disputed Lands, Sthovin gave Barif a mighty golem,
which would protect the Chimer's territory from the excursions of the Northern
Barbarians.
Barif was delighted with his gift and brought it back to his camp, where all
his warriors gaped in awe at it. Sparkling gold in hue, it resembled a Dwemer
cavalier with a proud aspect. To test its strength, they placed the golem in
the center of an arena and flung magickal bolts of lightning at it. Its
agility was such that few of the bolts struck it. It had the wherewithal to
pivot on its hips to avoid the brunt of the attacks without losing its
balance, feet firmly planted on the ground. A vault of fireballs followed,
which the golem ably dodged, bending its knees and its legs to spin around the
blasts. The few times it was struck, it made certain to be hit in the chest
and waist, the strongest parts of its body.
The troops cheered at the sight of such an agile and powerful creation. With
it leading the defense, the Barbarians of Skyrim would never again
successfully raid their villages. They named it Chimarvamidium, the Hope of
the Chimer.
Barif has the golem brought to his chambers with all his housethanes. There
they tested Chimarvamidium further, its strength, its speed, its resiliency.
They could find no flaw with its design.
“Imagine when the naked barbarians first meet this on one of their raids,”
laughed one of the housethanes.
“It is only unfortunate that it resembles a Dwemer instead of one of our own,”
mused Karenithil Barif. “It is revolting to think that they will have a
greater respect for our other enemies than us.”
“I think we should never accepted the peace terms that we did,” said another,
one of the most aggressive of the housethanes. “Is it too late to surprise the
warlord Sthovin with an attack?”
“It is never too late to attack,” said Barif. “But what of his great armored
warriors?”
“I understand,” said Barif's spymaster. “That his soldiers always wake at
dawn. If we strike an hour before, we can catch them defenseless, before
they've had a chance to bathe, let alone don their armor.”
“If we capture their armorer Jnaggo, then we too would know the secrets of
blacksmithery,” said Barif. “Let it be done. We attack tomorrow, an hour
before dawn.”
So it was settled. The Chimer army marched at night, and swarmed into the
Dwemer camp. They were relying on Chimarvamidium to lead the first wave, but
it malfunctioned and began attacking the Chimer's own troops. Added to that,
the Dwemer were fully armored, well-rested, and eager for battle. The surprise
was turned, and most of the high-ranking Chimer, including Karenithil Barif
the Beast, were captured.
Though they were too proud to ask, Sthovin explained to them that he had been
warned of their attack by a Calling by one of his men.
“What man of yours is in our camp?” sneered Barif.
Chimarvamidium, standing erect by the side of the captured, removed its head.
Within its metal body was Jnaggo, the armorer.
“A Dwemer child of eight can create a golem,” he explained. “But only a truly
great warrior and armorer can pretend to be one.”
Publisher's Note:
This is one of the few tales in this collection, which can actually be
traced to the Dwemer. The wording of the story is quite different from older
versions in Aldmeris, but the essence is the same. "Chimarvamidium" may be the
Dwemer "Nchmarthurnidamz." This word occurs several times in plans of Dwemer
armor and Animunculi, but it's meaning is not known. It is almost certainly
not "Hope of the Chimer," however.
The Dwemer were probably the first to use heavy armors. It is important to
note how a man dressed in armor could fool many of the Chimer in this story.
Also note how the Chimer warriors react. When this story was first told, armor
that covered the whole body must have still been uncommon and new, whereas
even then, Dwemer creations like golems and centurions were well known.
In a rare scholarly moment, Marobar Sul leaves a few pieces of the
original story intact, such as parts of the original line in Aldmeris, "A
Dwemer of eight can create a golem, but an eight of Dwemer can become one."
Another aspect of this legend that scholars like myself find interesting
is the mention of “the Calling.” In this legend and in others, there is a
suggestion that the Dwemer race as a whole had some sort of silent and
magickal communication. There are records of the Psijic Order which suggest
they, too, share this secret. Whatever the case, there are no documented
spells of "calling." The Cyrodiil historian Borgusilus Malier first proposed
this as a solution to the disappearance of the Dwemer. He theorized that in 1E
668, the Dwemer enclaves were called together by one of their powerful
philosopher-sorcerers ("Kagrnak" in some documents) to embark on a great
journey, one of such sublime profundity that they abandoned all their cities
and lands to join the quest to foreign climes as an entire culture.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ60)
~~Fighters Guild History, 1st Edition~~
Unknown Author
Item ID: 000A915C (1st edition) Item ID: 00024405 (Normal)
Note: Fighters Guild, 1st Edition and The History of the Fighters
Guild are the same book, the only differences are the 1st Edition
version is rarer and worth more.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the 283rd year of the 2nd Era, Potentate Versidue-Shaie was faced with a
disintegrating empire. The vassal kingdoms throughout Tamriel had reached a
new height of rebellion, openly challenging his rule. They refused his taxes
and led sorties against the Imperial garrisons throughout the land. At the
destruction of his fortress in Dawnstar, he gathered the Imperial Council in
what would be called the Council of Bardmont, after the town south of Dawnstar
where they met. There the Potentate declared catholic and universal martial
law. The princes of Tamriel would dissolve their armies or face his wrath.
The next thirty-seven years were perhaps the bloodiest in the violent history
of Tamriel.
In order to crush the last of the royal armies, Versidae-Shaie had to
sacrifice many of his best legions, as well as spend nearly every last piece
of gold in the Imperial treasury. But he accomplished the unthinkable. For the
first time in history, there was but one army in the land, and it was his own.
The problems that immediately surfaced were almost as staggering as the
triumph itself. The Potentate had impoverished the land by his war, for the
vanquished kingdoms had also spent the last of their gold in defense. Farmers
and merchants alike had their livelihood ruined. Before the princes of Tamriel
would not pay his taxes — now, they could not.
The only persons who benefited from the war were criminals, who preyed upon
the ruins of the lawless land, without fear of arrest now that all the local
guards and militia were gone. It was a crisis the Akavir had seen coming long
before he destroyed the last of his subjects' armies, but for which he had no
solution. He could not allow his vassals their own armies again, but the land
was deeper into the stew of anarchy that it had ever been before. His army
sought to fight the rise of crime, but a central authority was no threat
against the local underworld.
In the dawn of the year 320, a kinsman of Versidae-Shaie, Dinieras-Ves "the
Iron", presented himself with a host of companions before the Potentate. It
was he who suggested an order of mercantile warriors-for-hire, who could be
hired by nobility in lieu of a standing army. The employment would be
temporary, and a percentage of the fee would go to the Potentate's government,
thus putting salve on two of Versidae-Shaie's greatest pains.
Though it was then called The Syffim, after the Tsaesci word for 'soldiers,'
the organization that was to be known as the Fighters Guild had been born.
Dinieras-Ves "the Iron" initially believed that the entirety of the order
should be composed of Akaviri. This belief of his is not disputed by any
historian, though his motivation is often debated. The traditional, simple
explanation is that he knew his countrymen well, trusted them, and felt that
their tradition of fighting for profit would be of use. Others believe, with
reason, that he and the Potentate sought to use the order to effectively
complete the conquest of Tamriel begun over five hundred years earlier. When
Akavir attacked Tamriel in the 2703rd year of the 1st era, they had been
beaten back by the Reman Dynasty. Now they had a Potentate on the throne, and
with Dinieras-Ves's machinations, the local armies would also be Akaviri. What
they had failed to do by combat, they would have successfully accomplished by
patience. A traditional strategem, many scholars suggest, of the immortal
snake men, the Tsaesci of Akavir, who always had time on their side.
The point, however, is largely academic. Though the Syffim did establish
themselves in some kingdoms neighboring Cyrodiil, it became quickly apparent
that local warriors were needed. Part of the problem was simply that there
were not enough Akaviri for the work that needed to be done. Another part was
that the snake men did not understand the geography and politics of the
regions they were assigned.
It was evident that some non-Akaviri were needed in the Syffim, and by the mid
point of the year, three Nords, a warrior-sorceress, a rogue, and a knight
were admitted into the order.
The knight, whose name has been lost in the sands of time, was also a great
armorer, and probably did more to strengthen the organization than anyone but
Dinieras-Ves himself. As has often been stated, the Akaviri, particularly the
Tsaesci, understood weaponry better than armor. Even if they could not wear it
themselves, the knight was able to explain to the other Syffim what the
weaknesses were in their opponent's armor, explaining to them how many joints
there were in a pauldon and a grieve, and the differences between Aketons and
Armkachens, Gorgets and Gliedshrims, Palettes and Pasguards, Tabards and
Tassettes.
With this knowledge, they made long strides in defeating the brigands, doing
far better than their meager numbers would suggest. It is a joke among
historians that if Akavir had a Nord armorer in their employ in the first era,
they would have won the invasion.
The success of these first three outsiders to the Syffim opened the door for
more local members. Before the year was through, Dinieras-Ves had spread his
business throughout the Empire. Young men and women, for a variety of reasons
— because of desperate poverty, for love of action and adventure, in order to
aid their crime-stricken neighbors — joined his new order en masse. They
received training, and were immediately put to work helping the aristocracy's
problems, assuming the roles of guards and soldiers within their locality.
The early success of the Syffim in combating crime and defeating local
monsters so inspired Potentate Versidae-Shaie that he entertained
representatives from other organizations interested in Imperial sanction.
Though formed much earlier, the Mages Guild had always been viewed with
suspicion by the government. In the 321st year of the 2nd Era, the Potentate
gave his approval to the Guilds Act, officially sanctioning the Mages,
together with the Guilds of Tinkers, Cobblers, Prostitutes, Scribes,
Architects, Brewers, Vintners, Weavers, Ratcatchers, Furriers, Cooks,
Astrologers, Healers, Tailors, Minstrals, Barristers, and the Syffim. In the
charter, they were no longer called the Syffim, however: bowing to the name it
had become known as by the people, they were to be called the Fighters Guild.
All the Guilds, and those that followed by later sanctions throughout the
second and third eras, would be protected and encouraged by the Empire of
Cyrodiil, recognizing their value to the people of Tamriel. All would be
required to pay to expand their influence throughout the land. The Empire was
strengthened by their presence, and the Imperial coffers were filled once
again.
Shortly after Versidae-Shaie's death, only three years after the Guild Act,
his heir Savirien-Chovak, allowed the reforming of local armies. The Fighters
Guild was no longer the principal arm of the local aristocracy, but their
worth had already been established. Though there were certainly strong
individuals who sought their own fortunes in the past, many historians have
suggested that Dinieras-Ves was the ancestor in spirit of the modern
phenomenon of the Adventurer, those men and women who dedicate their lives to
questing for fame and fortune.
Thus, all owe a debt of gratitude to the Fighters Guild — not only its
members, and the people who have been helped by its neutral policy of offering
strong arms for a fee within the boundaries of the law. Without them, there
would be no guilds of any kind, and it may be argued, no model for even the
independent Adventurer.
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(Search Code: LOLZ61)
~~Hallgerd's Tale~~
Tavi Dromio
Item ID: 00024401
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“I think the greatest warrior who ever lived had to be Vilus Nommenus,”
offered Xiomara. “Name one other warrior who conquered more territory.”
“Tiber Septim obviously,” said Hallgerd.
“He wasn't a warrior, he was an administrator, a politician,” said Garaz. “And
besides, acreage conquered can't be final means of determining the best
warrior. How about skill with a blade?”
“There are other weapons than blades,” objected Xiomara. “Why not skill with
an axe or a bow? Who was the greatest master of all weaponry?”
“I can't think of one greatest master of all weaponry,” said Hallgerd.
“Balaxes of Agia Nero in Black Marsh was the greatest wielder of a lance.
Ernse Llervu of the Ashlands is the greatest master of the club I've ever
seen. The greatest master of the katana is probably an Akaviri warlord we've
never heard of. As far as archery goes --”
“Pelinal Whitestrake supposedly conquered all of Tamriel by himself,”
interrupted Xiomara.
“That was before the First Era,” said Garaz. “It's probably mostly myth. But
there are all sorts of great warriors of the modern eras. The Camoran Usurper?
The unknown hero who brought together the Staff of Chaos and defeated Jagar
Tharn?”
“We can't declare an unknown champion as the greatest warrior. What about
Nandor Beraid, the Empress Katariah's champion?” suggested Xiomara. “They said
he could use any weapon ever invented.”
“But what happened to him?” smiled Garaz. “He was drowned in the Sea of Ghosts
because he couldn't get his armor off. Call me overly particular, but I think
the greatest warrior in the world should know how to take armor off.”
“It's kinda hard to judge ability to wear armor as a skill,” said Xiomara.
“Either you have basic functionality in a suit of armor or you don't.”
“That's not true,” said Hallgerd. “There are masters in that as well, people
who can do things while wearing armor better than we can out of armor. Have
you ever heard of Hlaalu Pasoroth, the King's great grandfather?”
Xiomara and Garaz admitted that they had not.
“This was hundreds and hundreds of years ago, and Pasoroth was the ruler of a
great estate which he had won by right of being the greatest warrior in the
land. It's been said, and truly, that much of the House's current power is
based on Pasoroth's earnings as a warrior. Every week he held games at his
castle, pitting his skill against the champions of the neighboring estates,
and every week, he won something. His great skill wasn't in the use of
weaponry, though he was decent enough with an axe and a long sword, but in his
ability to move quickly and with great agility wearing a full suit of heavy
mail. There were some who said that he moved faster while wearing armor than
he did out of it.
“Some months before this story begins, he had won the daughter of one of his
neighbors, a beautiful creature named Mena who he had made his wife. He loved
her very much, but he was intensely jealous, and with good reason. She wasn't
very pleased with his husbandly skills, and the only reason Mena never strayed
was because Pasoroth kept a close eye on her. She was, to put it kindly,
naturally amorous and resentful of her position as a prize. Wherever he went,
he always brought her with him. At the games, she was placed in a special box
so that he could see her even while he competed.
“But his real competition, though he didn't know it, was from a handsome young
armorer he also had won at one of his competitions. Mena had noticed him, and
the armorer, whose name was Taren, had certainly noticed her.”
“This has all the makings of a dirty joke, Hallgerd,” said Xiomara, with a
smile.
“I swear that it's entirely true,” said Hallgerd. “The problem facing the
lovers was, of course, that they could never be alone. Perhaps because of
this, it became a burning obsession to both of them. Taren decided that the
best time for them to consummate their love was during the games. Mena feigned
illness, so she didn't have to stay in the box, but Pasoroth visited the
sickroom every few minutes between fights, so Taren and Mena could never get
together. The sound of Pasoroth's armor clunking up the stairs to visit his
sick wife gave Taren the idea.
“He crafted his lord a new suit of armor, strong, and bright, and beautifully
decorated. For his purposes, Taren rubbed the leg joints with luca dust so the
more he sweated and the more he moved them, the more they'd stick together.
After a little while, Taren figured, Pasoroth wouldn't be able to walk very
quickly, and wouldn't have enough time in between fights to visit his wife.
But just in case, Taren also added bells to the legs which rung loudly when
they moved, so the couple would be able to hear him coming in plenty of time.
“When the games commenced the following week, Mena feigned illness again and
Taren presented his lord with the new armor. Pasoroth was delighted with it,
as Taren hoped he would be, and donned it for his first fight. Taren then
stole upstairs to Mena's bedchamber.
“All was silent outside as the two began to make love. Suddenly, Mena noticed
a peculiar expression on Taren's face and before she had a chance to ask him
about it, his head fell off at the neck. Pasoroth was standing behind him with
his axe in hand.”
“How did he get upstairs so quickly, with his leg joints gummed up? And didn't
they hear the bells ringing?” asked Garaz.
“Well, you see, when Pasoroth realized he couldn't walk on his legs very
quickly, he walked on his hands.”
“I don't believe it,” laughed Xiomara.
“What happened next?” asked Garaz. “Did Pasoroth kill Mena also?”
“No one knows exactly what happened next,” said Hallgerd. “Pasoroth didn't
return for the next game, nor for the next. Finally, at the fourth game, he
returned to fight, and Mena appeared in the box to watch. She didn't appear to
be sick anymore. In fact, she was smiling and had a light flush to her face.”
“They did it?” cried Xiomara.
“I don't have all the salacious details, except that after the battle, it took
ten squires thirteen hours to get Pasoroth's armor off because of all the luca
dust mixed with sweat.”
“I don't understand, you mean, he didn't take his armor off when they -- but
how?”
“Like I said,” replied Hallgerd. “This is a story about someone who was more
agile and accomplished in his armor than out of it.”
“Now, that's skill,” said Garaz.
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(Search Code: LOLZ62)
~~How Orsinium Passed to Orcs~~
Menyna Gsost
Item ID: 00024404
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The year was 3E 399 and standing on a mountainside overlooking a vast tract of
land between the lands of Menevia and Wayrest was a great and learned judge,
an arbitrator and magistrate, impartial in his submission to the law.
“You have a very strong claim to the land, my lad,” said the judge. “I won't
lie to you about that. But your competition has an equal claim. This is what
makes my particular profession difficult at times.”
“You would call it my competition?” sneered Lord Bowyn, gesturing to the Orc.
The creature, called Gortwog gro-Nagorm, looked up with baleful eyes.
“He has ample documentation to make a claim on the land,” the magistrate
shrugged. “And the particular laws of our land do not discriminate between
particular races. We had a Bosmer regency once, many generations ago.”
“But what if a pig or a slaughterfish turned up demanding the property? Would
they have the same legal rights as I?”
“If they had the proper papers, I'm afraid so,” smiled the judge. “The law is
very clear that if two claimants with equal titles to the property are set in
deadlock, a duel must be held. Now, the rules are fairly archaic, but I've had
opportunity to look them over, and I think they're still valid. The Imperial
council agrees.”
“What must we do?” asked the Orc, his voice low and harsh, unused to the
tongue of the Cyrodiils.
“The first claimant, that's you, Lord Gortwog, may choose the armor and weapon
of the duelists. The second claimant, that's you, Lord Bowyn, may choose the
location. If you would prefer, either or both you may choose a champion or you
may duel yourself.”
The Breton and the Orc looked at one another, evaluating. Finally, Gortwog
spoke, “The armor will be Orcish and the weapons will be common steel long
swords. No enchantments. No wizardry allowed.”
“The arena will be the central courtyard of my cousin Lord Berylth's palace in
Wayrest,” said Bowyn, looking Gortwog in the eye scornfully. “None of your
kind will be allowed in to witness.”
So it was agreed. Gortwog declared that he would fight the duel himself, and
Bowyn, who was a fairly young man and in better than average condition, felt
that he could not keep his honor without competing himself as well. Still,
upon arriving at his cousin's palace a week before the duel was scheduled, he
felt the need to practice. A suit of Orcish armor was purchased and for the
first time in his life, Bowyn wore something of tremendous weight and limited
facility.
Bowyn and Berylth sparred in the courtyard. In ten minutes times, Bowyn had to
stop. He was red-faced and out of breath from trying to move in the armor: to
add to his exasperation, he had not scored one blow on his cousin, and had
dozens of feinted strikes scored on him.
“I don't know what to do,” said Bowyn over dinner. “Even if I knew someone who
could fight properly in that beastly steel, I couldn't possibly send in a
champion to battle Gortwog.”
Berylth commiserated. As the servants cleared the plates, Bowyn stood up in
his seat and pointed at one of them: “You didn't tell me you had an Orc in
your household!”
“Sir?” whined the elderly specimen, turning to Lord Berylth, certain that he
caused offense somehow.
“You mean Old Tunner?” laughed Berylith. “He's been with my house for ages.
Would you like him to give you training on how to move in Orcish armor?”
“Would you like me to?” asked Tunner obsequiously.
Unknown to Berylith but known to him now, his servant had once ridden with the
legendary Cursed Legion of High Rock. He not only knew how to fight in Orcish
armor himself, but he had acted as trainer to other Orcs before retiring into
domestic service. Desperate, Bowyn immediately engaged him as his full-time
trainer.
“Your try too hard, sir,” said the Orc on their first day in the arena. “It is
easy to strain yourself in heavy mail. The joints are just so to let you to
bend with only a little effort. If you fight against the joints, you won't
have any strength to fight your foe.”
Bowyn tried to follow Tunner's instructions, but he quickly grew frustrated.
And the more frustrated he got, the more intensity he put into his work, which
tired him out even quicker. While he took a break to drink some water,
Berylith spoke to his servant. If they were optimistic about Bowyn's chances,
their faces did not show it.
Tunner trained Bowyn hard the next two days, but her Ladyship Elysora's
birthday followed hard upon them, and Bowyn enjoyed the feast thoroughly. A
liquor of poppies and goose fat, and cock tinsh with buttered hyssop for a
first course; roasted pike, combwort, and balls of rabbit meat for a second;
sliced fox tongues, ballom pudding with oyster gravy, battaglir weed and beans
for the main course; collequiva ice and sugar fritters for dessert. As Bowyn
was settling back afterwards, his eyes weary, he suddenly spied Gortwog and
the judge entering the room.
“What are you doing here?” he cried. “The duel's not for another two days!”
“Lord Gortwog asked that we move it to tonight,” said the judge. “You were
training when my emisary arrived two days ago, but his lordship your cousin
spoke for you, agreeing to the change of date.”
“But there's no time to assemble my supporters,” complained Bowyn. “And I've
just devoured a feast that would kill a lesser man. Cousin, how could you
neglect to tell me?”
“I spoke to Tunner about it,” said Berylith, blushing, unused to deception.
“We decided that you would be best served under these conditions.”
The battle in the arena was sparsely attended. Saturated with food, Bowyn
found himself unable to move very quickly. To his surprise, the armor
responded to his lethargy, rotating smoothly and elegantly to each stagger.
The more he successfully maneuvered, the more he allowed his mind and not his
body to control his defensive and offensive actions. For the first time in his
life, Bowyn saw what it was to look through the helmet of an Orc.
Of course, he lost, and rather badly if scores had been tabulated. Gortwog was
a master of such battle. But Bowyn fought on for more than three hours before
the judge reluctantly called a winner.
“I will name the land Orsinium after the land of my fathers,” said the victor.
Bowyn's first thought was that if he must lose to an Orc, it was best that the
battle was largely unwatched by his friends and family. As he left the
courtyard to go to the bed he had longed for earlier in the evening, he saw
Gortwog speaking to Tunner. Though he did not understand the language, he
could see that they knew each other. When the Breton was in bed, he had a
servant bring the old Orc to him.
“Tunner,” he said kindly. “Speak frankly to me. You wanted Lord Gortwog to
win.”
“That is true,” said Tunner. “But I did not fail you. You fought better than
you would have fought two days hence, sir. I did not want Orsinium to be won
by its king without a fight.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
~~ILLUSION BOOKS~~
(Search Code: LOLZ63)
~~The Argonian Account, Book 3~~
Waughin Jarth
Item ID: 00024407
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Decumus Scotti was supposed to be in Gideon, a thoroughly Imperialized city in
southern Black Marsh, arranging business dealings to improve commerce in the
province on behalf of Lord Vanech's Building Commission and its clients.
Instead, he was in a half-submerged, rotten little village called Hixinoag,
where he knew no one. Except for a drug smuggler named Chaero Gemullus.
Gemullus was not at all perturbed that the merchant caravan had gone north
instead of south. He even let Scotti share his bucket of trodh, tiny little
crunchy fish, he had bought from the villagers. Scotti would have preferred
them cooked, or at any rate, dead, but Gemullus blithely explained that dead,
cooked trodh are deadly poison.
"If I were where I was supposed to be," Scotti pouted, putting one of the
wriggling little creatures in his mouth. "I could be having a roast, and some
cheese, and a glass of wine."
"I sell moon sugar in the north, and buy it in the south," he shrugged. "You
have to be more flexible, my friend."
"My only business is in Gideon," Scotti frowned.
"Well, you have a couple choices," replied the smuggler. "You could just stay
here. Most villages in Argonia don't stay put for very long, and there's a
good chance Hixinoag will drift right down to the gates of Gideon. Might take
you a month or two. Probably the easiest way."
"That'd put me far behind schedule."
"Next option, you could join up with the caravan again," said Gemullus. "They
might be going in the right direction this time, and they might not get stuck
in the mud, and they might not be all murdered by Naga highwaymen."
"Not tempting," Scotti frowned. "Any other ideas?"
"Ride the roots. The underground express," Gemullus grinned. "Follow me."
Scotti followed Gemullus out of the village and into a copse of trees shrouded
by veils of wispy moss. The smuggler kept his eye on the ground, poking at the
viscuous mud intermittently. Finally he found a spot which triggered a mass of
big oily bubbles to rise to the surface.
"Perfect," he said. "Now, the important thing is not to panic. The express
will take you due south, that's the wintertide migration, and you'll know
you're near Gideon when you see a lot of red clay. Just don't panic, and when
you see a mass of bubbles, that's a breathing hole you can use to get out."
Scotti looked at Gemullus blankly. The man was talking perfect gibberish.
"What?"
Gemullus took Scotti by the shoulder and positioning him on top of the mass of
bubbles. "You stand right here …"
Scotti sank quickly into the mud, staring at the smuggler, horror-struck.
"And remember to wait 'til you see the red clay, and then the next time you
see bubbles, push up …"
The more Scotti wriggled to get free, the faster he sunk. The mud enveloped
Scotti to his neck, and he continued staring, unable to articulate anything
but a noise like "Oog."
"And don't panic at the idea that you're being digested. You could live in a
rootworm's belly for months."
Scotti took one last panicked gasp of air and closed his eyes before he
disappeared into the mud.
The clerk felt a warmth he hadn't expected all around him. When he opened his
eyes, he found that he was entirely surrounded by a translucent goo, and was
traveling rapidly forward, southward, gliding through the mud as if it were
air, skipping along an intricate network of roots. Scotti felt confusion and
euphoria in equal measures, madly rushing forward through an alien environment
of darkness, spinning around and over the thick fibrous tentacles of the
trees. It was if he were high in the sky at midnight, not deep beneath the
swamp in the Underground Express.
Looking up slightly at the massive root structure above, Scotti saw something
wriggle past. A eight-foot-long, armless, legless, colorless, boneless,
eyeless, nearly shapeless creature, riding the roots. Something dark was
inside of it, and as it came closer, Scotti could see it was an Argonian man.
He waved, and the disgusting creature the Argonian was in flattened slightly
and rushed onward.
Gemullus's words began to reappear in Scotti's mind at this sight. "The
wintertide migration," "air hole," "you're being digested," -- these were the
phrases that danced around as if trying to find some place to live in a brain
which was highly resistant to them coming in. But there was no other way to
look at the situation. Scotti had gone from eating living fish to being eaten
alive as a way of transport. He was in one of those worms.
Scotti made an executive decision to faint.
He awoke in stages, having a beautiful dream of being held in a woman's warm
embrace. Smiling and opening his eyes, the reality of where he really was
rushed over him.
The creature was still rushing madly, blindly forward, gliding over roots, but
it was no longer like a flight through the night sky. Now it was like the sky
at sunrise, in pinks and reds. Scotti remembered Gemullus telling him to look
for the red clay, and he would be near Gideon. The next thing he had to find
was the bubbles.
There were no bubbles anywhere. Though the inside of the worm was still warm
and comfortable, Scotti felt the weight of the earth all around him. "Just
don't panic" Gemullus had said, but it was one thing to hear that advice, and
quite another to take it. He began to squirm, and the creature began to move
faster at the increased pressure from within.
Suddenly, Scotti saw it ahead of him, a slim spire of bubbles rising up
through the mud from some underground stream, straight up, through the roots
to the surface above him. The moment the rootworm went through it, Scotti
pushed with all of his might upward, bursting through the creature's thin
skin. The bubbles pushed Scotti up quickly, and before he could blink, he was
popping out of the red slushy mud.
Two gray Argonians were standing under a tree nearby, holding a net. They
looked in Scotti's direction with polite curiosity. In their net, Scotti
noticed, were several squirming furry rat-like creatures. While he addressed
them, another fell out of the tree. Though Scotti had not been educated in
this practice, he recognized fishing when he saw it.
"Excuse me, lads," Scotti said jovially. "I was wondering if you'd point me in
the direction of Gideon?"
The Argonians introduced themselves as Drawing-Flame and Furl-Of-Fresh-Leaves,
and looked at one another, puzzling over the question.
"Who you seek?" asked Furl-of-Fresh-Leaves.
"I believe his name is," said Scotti, trying to remember the contents of his
long gone file of Black Marsh contacts in Gideon. "Archein Right-Foot … Rock?"
Drawing-Flame nodded, "For five gold, show you way. Just east. Is plantation
east of Gideon. Very nice."
Scotti thought that the best business he had heard of in two days, and handed
Drawing-Flames the five septims.
The Argonians led Scotti onto a muddy ribbon of road that passed through the
reeds, and soon revealed the bright blue expanse of Topal Bay far to the west.
Scotti looked around at the magnificent walled estates, where bright crimson
blossoms sprang forth from the very dirt of the walls, and surprised himself
by thinking, "This is very pretty."
The road ran parallel to a fast-moving stream, running eastward from Topal
Bay. It was called the Onkobra River, he was told. It ran deep into Black
Marsh, to the very dark heart of the province.
Peeking past the gates to the plantations east of Gideon, Scotti saw that few
of the fields were tended. Most had rotten crops from harvests past still
clinging to wilted vines, orchards of desolate, leafless trees. The Argonian
serfs who worked the fields were thin, weak, near death, more like haunting
spirits than creatures of life and reason.
Two hours later, as the three continued their trudge east, the estates were
still impressive at least from a distance, the road was still solid if weedy,
but Scotti was irritated, horrified by the field workers and the agricultural
state, and no longer charitable towards the area. "How much further?"
Furl-of-Fresh-Leaves and Drawing-Flame looked at one another, as if that
question was something that hadn't occurred to them.
"Archein is east?" Furl-of-Fresh-Leaves pondered. "Near or far?"
Drawing-Flame shrugged noncommittally, and said to Scotti, "For five gold,
show you way. Just east. Is plantation. Very nice."
"You don't have any idea, do you?" Scotti cried. "Why couldn't you tell me
that in the first place when I might have asked someone else?"
Around the bend up ahead, there was the sound of hoofbeats. A horse coming
closer.
Scotti began to walk towards the sound to hail the rider, and didn't see
Drawing-Flame's taloned claws flash out and cast the spell at him. He felt it
though. A kiss of ice along his spine, the muscles along his arms and legs
suddenly immobile as if wrapped in rigid steel. He was paralyzed.
The great curse of paralysis, as the reader may be unfortunate enough to know,
is that you continue to see and think even though your body does not respond.
The thought that went through Scotti's mind was, "Damn."
For Drawing-Flame and Furl-of-Fresh-Leaves were, of course, like most simple
day laborers in Black Marsh, accomplished Illusionists. And no friend of the
Imperial.
The Argonians shoved Decumus Scotti to the side of the road, just as the horse
and rider came around the corner. He was an impressive figure, a nobleman in a
flashing dark green cloak the exact same color as his scaled skin, and a
frilled hood that was part of his flesh and sat upon his head like a horned
crown.
"Greetings, brothers!" the rider said to the two.
"Greetings, Archein Right-Foot-Rock," they responded, and then Furl-of-Fresh-
Leaves added. "What is milord's business on this fine day?"
"No rest, no rest," the Archein sighed regally. "One of my she-workers gave
birth to twins. Twins! Fortunately, there's a good trader in town for those,
and she didn't put up too much of a fuss. And then there's a fool of an
Imperial from Lord Vanech's Building Commission I am supposed to meet with in
Gideon. I'm sure he'll want the grand tour before he opens up the treasury for
me. Such a lot of fuss."
Drawing-Flame and Furl-of-Fresh-Leaves sympathesized, and then, as Archein
Right-Foot-Rock rode off, they went to look for their hostage.
Unfortunately for them, gravity being the same in Black Marsh as elsewhere in
Tamriel, their hostage, Decumus Scotti, had continued to roll down from where
they left him, and was, at that moment, in the Onkobra River, drowning.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ64)
~~Incident in Necrom~~
Jonquilla Bothe
Item ID: 00024408
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
“The situation simply is this,” said Phlaxith, his face as chiseled and
resolute as any statue. “Everyone knows that the cemetery west of the city is
haunted by some malevolent beings, and has been for many years now. The people
have come to accept it. They bury their dead by daylight, and are away before
Masser and Secunda have risen and the evil comes forth. The only victims to
fall prey to the devils within are the very stupid and the outsiders.”
“It sounds like a natural solution to filtering out the undesirables then,”
laughed Nitrah, a tall, middle-aged woman with cold eyes and thin lips. “Where
is the gold in saving them?”
“From the Temple. They're re-opening a new monastery near the cemetery, and
they need the land cleansed of evil. They're offering a fortune, so I accepted
the assignment with the caveat that I could assemble my own team to split the
reward. That's why I've sought you each out. From what I've heard, you,
Nitrah, are the best bladesman in Morrowind.”
Nitrah smiled her unpleasant best.
“And you, Osmic, are a renowned burglar, though never once imprisoned.”
The bald-pated young man stammered as if to refute the charges, before
grinning back, “I'll get you in where you need to go. But then it's up to you
to do what you need to do. I'm no combatter.”
“Anything Nitrah and I can't handle, I'm sure Massitha will prove her mettle,”
Phlaxith said, turning to the fourth member of the party. “She comes on very
good references as a sorceress of great power and skill.”
Massitha was the picture of innocence, round-faced and wide-eyed. Nitrah and
Osmic looked at her uncertainly, particularly watching her fearful expressions
as Phlaxith described the nature of the creatures haunting the cemetery. It
was obvious she had never faced any adversary other than man and mer before.
If she survived, they thought to themselves, it would be very surprising.
As the foursome trudged toward the graveyard at dusk, they took the
opportunity to quiz their new teammate.
“Vampires are filthy creatures,” said Nitrah. “Disease-ridden, you know. They
say off to the west, they'll indiscriminately pass on their curse together
with a number of other afflictions. They don't do that here so much, but still
you don't want to leave their wounds untreated. I take it you know something
of the spells of Restoration if one of us gets bit?”
“I know a little, but I'm no Healer,” said Massitha meekly.
“More of a Battlemage?” asked Osmic.
“I can do a little damage if I'm really close, but I'm not very good at that
either. I'm more of an illusionist, technically.”
Nitrah and Osmic looked at one another with naked concern as they reached the
gates of the graveyard. There were moving shadows, stray specters among the
wrack and ruins, crumbled paths stacked on top of crumbled paths. It wasn't a
maze of a place; it could have been any dilapidated graveyard but even without
looking at the tombstones, it did have one very noticeable feature. Filling
the horizon was the mausoleum of a minor Cyrodilic official from the 2nd Era,
slightly exotic but still harmonizing with the Dunmer graves in a
complimentary style called decay.
“It's a surprisingly useful School,” whispered Massitha defensively. “You see,
it's all concerned with magicka's ability to alter the perception of objects
without changing their physical compositions. Removing sensual data, for
example, to cast darkness or remove sound or smell from the air. It can help
by--”
A red-haired vampire woman leapt out of the shadows in front of them, knocking
Phlaxith on his back. Nitrah quickly unsheathed her sword, but Massitha was
faster. With a wave of her hand, the creature stopped, frozen, her jaws scant
inches from Phlaxith's throat. Phlaxith pulled out his own blade and finished
her off.
“That's illusion?” asked Osmic.
“Certainly,” smiled Massitha. “Nothing changed in the vampire's form, except
its ability to move. Like I said, it's a very useful School.”
The four climbed up over the paths to the front gateway to the crypt. Osmic
snapped the lock and disassembled the poison trap. The sorceress cast a wave
of light down the dust-choked corridors, banishing the shadows and drawing the
inhabitants out. Almost immediately they were set on by a pair of vampires,
howling and screaming in a frenzy of bloodlust.
The battle was joined, so no sooner were the first two vampires felled than
their reinforcements attacked. They were mighty warriors of uncanny strength
and endurance, but Massitha's paralysis spell and the weaponry of Phlaxith and
Nitrah clove through their ranks. Even Osmic aided the battle.
“They're crazy,” gasped Massitha when the fight finally ended and she could
catch her breath.
“Quarra, the most savage of the vampire bloodlines,” said Phlaxith. “We have
to find and exterminate each and every one.”
Delving into the crypts, the group hounded out more of the creatures. Though
they varied in appearance, each seemed to rely on their strength and claws for
attacking, and subtlety did not seem to be the style of any. When the entire
mausoleum had been searched and every creature within destroyed, the four
finally made their way to the surface. It was only an hour until sunrise.
There was no frenzied scream or howl. Nothing rushed forward towards them. The
final attack when it happened was so unlike the others that the questors were
taken utterly by surprise.
The ancient creature waited until the four were almost out of the cemetery,
talking amiably, making plans for spending their share of the reward. He
judged carefully who would be the greatest threat, and then launched himself
at the sorceress. Had Phlaxith not turned his attention back from the gate,
she would have been ripped to shreds before she had a chance to scream.
The vampire knocked Massitha across a stone, its claws raking across her back,
but stopped its assault in order to block a blow from Phlaxith's sword. It
accomplished this maneuver in its own brutal way, by tearing the warrior's arm
from its socket. Osmic and Nitrah set on it, but they found themselves in a
losing battle. Only when Massitha had pulled herself back up from behind the
pile of rocks, weak and bleeding, that the fight turned. She cast a magickal
ball of flame at the creature, which so enraged it that it turned back to her.
Nitrah saw her opening and took it, beheading the vampire with a stroke of her
sword.
“So you do know some spells of destruction, like you said,” said Nitrah.
“And a few spells of healing too,” she said weakly. “But I can't save Phlaxith.”
The warrior died in the bloodied dust before them. The three were quiet as
they traveled across the dawn-lit countryside back toward Necrom. Massitha
felt the throb of pain on her back intensify as they walked and then a gradual
numbness like ice spread through her body.
“I need to go to a healer and see if I've been diseased,” she said as they
reached the city.
“Meet us at the Moth and Fire tomorrow morning,” said Nitrah. “We'll go to the
Temple and get our reward and split it there.”
Three hours later, Osmic and Nitrah sat in their room at the tavern, happily
counting and recounting the gold marks. Split three ways, it was a very
comfortable sum.
“What if the healers can't do anything for Massitha?” smiled Osmic dreamily.
“Some diseases can be insidious.”
“Did you hear something in the hall?” asked Nitrah quickly, but when she
looked, there was no one there. She returned, shutting the door behind her.
“I'm sure Massitha will survive if she went straight to the healer. But we
could leave tonight with the gold.”
“Let's have one last drink to our poor sorceress,” said Osmic, leading Nitrah
out of the room toward the stairs down.
Nitrah laughed. “Those spells of illusion won't help her track us down, as
useful as she keeps saying they are. Paralysis, light, silence -- not so good
when you don't know where to look.”
They closed the door behind them.
“Invisibility is another spell of illusion,” said Massitha's disembodied
voice. The gold on the table rose in the air and vanished from sight as she
slipped it into her purse. The door again opened and closed, and all was
silent until Osmic and Nitrah returned a few minutes later.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Search Code: LOLZ65)
~~Mystery of Talara, v4~~
Item ID: 0002440A
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gyna never saw the Emperor's agent Lady Brisienna again, but she kept her
promise. Proseccus, a nightblade in the service of the Empire, arrived at Lord
Strale's house in disguise. She was an apt pupil, and within days, he had
taught what she needed to know.
"It is a simple charm, not the sort of spell that could turn a raging daedroth
into a love-struck puppy," said Proseccus. "If you do or say anything that
would normally anger or offend your target, the power will weaken. It will
alter temporarily his perception of you, as spells of the school of illusion
do, but his feelings of respect and admiration for you must be supported by
means of a charm of a less magickal nature."
"I understand," smiled Gyna, thanking her tutor for the two spells of illusion
he had taught her. The time had come to use her new-found skill.
The Prostitutes Guildhouse of Camlorn was a great palace in an affluent
northern quarter of the city. Prince Sylon could have found his way there
blindfolded, or blind drunk as he often was. Tonight, however, he was only
lightly inebriated and he resolved to drink no more. Tonight he was in the
mood for pleasure. His kind of pleasure.
"Where is my favorite, Grigia?" he demanded of the Guildmistress upon
entering.
"She is still healing from your appointment with her last week," she smiled
serenely. "Most of the other women are in with clients as well, but I saved a
special treat for you. A new girl. One you will certainly enjoy."
The Prince was guided to a sumptuously decorated suite of velvet and silk. As
he entered, Gyna stepped from behind a screen and cast her spell quickly, with
her mind open to belief as Proseccus had instructed. It was hard to tell if it
worked at first. The Prince looked at her with a cruel smile and then, like
sun breaking through clouds, the cruelty left. She could tell he was hers. He
asked her her name.
"I am between names right now," she teased. "I've never made love to a real
prince before. I've never even been inside a palace. Is yours very ... big?"
"It's not mine yet," he shrugged. "But someday I'll be king."
"It would be wonderful to live in such a place," Gyna cooed. "A thousand years
of history. Everything must be so old and beautiful. The paintings and books
and statues and tapestries. Does your family hold onto all their old
treasures?"
"Yes, hoarded away with a lot of boring old junk in the archive rooms in the
vaults. Please, may I see you naked now?"
"First a little conversation, though you may feel free to disrobe whenever you
like," said Gyna. "I had heard there was an archive room, but it's quite
hidden away."
"There's a false wall behind the family crypt," said the Prince, gripping her
wrist and pulling her towards him for a kiss. Something in his eyes had
changed.
"Your Highness, you're hurting my arm," Gyna cried.
"Enough talk, you bewitching whore," he snarled. Holding back a sharp jab of
fear, Gyna let her mind cool and perceptions whirl. As his angry mouth touched
her lips, she cast the second spell she had learned her illusionist mentor.
The Prince felt his flesh turn to stone. He remained frozen, watching Gyna
pull together her clothing and leave the room. The paralysis would only last
for a few more minutes, but it was all the time she needed.
The Guildmistress had already left with all her girls, just as Gyna and Lord
Strale had told her to. They would tell her when it was safe to return. She
had not even accepted any gold for her part in the trap. She said it was
enough that her girls would not be tortured anymore by that most perverse and
cruel Prince.
"What a terrible boy," thought Gyna as she raised the hood on her cloak and
raced through the streets toward Lord Strale's house. "It is good that he will
never be king."
The following morning, the King and Queen of Camlorn held their daily audience
with various nobles and diplomats, a sparse gathering. The throne room was
largely empty. It was a terribly dull way to begin the day. In between
petitions, they yawned regally.
"What has happened to all the interesting people?" the Queen murmured.
"Where's our precious boy?"
"I've heard he was raging through the north quarter in search of some harlot
who robbed him," the King chuckled fondly. "What a fine lad."
"And what of the Royal Battlemage?"
"I've sent him to take care of a delicate matter," the King knit his brow.
"But that was nearly a week ago, and I haven't heard one word from him. It's
somewhat troubling."
"Indeed it is, Lord Eryl should not be gone so long," the Queen frowned. "What
if a rogue sorcerer came and threatened us? Husband, don't laugh at me, that
is why all the royal houses of High Rock keep their mage retainers close to
their side. To protect their court from evil enchantments, like the one that
our poor Emperor suffered so recently."
"At the hand of his own battlemage," chuckled the King
"Lord Eryl would never betray you like that, and you well know it. He has been
in your employ since you were Duke of Oloine. To even make that comparison
between he and Jagar Tharn, really," the Queen waved her hands dismissively.
"It is that sort of lack of trust that is ruining kingdoms all over Tamriel.
Now, Lord Strale tells me -"
"There's another man that's gone missing," mused the King.
"The ambassador?" the Queen shook her head. "No, he's here. He was desirous to
visit the crypts and pay homage to your noble ancestors, so I directed him
there. I can't think what's keeping him so long. He must be more pious than I
thought."
She was surprised to see the King rise up, alarmed. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Before she had a chance to reply, the subject of their conversation was coming
through the open door to the throne room. At on his arm was a beautiful fair-
haired woman in a stately gown of scarlet and gold, worthy of the highest
nobility. The queen followed her startled husband's gaze, and was likewise
amazed.
"I had heard he was taken with one of the harlots from the Flower Festival,
not a lady," she whispered. "Why, she looks remarkably like your daughter, the
Lady Jyllia."
"That she does," the King gasped. "Or her cousin, the Princess Talara."
The nobles in the room also whispered amongst themselves. Though few had been
at court twenty years ago when the Princess had disappeared, presumed murdered
like the rest of the royal family, there were still a few elder statesmen who
remembered. It was not only on throne that the word "Talara" passed through
the air like an enchantment.
"Lord Strale, will you introduce us to your lady?" the Queen asked with a
polite smile.
"In a moment, your highness, but I'm afraid I must first discuss pressing
matters," Lord Strale replied with a bow. "Might I request a private
audience?"
The King looked at the Imperial ambassador, trying to read into the man's
expression. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the assembled and had the
doors shut behind them. No one remained in the audience room but the King, the
Queen, the ambassador, a dozen royal guards, and the mysterious woman.
The ambassador pulled from his pocket a sheaf of old yellowed parchment. "Your
Highness, when you ascended the throne after your brother and his family were
murdered, anything that seemed important, deeds and wills, were of course kept
with the clerks and ministers. His entire incidental, unimportant personal
correspondence was sent to archive which is standard protocol. This letter was
among them."
"What is this all about, sir?" the King boomed. "What does it say?"
"Nothing about you, your majesty. In truth, at the time of your majesty's
ascension, no one reading it could have understood its significance. It was a
letter to the Emperor the late king your brother was penning at the time of
his assassination, concerning a thief who had once been a mage-priest at the
Temple of Sethiete here in Camlorn. His name was Jagar Tharn."
"Jagar Tharn?" the Queen laughed nervously. "Why, we were just talking about
him."
"Tharn had stolen many books of powerful and forgotten spells, and lore about
such artifacts as the Staff of Chaos, where it was hidden and how it could be
used. News travels slowly to westernmost High Rock, and by the time the King
your brother had heard that the Emperor's new battlemage was a man named Jagar
Tharn, many years had passed. The king had been writing a letter to warn the
Emperor of the treachery of his Imperial Battlemage, but it was never
completed." Lord Strale held up the letter. "It is dated on the day of his
assassination in the year 385. Four years before Jagar Tharn betrayed his
master, and began the ten years of tyranny of the Imperial Simulacrum."
"This is all very interesting," the King barked. "But what has it to do with
me?"
"The late King's assassination is now a matter of Imperial concern. And I have
a confession from your Royal Battlemage Lord Eryl."
The King's face lost all color: "You miserable worm, no man may threaten me.
Neither you, nor that whore, nor that letter will ever see the light of day
again. Guards!"
The royal guards unsheathed their blades and pressed forward. As they did so,
there was a sudden shimmering of light and the room was filled with Imperial
nightblades, led by Proseccus. They had been there for hours, lurking
invisibly in the shadows.
"In the name of His Imperial Majesty, Uriel Septim VII, I arrest you," said
Strale.
The doors were opened, and the King and Queen were led out, heads bowed. Gyna
told Proseccus where he would most likely find their son, Prince Sylon. The
courtiers and nobles who had been in the audience chamber stared at the
strange, solemn procession of their King and Queen to their own royal prison.
No one said a word.
When at last a voice was heard, it startled all. The Lady Jyllia had arrived
at court. "What is happening? Who dares to usurp the authority of the King and
Queen?"
Lord Strale turned to Proseccus: "We would speak with the Lady Jyllia alone.
You know what needs to be done."
Proseccus nodded and had the doors to the throne room closed once again. The
courtiers pressed against the wood, straining to hear everything. Though they
could not say it, they wanted an explanation almost as much as her Ladyship
did.
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(Search Code: LOLZ66)
~~Mythic Dawn Commentaries 3~~
Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes Book Three
The third book read by initiates to the Mythic Dawn cult.
This is Book Three of Mythic Dawn Commentaries
The daedric title reads CHIM
Mankar Camoran
Item ID: 00022B06
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The Tower touches all the mantles of Heaven, brother-noviates, and by its apex
one can be as he will. More: be as he was and yet changed for all else on that
path for those that walk after. This is the third key of Nu-mantia and the
secret of how mortals become makers, and makers back to mortals. The Bones of
the Wheel need their flesh, and that is mankind's heirloom.
Oath-breakers beware, for their traitors run through the nymic-paths, runner
dogs of prolix gods. The Dragon's Blood have hidden ascension in six-thousands
years of aetherial labyrinth, which is Arena, which they yet deny is
Oathbound. By the Book, take this key and pierce the divine shell that
encloses the mantle-takers! The skin of gold! SCARAB AE AURBEX!
Woe to the Oath-breakers! Of the skin of gold, the Xarxes Mysteriuum says "Be
fooled not by the forlorn that ride astray the roadway, for they lost faith
and this losing was caused by the Aedra who would know no other planets."
Whereby the words of Lord Dagon instructs us to destroy these faithless. "Eat
or bleed dry the gone-forlorn and gain that small will that led them to walk
the path of Godhead at the first. Spit out or burn to the side that which made
them delay. Know them as the Mnemoli."
Every new limb is paid for by the under-known. See, brother, and give not more
to the hydra.
Reader, you will sense a shadow-choir soon. The room you are in right now will
grow eyes and voices. The candle or spell-light you read this by will become
gateways for the traitors I have mentioned. Scorn them and fear not. Call them
names, call out their base natures. I, the Mankar of stars, am with you, and I
come to take you to my Paradise where the Tower-traitors shall hang on glass
wracks until they smile with the new revolution.
That is your ward against the Mnemoli. They run blue, through noise, and shine
only when the earth trembles with the eruption of the newly-mantled. Tell them
"Go! GHARTOK AL MNEM! God is come! NUMI MORA! NUM DALAE MNEM!"
Once you walk in the Mythic it surrenders its power to you. Myth is nothing
more than first wants. Unutterable truth. Ponder this while searching for the
fourth key.
Understood laws of the arcanature will fall away like heat. "First Tower
Dictate: render the mutant bound where he may do no more harm. As God of the
Mundus, alike shall be his progeny, split from their divine sparks. We are
Eight time eight Exarchs. Let the home of Padomay see us as sole exit."
CHIM. Those who know it can reshape the land. Witness the home of the Red King
Once Jungled.
He that enters Paradise enters his own Mother. AE ALMA RUMA! The Aurbis endeth
in all ways.
Endeth we seek through our Dawn, all endeth. Falter now and become one with
the wayside orphans that feed me. Follow and I shall adore you from inside. My
first daughter ran from the Dagonite road. Her name was Ruma and I ate her
with no bread, and made another, which learned, and I loved that one and
blackbirds formed her twin behind all time.
Starlight is your mantle, brother. Wear it to see by and add its light to
Paradise.
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~~Palla, Volume 1~~
Vojne Mierstyyd
Item ID: 00024409
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Palla. Pal La. I remember when I first heard that name, not long ago at all.
It was at a Tales and Tallows ball at a very fine estate west of Mir Corrup,
to which I and my fellow Mages Guild initiates had found ourselves
unexpectedly invited. Truth be told, we needn't have been too surprised. There
were very few other noble families in Mir Corrup -- the region had its halcyon
days as a resort for the wealthy far back in the 2nd era -- and on reflection,
it was only appropriate to have sorcerers and wizards present at a
supernatural holiday. Not that we were anything more exotic than students at a
small, nonexclusive charterhouse of the Guild, but like I said, there was a
paucity of other choices available.
For close to a year, the only home I had known was the rather ramshackle if
sprawling grounds of the Mir Corrup Mages Guild. My only companions were my
fellow initiates, most of which only tolerated me, and the masters, whose
bitterness at being at a backwater Guild prompted never-ending abuse.
Immediately the School of Illusion had attracted me. The Magister who taught
us recognized me as an apt pupil who loved not only the spells of the science
but their philosophical underpinnings. There was something about the idea of
warping the imperceptible energies of light, sound, and mind that appealed to
my nature. Not for me the flashy schools of destruction and alteration, the
holy schools of restoration and conjuration, the practical schools of alchemy
and enchantment, or the chaotic school of mysticism. No, I was never so
pleased as to take an ordinary object and by a little magic make it seem
something other than what it was.
It would have taken more imagination than I had to apply that philosophy to my
monotonous life. After the morning's lessons, we were assigned tasks before
our evening classes. Mine had been to clean out the study of a recently
deceased resident of the Guild, and categorize his clutter of spellbooks,
charms, and incunabula.
It was a lonely and tedious appointment. Magister Tendixus was an inveterate
collector of worthless junk, but I was reprimanded any time I threw something
away of the least possible value. Gradually I learned enough to deliver each
of his belongings to the appropriate department: potions of healing to the
Magisters of Restoration, books on physical phenomena to the Magisters of
Alteration, herbs and minerals to the Alchemists, and soulgems and bound items
to the Enchanters. After one delivery to the Enchanters, I was leaving with my
customary lack of appreciation, when Magister Ilther called me back.
"Boy," said the portly old man, handing me back one item. "Destroy this."
It was a small black disc covered with runes with a ring of red-orange gems
like bones circling its periphery.
"I'm sorry, Magister," I stammered. "I thought it was something you'd be
interested in."
"Take it to the great flame and destroy it," he barked, turning his back on
me. "You never brought it here."
My interest was piqued, because I knew the only thing that would make him
react in such a way. Necromancy. I went back to Magister Tendixus's chamber
and poured through his notes, looking for any reference to the disc.
Unfortunately, most of the notes had been written in a strange code that I was
powerless to decipher. I was so fascinated by the mystery that I nearly
arrived late for my evening class in Enchantment, taught by Magister Ilther
himself.
For the next several weeks, I divided my time categorizing the general debris
and making my deliveries, and researching the disc. I came to understand that
my instinct was correct: the disc was a genuine necromantic artifact. Though I
couldn't understand most of the Magister's notes, I determined that he thought
it to be a means of resurrecting a loved one from the grave.
Sadly, the time came when the chamber had been categorized and cleared, and I
was given another assignment, assisting in the stables of the Guild's
menagerie. At least finally I was working with some of my fellow initiates and
had the opportunity of meeting the common folk and nobles who came to the
Guild on various errands. Thus was I employed when we were all invited to the
Tales and Tallows ball.
If the expected glamour of the evening were not enough, our hostess was
reputed to be young, rich, unmarried orphan from Hammerfell. Only a month or
two before had she moved to our desolate, wooded corner of the Imperial
Province to reclaim an old family manorhouse and grounds. The initiates at the
Guild gossiped like old women about the mysterious young lady's past, what had
happened to her parents, why she had left or been driven from her homeland.
Her name was Betaniqi, and that was all we knew.
We wore our robes of initiation with pride as we arrived for the ball. At the
enormous marble foyer, a servant announced each of our names as if we were
royalty, and we strutted into the midst of the revelers with great puffery. Of
course, we were then promptly ignored by one and all. In essence, we were
unimportant figures to lend some thickness to the ball. Background characters.
The important people pushed through us with perfect politeness. There was old
Lady Schaudirra discussing diplomatic appointments to Balmora with the Duke of
Rimfarlin. An orc warlord entertained a giggling princess with tales of rape
and pillage. Three of the Guild Magisters worried with three painfully thin
noble spinsters about the haunting of Daggerfall. Intrigues at the Imperial
and various royal courts were analyzed, gently mocked, fretted over, toasted,
dismissed, evaluated, mitigated, admonished, subverted. No one looked our way
even when we were right next to them. It was as if my skill at illusion had
somehow rendered us all invisible.
I took my flagon out to the terrace. The moons were doubled, equally luminous
in the sky and in the enormous reflecting pool that stretched out into the
garden. The white marble statuary lining the sides of the pool caught the
fiery glow and seemed to burn like torches in the night. The sight was so
otherworldly that I was mesmerized by it, and the strange Redguard figures
immortalized in stone. Our hostess had made her home there so recently that
some of the sculptures were still wrapped in sheets that billowed and swayed
in the gentle breeze. I don't know how long I stared before I realized I
wasn't alone.
She was so small and so dark, not only in her skin but in her clothing, that I
nearly took her for a shadow. When she turned to me, I saw that she was very
beautiful and young, not more than seventeen.
"Are you our hostess?" I finally asked.
"Yes," she smiled, blushing. "But I'm ashamed to admit that I'm very bad at
it. I should be inside with my new neighbors, but I think we have very little
in common."
"It's been made abundantly clear that they hope I have nothing in common with
them either," I laughed. "When I'm a little higher than an initiate in the
Mages Guild, they might see me as more of an equal."
"I don't understand the concept of equality in Cyrodiil yet,"